Full Text Archive logoFull Text Archive — Books, poems, drama…

Dennison Grant by Robert Stead

Part 3 out of 5

Adobe PDF icon
Download this document as a .pdf
File size: 0.5 MB
What's this? light bulb idea Many people prefer to read off-line or to print out text and read from the real printed page. Others want to carry documents around with them on their mobile phones and read while they are on the move. We have created .pdf files of all out documents to accommodate all these groups of people. We recommend that you download .pdfs onto your mobile phone when it is connected to a WiFi connection for reading off-line.

"For the girl," he said. "I should deliver it myself, but you'll

Y.D. fumbled the tiny package into a vest pocket. "Sure, I'll
attend to that," he promised. "Wasn't much of these fancy
trimmin's when I settled into double harness, but lots of things
has changed since then. You'll be out soon?"

"Just as soon as business will stand for it. Not a minute longer."

On his return home Y.D., after maintaining an exasperating silence
until supper was finished, casually handed the package to his

"Some trinket Transley sent out," he explained. "He'll be here
himself as soon as business permits."

She took the package with a glow of expectancy, started to open it,
then folded the paper again and ran up to her room. Here she
tempted herself for minutes before she would finally open it,
whetting the appetite of anticipation to the full. . . . The gem
justified her little play. It was magnificent; more beautiful and
more expensive than anything her father ever bought her.

She hesitated strangely about putting it on. To Zen it seemed that
the putting on of Transley's ring would be a voluntary act
symbolizing her acceptance of him. If she had been carried off her
feet--swept into the position in which she found herself--that
explanation would not apply to the deliberate placing of his ring
upon her finger. There would be no excuse; she could never again
plead that she had been the victim of Transley's precipitateness.
This would be deliberate, and she must do it herself.

She rather blamed Transley for not having left his old business and
come to perform this rite himself, as he should have done. What
was one day of business, more or less? Yet Zen gathered no hint
from that incident that always, with Transley, business would come
first. It was symbolic--prophetic--but she did not see the sign
nor understand the prophecy.

She held the ring between her fingers; slipped it off and on her
little fingers; held it so the rays of the sun fell through the
window upon it and danced before her eyes in all their primal

"I have to put this on," she said, pursing her lips firmly, "and--
and forget about Dennison Grant!"

For a long time she thought of that and all it meant. Then she
raised the jewel to her lips.

"Help me--help me--" she murmured. With a quick little impetuous
motion she drew it on to the finger where it belonged. There she
gazed upon it for a moment, as though fascinated by it. Then she
fell upon her bed and lay motionless until long after the valley
was wrapped in shadow.

The events of these days had almost driven from Zen's mind the
tragedy of George Drazk. When she thought of it at all it
presented such a grotesque unreality--it was such an unreasonable
thing--that it assumed the vague qualities of a dream. It was
something unreal and very much better forgotten, and it was only by
an unwilling effort at such times that she could bring herself to
know that it was not unreal. It was a matter that concerned her
tremendously. Sooner or later Drazk's disappearance must be
noted,--perhaps his body would be found--and while she had little
fear that anyone would associate her with the tragedy it was a most
unpleasant thing to think about. Sometimes she wondered if she
should not tell her father or Transley just what had happened, but
she shrank from doing so as from the confession of a crime. Mostly
she was able to think of other matters.

Her father brought it up in a startling way at breakfast. Absolutely
out of a blue sky he said, "Did you know, Zen, that Drazk has
disappeared? Transley tells me you were int'rested a bit in him, or
perhaps I should say he was int'rested in you."

Zen was so overcome by this startling change in the conversation
that she was unable to answer. The color went from her face and
she leaned low over her plate to conceal her agitation.

"Yep," continued Y.D., with no more concern than if a steer had
been lost from the herd. "Transley said to tell you Drazk had
disappeared an' he reckoned you wouldn't be bothered any more with

"Drazk was nothing to me," she managed to say. "How can you think
he was?"

