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for it. I'd like to thank Mr. Poe if I dared, which I wouldn't, of course, if I ever saw him, for what he did for me. I wouldn't be surprised if he would give a good deal himself to do the same or has he pulled out?" "He never has pulled in, Harry-not continuously. Richard has the right of it. Poe is a man pursued by a devil and lives always on the watch to prevent the fiend from getting the best of him. Months at a time he wins and then there comes a day or two when the devil gets on top. He says himself he told me this the last time I saw him that he really lives a life devoted to his literary work; that he shuts himself up from everybody; and that the desire for society only comes upon him when he's excited by drink. Then, and only then, he goes among his fellows and, therefore, everybody who meets him thinks he is always in that condition. There is some truth in that, my son, for as long as I have known him I have never seen him in his cups except that one night at my house. A courteous, well-bred gentleman, my boy most punctilious about all his obligations and very honest about his failings. All he said to me the next day when he sobered up -I kept him all that night, you remember -was: 'I was miserably weak and inexcusably drunk last night, Mr. Temple. If that was all it would make no difference; I have been very drunk before, and will, perhaps, be very drunk again; but in addition to my being drunk I insulted you and your friends and ruined your dinner. That makes every difference. Don't let it cause a break between us. Let me come again. And now please brush it from your mind. If you knew how I suffer over this fiend who tortures and subdues me now and then you'd only have the greatest pity for me in your heart.' Then he wrung my hand and left the house."

"Well, that's all any of us could do," sighed Harry, leaning back in his chair, his eyes on the ceiling. "It makes some difference, however, of whom you ask forgiveness. I've been willing to say the same kind of thing to my father ever since my affair with Mr. Willits, but it would have fallen on deaf ears. I had another trial at it yesterday, and you know what happened." "I don't think your father knew you, Harry," protested St. George, with a negative wave of his hand.

"I hope he didn't—I shouldn't like to think he did. But, by heaven! it broke my heart to see him, Uncle George. You would hardly know him. Even his voice has changed and the shade over his eyes and the way he twists his head when he looks at you really gave me a creepy feeling," and the young man passed his fingers across his own eyes as if to shut out some hideous object.

"Was he looking straight at you when he ordered you from the room?"" "Straight as he could."

"Well, let us try and think it was the beard. And that reminds me, son, that it's got to come off, and right away. When Todd comes in he'll find my razors and-"

"No-I'll look up a barber."

"Not down in this part of the town," exclaimed St. George with a light laugh.

"No-I'll go up to Guy's. There used to be an old negro there who looked after us young fellows when our beards began to sprout. He'll take care of it all right. While I'm out I'll stop and send Todd back. I'm going to end his apprenticeship to-day, and so he'll help you dress. Nothing like getting into your clothes when you're well enough to get out of bed; I've done it more than once," and with a pat on his uncle's shoulder and the readjustment of the blanket, he closed the door behind him and left the room.

"Everything is working fine, auntie," he cried joyously as he passed the old woman who was hanging out the last of her wash. "I'll be back in an hour. Don't tell him yet-" and he strode out of the yard on his way uptown.

XXVI

INTRUDERS of all kinds had thrust their heads between the dripping, slightly moist, and wholly dry fragments of Aunt Jemima's Monday wash, and each and every one had been assailed by a vocabulary hurled at them through the creaky gate, and as far out as the street: pedlers who had things to sell; loose darkies with no visible means of support, who had smelt the cooking in the air; even goats with an acquired taste for stocking legs and window curtains who had either been invited out, whirled out, or thrown out, dependent upon the dan

inflicted, the size of the favors asked, or the length of space intervening between Jemima's right arm and their backs. In all of these instances the old cook had been the broom and the intruders the dust. Being an expert in its use the particles had succumbed before they had gotten through their first sentence. In the case of the goat even that privilege was denied him; it was the handle and not the brush part which ended the argument. To see Aunt Jemima get rid of a goat in two jumps and one whack was not only a lesson in condensed conversation, but furnished a sight one seldom forgot-the goat never!

This morning the situation was reversed. It was Aunt Jemima who came flying upstairs, her eyes popping from her head, her plump hands flattened against her big, heaving bosom, her breath gone in the effort to tell her dreadful news before she should drop dead.

"Marse George! who d'ye think 's downstairs?" she gasped, bursting in the door of his bedroom, without even the customary tap. "Oh, bless Gawd! dat you'se outen dat bed! and dressed and tryin' yo' po' legs about the room. What's I gwinter do? He's comin' up. Got a man wid him I ain't neber see befo'. Says he's a-lookin' fer somebody! Git in de closet an' I'll tell him you'se out an' den I'll run an' watch for Marse Harry at de gate. Oh, I doan' like dis yere bus'ness," and she began to wring her hands.

