they were already out on the landing-on the very plank where Harry had passed the night-"you'll go back to your quarters. These are your quarters, here sir:" and Harry dragged the chair into position with his foot. "Down with you—that's it moment of angry hesitation, Rutter joined. Then he reached down and with his hand on St. George's shoulder, said in a coaxing tone-"Come along to Moorlands, old fellow-I'd be so glad to have you, and so will Annie, and we'll live over the old days." Harry's reappearance cut short his an--and you will stay here until the baggage swer. "No, father," he cried cheerily, taking up the refrain. He had caught the friendly caress and had heard the last sentence. "Uncle George is still too ill, and too weak for so long a drive. It's only the excitement over my return that keeps him up now-and he'll collapse if we don't look out-but he'll collapse in a better place than this!" he added with joyous emphasis. "Todd is outside, the hack is at the gate, and Jemima is now waiting for him in his old room at home. Give me your arm, you blessed old cripple, and let me help you downstairs. Out of the way, father, or he'll change his mind and I'll have to pick him up bodily and carry him." St. George looked at Harry from under his eyebrows, and with a wave of his hand and a deprecating shake of his head at the colonel said: "These rovers and freebooters, Talbot, have so lorded it over their serfs that they've lost all respect for their betters. Give me your hand, you vagabond, and if you break my neck I'll make you bury me." The colonel looked on silently and a sharp pain gripped his throat. When, in all his life, had he ever been spoken to by his boy in that spirit, and when in all his life had he ever seen that look of tenderness in Harry's eyes? What had he not missed? "Harry, may I make a suggestion?" he asked almost apologetically. The young fellow turned his head in respectful attention: "Put St. George in my carriage-it is much more comfortable-and let me drive him home-my eyes are quite good in the daytime, after I get used to the light, and I am still able to take the road. Then put your servant and mine in the hack with St. George's and your own luggage." "Capital idea!" cried Harry clapping his hands. "I never thought of it! Attention company! Eyes to the front, Mr. Temple! You'll now remain on waiting orders until I give you permission to move, and as this may take some time-please hold on to him, father, until I get his chair" and hospital train arrive, when you'll occupy a front seat in the van-and there will be no grumbling or lagging behind of any kind, remember, or you'll get ten days in the lock-up!" Pawson was on the curbstone, his face shining, his semaphore arms and legs in action; his eyes searching the distance, when the two vehicles came in sight. He had heard the day boat was very late, and as there had been a heavy fog over night, did not worry about the delay in their arrival. What troubled him more was the change in Mr. Temple's appearance. He had gone away ruddy, erect, full of vigor and health, and here he was being helped out of the carriage, pale, wrinkled, his eyes deep set in his head. His voice, though, was still strong if his legs were shaky, and there seemed also to be no diminution in the flow of his spirits. Wesley had kept that part of him intact whatever changes the climate had made. "Ah, Pawson-glad to see you!" the invalid called, extending his hand as soon as he stood erect on the sidewalk. "So the vultures have not turned up yet and taken up their roost in my nest. Most kind of you to stay home and give up your business to meet me! Back again, you see-these old derelicts turn up once in a while when you least expect them. You know Colonel Talbot Rutter, of Moorlands, I presume, and Mr. Harry Rutter— Of course you do! Harry has told me all about your midnight meeting when you took him for a constable, and he took you for a thief. No-please don't laugh, Pawson-Mr. Rutter is the worst kind of a thief. Not only has he stolen my heart because of his goodness to me, but he threatens to make off with my body. Give me your hand, Todd. Now a little lift on that rickety elbow and I reckon we can make that flight of steps. I have come down them so many times of late with no expectation of ever mounting them again that it will be a novelty to be sure 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 ago— pity 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 Rut ter'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! Then his mind reverted again to his form- suffering, by bodily weakness—by privation er treatment of his son. What else could he by starvation, really! And both had have done and still maintain the standards of his ancestors?—the universal question around Kennedy Square; when obligations of blood and training were to be considered. After all it had only been an object-lesson; he had intended to forgive his son later on. When Harry was a boy he punished him as boys were punished; when he became a man he punished him as men were punished. But for St. George the plan would long since have worked. St. George had balked him twice-once at the club and once at his home in Kennedy Square, when he practically ordered him from the house. And yet he could not but admit that even according to his own high standards both St. George and Harry had measured up to them: rather than touch another penny of his uncle's money Harry had become an exile; rather than accept a penny from his enemy, St. George had become a pauper. With this view of the case fermenting in his mind—and he had not realized the extent of both sacrifices until to-day-a feeling of pride swept through him. It was his boy and his friend, who had measured up!-by manfully and cheerfully stood the test! It was the blood of the De Ruyters which had put courage into the boy; it was the blood of the cavaliers that had made Temple the man he was. And that old DeRuyter blood! How it had told in every glance of the boy's eye and every intonation of the voice! If he had not accumulated a fortune he would—and that before many years were gone. But! and a chill went through him. Would not this still further separate them, and if it did how could he restore at once the old dependence and the old confidence? His efforts so far had met with almost a rebuff, for Harry had shown no particular pleasure when he told him of his intention to put him in charge of the estate: he had watched his face for a sign of satisfaction, but none had come. He had really seemed more interested in getting St. George downstairs than in being the fourth heir of Moorlands—indeed, he had no thought for anybody or anything outside except St. George. All this the son might have known could he have sat by his father in the carryall on his way to Moorlands. (To be continued.) AERE PERENNIUS By Harriet Monroe Look on the dead. Stately and pure he lies Enthroned and crowned more royal is, more sure Now chance and change their homage to him bring By Walter Prichard Eaton ILLUSTRATIONS BY WALTER KING STONE F you desire an argument for idealism, said Emerson, stoop down and look at a familiar landscape through your legs. (This, it will be recalled, was also Peter Pan's method for intimidating the wolves!) Yet Emerson need hardly have resorted to so gymnastic a feat for casting over a familiar landscape the sense of strangeness. There flows through the Concord meadows, and 'neath "the rude bridge" which spans its flood, the Concord River, incomparable for canoes, and from the seat of a gently moving craft on its dark, quiet waters you may see all that fair New England countryside through the transforming lens of an unaccustomed because only from the boat is your level of vision altered from the habitual, lowered till all the common objects of the landscape shift their values and the world is indeed so I watched the thread of crystal water slip through the mosses into the strange a place that you realize, as Emerson intended, how many of our socalled facts are merely habits of the human eye. We have often suspected that Bishop Berkeley himself was a traveller by inland water-ways, and drew his philosophy from the river view. Did you ever lie stretched on your garden path, shutting the eye farther from the ground and squinting with the other through the strange jungle of your flower beds? The sensation is curious, almost disconcerting. view-point-the view-point, as it were, of The pebbles on the path cast long shadows, the floor of the world. If you walk with the shade of old Izaak Walton by the bank of a river, in quiet contemplation or busy with a rod, you may fall in love with life and flowing streams, but you will not know the true river view. You will know that only from a boat, preferably a noiseless, smooth-slipping canoe, VOL. L.-3 the bordering grasses are tall, and the stalks of your daffodils tower like a pine wood, while the sun shines through amid the translucent green trunks, bringing down a shimmer of golden blooms. See, a robin hops into the picture! You know him for a robin by his rosy breast and his brittle legs. But how huge he is! You are scarce aware of the 29 |