"Now who said he was?" her father retorted. "For a young woman
with the price of a herd of steers on her third finger you're sort
o' short this mornin'. Now I'm jus' wonderin' how far you can see
through a board fence, Zen. Are you surprised that Drazk has

She was entirely at a loss to understand the drift of her father's
talk. He could not connect her with Drazk's disappearance, or he
would not approach the matter with such unconcern. That was
unthinkable. Neither could Transley, or he would not have sent so
brutal a message. And yet it was clear that they thought she
should be interested.

Her father's question demanded an answer.

"What should I care?" she ventured at length.

"I didn't ask you whether you cared. I asked you whether you was

"Drazk's movements were--are nothing to me. I don't know that I
have any occasion to be surprised about anything he may do."

"Well, I'm rather glad you're not, because if you don't jump to
conclusions, perhaps other people won't. Not that it makes any
partic'lar diff'rence."

"Dad," she cried in desperation, "whatever do you mean?"

"It was all plain enough to me, an' plain enough to Transley," her
father continued with remarkable calmness. "We seen it right from
the first."

"You're talking in riddles, Y.D.," his wife remonstrated. "You're
getting Zen all worked up."

"Jewelry seems to be mighty upsettin'," Y.D. commented. "There was
nothin' like that in our engagement, eh, Jessie? Well, to come to
the point. There was a fire which burned up the valley of the
South Y.D. Fires don't start themselves--usually. This one
started among the Landson stacks, so it was natural enough to
suspec' Y.D. or some of his sympathizers. Well it wasn't Y.D., an'
I reckon it wasn't Zen, an' it wasn't Transley nor Linder an' every
one of the gang's accounted for excep' Drazk. Drazk thought he was
doin' a great piece of business when he fired the Landson hay, but
when the wind turned an' burned up the whole valley Drazk sees
where he can't play no hero part around here so he loses himself
for good. I gathered from Transley that Drazk had been botherin'
you a little, Zen, which is why I told you."

The girl's heart was pounding violently at this explanation. It
was logical, and would be accepted readily by those who knew Drazk.
She would not trust herself in further conversation, so she slipped
away as soon as she could and spent the day riding down by the

The afternoon wore on, and as the day was warm she dismounted by a
ford and sat down upon a flat rock close to the water. The rock
reminded her of the one on which she and Grant had sat that night
while the thin red lines of fire played far up and down the valley.
Her ankle was paining a little so she removed her boot and stocking
and soothed it in the cool water.

As she sat watching her reflection in the clear stream and toying
with the ripple about her foot a horseman rode quickly down through
the cottonwoods on the other side and plunged into the ford. It
happened so quickly that neither saw the other until he was well
into the river. Although she had had no dream of seeing him here,
in some way she felt no surprise. Her heart was behaving
boisterously, but she sat outwardly demure, and when he was close
enough she sent a frank smile up to him. The look on his sunburned
face as he returned her greeting convinced her that the meeting, on
his part, was no less unexpected and welcome than it was to her.

When his horse was out of the water he dismounted and walked to her
with extended hand.

"This is an unexpected pleasure," he said. "How is the ankle

"Well enough," she returned, "but it gets tired as the day wears
on. I am just resting a bit."

There was a moment of somewhat embarrassed silence.

"That is a good-sized rock," he suggested, at length.

"Yes, isn't it? And here in the shade, at that."

She did not invite him with words, but she gave her body a slight
hitch, as though to make room, although there was enough already.
He sat down without comment.

"Not unlike a rock I remember up in the foothills," he remarked,
after a silence.

"Oh, you remember that? It WAS like this, wasn't it?"

"Same two people sitting on it."

". . . . Yes."

"Not like this, though."

"No. . . . You're mean. You know I didn't intend to fall asleep."

"Of course not. Still. . . ."

His voice lingered on it as though it were a delightful remembrance.

She found herself holding one of her hands in the other. She could
feel the pressure of Transley's ring on her palm, and she held it
tighter still.