St. George had been watching the old woman with mingled feelings of wonder and curiosity. Whether she had gone daft or was more than usually excited he could not for the moment decide.

"Jemima! stop, right away, and tell me what you're talking about. Who's downstairs?"

"Ain't I don' tol' yer dat it's Marse Talbot? an' I ain't neber see him like he is dis mawnin'. Got a look on him make yer shiver all over; says he's gwinter s'arch de house. He's got a constable wid him-dat is, he's got a man dat looks like a constable, an'

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St. George laid his hands on the old woman's shoulders, and turned her about.

"Who did you say was downstairs?" "Marse Talbot Rutter-come f'om de country-got mud all ober his boots." "Mr. Harry's father?"

Aunt Jemima choked and nodded: there was no breath left for more.

"Who did he ask for?" St. George was serious now.

"Didn't ask fer nobody; he say, 'I'm lookin' fer a man dat come in yere las' night.' I see he didn't know me an' I neber let on. Den he say, 'Hab you got any boa'ders yere?' an' I say, 'I got one,' an' den he 'tempted ter pass me an' I say, 'Wait a minute, 'til I see ef he's outen de bed.' Now, what's I gwinter do? He doan' mean no good to Marse Harry, an' he'll dribe him 'way ag'in, an' he jes' come back an' you gittin' well a-lovin' of himan'

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An uncertain step was heard in the hall. "Dat's him," Jemima whispered hoarsely, behind her hand, "what'll I do? Doan' let him come in. I'll—”

St. George moved past her and pushed back the door.

Colonel Rutter stood outside.

The two men looked into each other's faces.

I am in search, sir," the colonel began, shading his eyes with his fingers, the brighter light of the room weakening his sight, "for a young sailor whom I am informed stopped here last night, and who- St. George! What in the name of God are you doing in a place like this?"

"Come inside, Talbot," Temple replied calmly, his eyes fixed on Rutter's drawn face and faltering gaze. "Aunt Jemima, hand Colonel Rutter a chair. You will excuse me if I sit down-I am just out of bed after a long illness, and am a little weak," and he dropped into his seat. "My servant tells me that

St. George paused. Rutter was paying no more attention to what he said than if he had not been in the room. He was straining his eyes about the apartment; taking in the empty bed from which St. George had just arisen, the cheap chairs and small pine table and the kitchen plates and cup which still held the remains of St. George's breakfast. He waited until Jemima had backed out of the door, her scared face still a tangle of emotions-fear for her master's safety predominating. His eyes again sought St. George.

"What does it all mean, Temple?"

"I don't think that subject is under discussion, Talbot, and we will, therefore, pass

it. To what do I owe the honor of this about Harry I will gladly hear. Go on— visit?” I'm listening."

"Don't be a damned fool, St. George! Don't you see I'm half crazy? Harry has come back and he is hiding somewhere in this neighborhood."

"How do you know?" he asked coolly. He did not intend to help one iota in Rutter's search until he found out why he wanted Harry. No more cursing of either his son or himself—that was another chapter which was closed.

"Because I've been hunting for him all day. He rode out to Moorlands yesterday, and I didn't know him, he's so changed. But, Temple-think of it! I ordered him out of my office. I thought he was a roadpedler. And he's going to sea again-he told Alec as much. I tell you I have got to get hold of him! Don't sit there and stare at me, man! tell me where I can find my son!" "What made you suppose he was here, Talbot?" The same cool, measured speech and manner, but with a more open mind behind it now. The pathetic aspect of the man, and the acute suffering shown in every tone of his voice, had begun to tell upon the invalid.

"Because a man I've got downstairs brought Harry here last night. He is not positive as it was quite dark, but he thinks this is the place. I went first to the Barkeley Line, found they had a ship in the Mohican-and saw the captain, who told me of a man who came aboard at Rio. Then I learned where he had put up for the night-a low sailors' retreat-and found this pedler who said he had sold Harry the silks which he offered me. He brought me here."

"Well, I can't help you any. There are only two rooms-I occupy this and my old cook, Jemima, has the other. I have been here for over a month.”

"Here! in this God-forsaken place! Why, we thought you had gone to Virginia. That's why we have had no answers to our letters, and we've hunted high and low for you. Certainly you have heard about the Patapsco and what-"

"I certainly have heard nothing, Talbot, and as I have just told you, I'd rather you would not discuss my affairs. The last time you saw fit to encroach upon them brought only bitterness, and I prefer not to repeat it. Anything you have to say

"For God's sake, St. George, don't take that tone with me! If you knew how wretched I am you'd be sorry for me. I am a broken-down man! If Harry goes away again without my seeing him I don't want to live another day. When Alec came running back last night and told me that I had cursed my son to his face, I nearly went out of my mind. I knew when I saw Alec's anger that it was true, and I knew, too, what a brute I had been. I ran to Annie's room, took her in my arms, and asked her pardon! All night I walked my room; at daylight I rang for Alec, sent for Matthew, and he hooked up the carryall and we came in here. Annie wanted to come with me, but I wouldn't let her. I knew Seymour wasn't out of bed that early, and so I drove straight to the shipping office and waited until it was open, and I've been hunting for him ever since. You and I have been boys together, St. George-don't lay up against me all the insulting things I've said to you-all the harm I've done you! God knows I've repented of it! Will you forgive me, St. George, for the sake of the old days-for the sake of my boy to whom you have been a father? Will you give me your hand? What in the name of common sense should you and I be enemies for? I, who owe you more than I owe any man in the world! Will you help me?"

St. George was staring now. He bent forward, gripped the arms of his chair for a better purchase, and lifted himself to his feet. There he stood swaying, Rutter's outstretched hand in both of his, his whole nature stirred-only one thought in his heart-to wipe out the past and bring father and son together.

"Yes, Talbot-I'll forgive you and I'll help you—I have helped you! Harry will be here in a few minutes-I sent him out to get his beard shaved off-that's why you didn't know him."

The colonel reeled unsteadily and but for St. George's hand would have lost his balance. All the blood was gone from his cheeks. He tried to speak, but the lips refused to move. For an instant St. George thought he would sink to the floor.

"You say-Harry . . . is here!" he stammered out at last, catching wildly at Temple's other hand to steady himself.

"Yes, he came across Todd by the merest accident or he would have gone to the Eastern Shore to look me up. There! that's his step now! Turn that door knob and hold out your hands to him, and after you've got your arms around him get down on your knees and thank your God that you've got such a son! I do, every hour I live!"

The door swung wide and Harry strode in: his eyes glistening his cheeks aglow.

"Up are you, and in your clothes!" he cried joyfully, all the freshness of the morning in his voice. "Well, that's something like! How do you like me now?-smooth as a marlinspike and my hair trimmed in the latest fashion, so old Bones says. He didn't know me either till he got clear down below my mouth and when my chin began to show he gave a

He stopped and stared at his father, who had been hidden from sight by the swinging door. The surprise was so great that his voice clogged in his throat. Rutter stood like one who had seen an apparition. St. George broke the silence: "It's all right, Harry-give your father your hand."

The colonel made a step forward, threw out one arm as if to regain his equilibrium, and staggered toward a chair, his frame shaking convulsively-wholly unstrungsobbing like a child. Harry sprang to catch him and the two sank down togetherno word of comfort-only the mute appeal of touch-the brown hand wet with his father's tears.

For some seconds neither spoke, then his father raised his head and looked into his son's face.

"I didn't know it was you, Harry. I have been hunting you all day to ask your pardon." It was the memory of the last indignity he had heaped upon him that had been torturing him.

"I knew you didn't, father." "Don't go away again, Harry, please don't, my son!" he pleaded, strangling the tears, trying to regain his self-controltears had often of late moistened Talbot Rutter's lids. "Your mother can't stand it another year, and I'm breaking uphalf blind. You won't go, will you?"

"No-not right away, father-we'll talk of that later." He was still in the dark as to how it had come about. What he knew

was that for the first time in all his life his father had asked his pardon, and for the first time in all his life the barrier which held them apart had been broken down.

The colonel braced himself in his seat in one supreme effort to get himself in hand. Harry rose to his feet and stood beside him. St. George, trembling from his own weakness, a great throb of thankfulness in his heart, had kept his place in his chair, his eyes turned away from the scene. His own mind had also undergone a great change. He had always known that somewhere down in Talbot Rutter's heart-down underneath the strata of pride and love of power, there could be found the heart of a father and a gentleman-indeed he had often predicted to himself just such a coming together. It was the boy's pluck and manliness that had done it; a manliness free from all truckling or cringing; and then his tenderness over the man who had of all others in the world wronged him most. could hardly keep his glad hands off the boy.