"Riding anywhere in particular?" he inquired.

"No. Just mooning." She looked up at him again, this time at
close quarters. It was a quick, bright flash on his face--a moment

"Why mooning?"

She did not answer. Looking down in the water he met her gaze

"You're troubled!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, no! My--my ankle hurts a little."

He looked at her sympathetically. "But not that much," he said.

She gave a forced little laugh. "What a mind reader you are! Can
you tell my fortune?"

"I should have to read it in your hand."

She would have extended her hand, but for Transley's ring.

"No. . . . No. You'll have to read it in--in the stars."

"Then look at me." She did so, innocently.

"I cannot read it there," he said, after his long gaze had begun to
whip the color to her cheeks. "There is no answer."

She turned again to the water, and after a long while she heard his
voice, very low and earnest.

"Zen, I could read a fortune for you, if you would not be offended.
We are only chance acquaintances--not very well acquainted, yet--"

She knew what he meant, but she pretended she did not. Even in
that moment something came to her of Transley's speech about love
being a game of pretence. Very well, she would play the game--this

"I don't see how I could be offended at your reading my fortune,"
she murmured.

"Then this is the fortune I would read for you," he said boldly.
"I see a young man, a rather foolish young man, perhaps, by
ordinary standards, and yet one who has found a great deal of
happiness in his simple, unconventional life. Until a short time
ago he felt that life could give him all the happiness that was
worth having. He had health, strength, hours of work and hours of
pleasure, the fields, the hills, the mountains, the sky--all God's
open places to live in and enjoy. He thought there was nothing

"Well, then he found, all of a sudden, that there was something
more--everything more. He made that discovery on a calm autumn
night, when fire had blackened all the foothills and still ran in
dancing red ribbons over their distant crests. That night a great
thing--two great things--came into his life. First was something
he gave. Not very much, indeed, but typical of all it might be.
It was service. And next was something he received, something so
wonderful he did not understand it then, and does not understand it
yet. It was trust. These were things he had been leaving largely
out of his life, and suddenly he discovered how empty it was. I
think there is one word for both these things, and, it may be, for
even more. You know?"

"I know," she said, and her voice was scarcely audible.

"But it is YOUR fortune I am to read," he corrected himself. "It
has been your fortune to open that new world to me. That can never
be undone--those gates can never be closed--no matter where the
paths may lead. Those two paths go down to the future--as all
paths must--even as this road leads away through the valley to the
sunset. Zen--if only, like this road, they could run side by side
to the sunset--Oh! Zen, if they could?"

"I know," she said, and as she raised her face he saw that her eyes
were wet. "I know--if only they could!"

There was a little sob in her voice, and in her beauty and distress
she was altogether irresistible. He reached out his arms and would
have taken her in them, but she thrust her hands in his and held
herself back. She turned the diamond deliberately to his eyes.
She could feel his grip relax and apparently grow suddenly cold.
He stood speechless, like one dazed--benumbed.

"You see, I should not have let you talk--it is my fault," she
said, speaking hurriedly. "I should not have let you talk. Please
do not think I am shallow; that I let you suffer to gratify my
vanity." Her eyes found his again. "If I had not believed every
word you said--if I had not liked every word you said--if I had
not--HOPED--every word you said, I would not have listened. . . .
But you see how it is."

He was silent for so long that she thought he was not going to
answer her at all. When he spoke it was in a dry, parched voice.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "I should not have presumed--"

"I know, I know. If only--"

Then he looked straight at her and talked out.

"You liked me enough to let me speak as I did. I opened my heart
to you. I ask no such concession in return. I hope you will not
think me presumptuous, but I do not plead now for my happiness, but
for yours. Is this irrevocable? Are--you--sure?"

He said the last words so slowly and deliberately that she felt
that each of them was cutting the very rock from underneath her.
She knew she was at a junction point in her life, and her mind
strove to quickly appraise the situation. On one side was this man
who had for her so strange and so powerful an appeal. It was only
by sheer force of will that she could hold herself aloof from him.
But he was a man who had broken with his family and quarrelled with
her father--a man whom her father would certainly not for a moment
consider as a son-in-law. He was a foreman; practically a ranch
hand. Neither Zen nor her father were snobs, and if Grant worked
for a living, so did Transley. That was not to be counted against
him. The point was, what kind of living did he earn? What
Transley had to offer was perhaps on a lower plane, but it was more
substantial. It had been approved by her father, and her mother,
and herself. It wasn't as though one man were good and the other
bad; it wasn't as though one thing were right and the other wrong.
It would have been easy then. . . .

"I have promised," she said at last.

She released her hands from his, and, sitting down, silently put on
her stocking and boot. She was aware that he was still standing
near, as though waiting to be formally dismissed. She walked by
him to her horse and put her foot in the stirrup. Then she looked
at him and gave her hand a little farewell wave.

Then a great pang, irresistible in its yearning, swept over her.
She drew her foot from the stirrup, and, rushing down, threw her
arms about his neck. . . .

"I must go," she said. "I must go. We must both go and forget."

And Dennison Grant continued his way down the valley while Zen rode
back to the Y.D., wondering if she could ever forget.


Linder scratched his tousled brown hair reflectively as he gazed
after the retreating form of Transley. His hat was off, and the
perspiration stood on his sunburned face--a face which, in point of
handsomeness, needed make no apology to Transley.

"Well, by thunder!" said Linder; "by thunder, think of that!"

Linder stood for some time, thinking "of that" as deeply as his
somewhat disorganized mental state would permit. For Transley had
announced, with his usual directness, that he wanted so many men
and teams for a house excavation in the most exclusive part of the
city. So far they had been building in the cheaper districts a
cheap type of house for those who, having little capital, are the
easier deprived of what they have. The shift in operations caused
Linder to lift his eyebrows.

Transley laughed boyishly and clapped a palm on his shoulder.

"I may as well make you wise, Linder," he said. "We're going to
build a house for Mr. and Mrs. Transley."

"MISSUS?" Linder echoed, incredulously.

"That's the good word," Transley confirmed. "Never expected it to
happen to me, but it did, all of a sudden. You want to look out;
maybe it's catching."

Transley was evidently in prime humor. Linder had, indeed, noted
this good humor for some time, but had attributed it to the very
successful operations in which his employer had been engaged. He
pulled himself together enough to offer a somewhat confused

"And may I ask who is to be the fortunate young lady?" he ventured.

"You may," said Transley, "but if you could see the length of your
nose it wouldn't be necessary. Linder, you're the best foreman I
ever had, just because you don't ever think of anything else. When
you pass on there'll be no heaven for you unless they give you
charge of a bunch of men and teams where you can raise a sweat and
make money for the boss. If you weren't like that you would have
anticipated what I've told you--or perhaps made a play for Zen

"Zen? You don't mean Y.D.'s daughter?"

"If I don't mean Y.D.'s daughter I don't mean anybody, and you can
take that from me. You bet it's Zen. Say, Linder, I didn't think
I could go silly over a girl, but I'm plumb locoed. I bought the
biggest old sparkler in this town and sent it out with Y.D., if he
didn't lose it through the lining of his vest--he handled it like
it might have been a box of pills--bad pills, Linder--and I've got
an architect figuring how much expense he can put on a house--he
gets a commission on the cost, you see--and one of these nights I'm
going to buy you a dinner that'll keep you fed till Christmas. I
never knew before that silliness and happiness go together, but
they do. I'm glad I've got a sober old foreman--that's all that
keeps the business going."

And after Transley had turned away Linder had scratched his head
and said "By thunder. . . . Linder, when you wake up you'll be
dead. . . . After her practically saying 'The water's fine.' . . .
Well, that's why I'm a foreman, and always will be."