He

"You will go home with me, of course, won't you, Harry?" Rutter continued. He must ask his consent now-this son of his whom he had driven from his home and insulted in the presence of his friends at the club, and whom he could see was now absolutely independent of him-and what was more to the point absolutely his own master.

"Yes, of course, I'll go home with you, father," he answered respectfully, "if mother isn't coming in. Did she or Alec say anything to you about it before you left?”

"No, she isn't coming in to-day-I wouldn't let her. It was too early when I started. But that's not what I mean," Rutter went on with increasing excitement. "I want you to go home with me and stay forever; I want to forget the past; I want St. George to hear me say so! Come and take your place at the head of the estateI will have Gorsuch arrange the papers tomorrow. You and St. George must go back with me to-day. I have the large carryall-Matthew is with me he stopped at the corner-he's there now."

"That's very kind of you, father," Harry rejoined calmly, concealing as best he could his disappointment at not being able to see his mother: it seemed strange to him that he was not more affected by the sight of

of staying over night. Come in, Talbot, and see the home of my ancestors. I am sorry the Black Warrior is all gone-I sent Kennedy the last bottle some time agopity that vintage didn't last forever. Do you know, Talbot, if I had my way, I'd have a special spigot put in the City Spring labelled 'Gift of a once prominent citizen,' and supply the inhabitants with 1810something fit for a gentleman to drink."

They were all laughing now; the colonel carrying the pillows Todd had tucked behind the invalid's back, Harry a few toilet articles wrapped in paper, and Matthew his cane-and so the cortege crawled up the steps, crossed the dismantled dining-room -the colonel aghast at the change made in its interior since last he saw it-and so on to St. George's room where Todd and Jemima put him to bed.

His uncle taken care of-(his father had kept on to Moorlands to tell his mother the good news)-Harry mounted the stairs to his old room, which Pawson had generously vacated so that he and his uncle could be together.

The appointments were about the same as when he left; time and poverty had wrought but few changes. Pawson, while occupying it, had moved in a few books, and there was a night table beside the small bed with a lamp on it, showing that he read late; but the bureau and shabby arm-chair, and the closet, stripped now of the young attorney's clothes to make room for his own -(a scant sorry lot)—were pretty much the same as he had found on that eventful night when he had driven in through the rain and storm beside his Uncle George, his father's anathemas ringing in his ears.

Unconsciously his mind went back to the events of the day; his uncle's wonderful vitality and the change his own home-coming had made not only in his physique, but in his spirits. Then his father's shattered form and haggard face rose before him, and with it came the recollection of all that had happened during the previous hours: his father's brutal outburst in the small office and the marvellous change that had come over him when he learned the truth from Alec's lips; his hurried departure in the gray dawn for the ship and his tracing him to Jemima's house. And then his present bearing toward himself and St. George; his deference to their wishes and his willing

ness to follow and not lead. Was it his illhealth that had brought about this astounding transformation in a man who brooked no opposition?—or had his heart really softened toward him so that from this on he could again call him father in the full meaning of the term? At this a sudden, acute pain wrenched his heart. Perhaps he had not been glad enough to see him-perhaps, in his anxiety over his uncle he had failed in those little tendernesses which a returned prodigal should have shown the father who had held out his arms and asked his forgiveness. At this he fell to wondering as to the present condition of the colonel's mind: what was he thinking of in that lonely drive; he must soon be nearing Moorlands now and Alec would meet him, and then the dear mother-and the whole story would be told he could see her now-her eyes streaming tears, her heart throbbing with the joy of his return.

And it is a great pity he could not have thus looked in upon the autocrat of Moorlands as he sat hunched up on the back seat, silent, his head bowed, the only spoken words being Matthew's cheery hastening of his horses. It is even the greater pity that the son could not have searched as well the secret places of the man's heart. Such clearings out of doubts and misgivings make for peace and good fellowship and righteousness in the world of misunderstanding.

That a certain rest had come into Rutter's soul could be seen in his face—a peace that had not settled on his features for years—but, if the truth must be told, he was not happy. Somehow the joy he had anticipated at the boy's home-coming, had not been realized. With the warmth of Harry's grasp still lingering in his own and the tones of his voice still sounding in his ears, he yet felt aloof from him-outsidefar off, really—try as he might. Something had snapped in the years they had been apart-something he knew could never be repaired. Where there had once been boyish love there was now only filial regard. Down in his secret soul he felt it-down in his secret soul he knew it! Worse than that-another had replaced him! "Come, you dear old cripple!"-he could hear the voice and see the love and joy in the boy's eyes as he shouted it out. Yes-it was St. George who was his father now!

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