But after a little reflection Linder came to the conclusion that
perhaps it was all for the best. He could not have bought Y.D.'s
daughter a big sparkler or have built her a fine home--because he
was a foreman. It was a round circle. . . . He threw himself into
the building of Transley's house with as much fidelity as if it had
been his own. He gave his undivided attention to Transley's
interests, making dollars for him while earning cents for himself.
This attention was more needed than it ever had been, as Transley
found it necessary to make weekly trips to the ranch in the
foothills to consult with Y.D. upon business matters.

Zen found her interest in Transley growing as his attentions
continued. He spent money upon her lavishly, to the point at which
she protested, for although Y.D. was rated as a millionaire the
family life was one of almost stark simplicity. Transley assured
her that he was making money faster than he possibly could spend
it, and even if not, money had no nobler mission than to bring her
happiness. He explained the blue-prints of the house, and
discussed with her details of the appointments. As the building
progressed he brought her weekly photographs of it. He urged her
to set the date about Christmas; during the winter contracting
would be at a standstill, so they would spend three months in
California and return in time for the spring business.

Day by day the girl turned the situation over in her mind. Her
life had been swept into strange and unexpected channels, and the
experience puzzled her. Since the episode with Drazk she had lost
some of her native recklessness; she was more disposed to weigh the
result of her actions, and she approached the future not without
some misgivings. She assured herself that she looked forward to
her marriage with Transley with the proper delight of a bride-to-
be, and indeed it was a prospect that could well be contemplated
with pleasure. . . . Transley had won the complete confidence of
her father and when doubts assailed her Zen found in that fact a
very considerable comfort. Y.D. was a shrewd man; a man who seldom
guessed wrong. Zen did not admit that she was allowing her father
to choose a husband for her, but the fact that her father concurred
in the choice strengthened her in it. Transley had in him qualities
which would win not only wealth, but distinction, and she would
share in the laurels. She told herself that it was a delightful
outlook; that she was a very happy girl indeed--and wondered why she
was not happier!

Particularly she laid it upon herself that she must now, finally,
dismiss Dennison Grant from her mind. It was absurd to suppose
that she cared more for Grant than she did for Transley. The two
men were so different; it was impossible to make comparisons. They
occupied quite different spheres in her regard. To be sure, Grant
was a very likeable man, but he was not eligible as a husband, and
she could not marry two, in any case. Zen entertained no girlish
delusions about there being only one man in the world. On the
contrary, she was convinced that there were very many men in the
world, and, among the better types, there was, perhaps, not so much
to choose between them. Grant would undoubtedly be a good husband
within his means; so would Transley, and his means were greater.
The blue-prints of the new house in town had not been without their
effect. It was a different prospect from being a foreman's wife on
a ranch. Her father would never hear of it. . . .

So she busied herself with preparations for the great event, and
what preparations they were! "Zen," her father had said, "for once
the lid is off. Go the limit!" She took him at his word. There
were many trips to town, and activities about the old ranch
buildings such as they had never known since Jessie Wilson came to
finish Y.D.'s up-bringing, nor even then. The good word spread
throughout the foothill country and down over the prairies, and
many a lazy cloud of dust lay along the November hillsides as the
women folk of neighboring ranches came to pay their respects and
gratify their curiosity. Zen had treasures to show which sent them
home with new standards of extravagance.

Y.D. had not thought he could become so worked up over a simple
matter like a wedding. Time had dulled the edge of memory, but
even after making allowances he could not recall that his marriage
to Jessie Wilson had been such an event in his life as this. It
did not at least reflect so much glory upon him personally. He
basked in the reflected glow of his daughter's beauty and
popularity, as happily as the big cat lying on the sunny side of
the bunk-house. He found all sorts of excuses for invading where
his presence was little wanted while Zen's finery was being
displayed for admiration. Y.D. always pretended that such
invasions were quite accidental, and affected a fine indifference
to all this "women's fuss an' feathers," but his affectations
deceived at least none of the older visitors.

As the great day approached Y.D.'s wife shot a bomb-shell at him.
"What do you propose to wear for Zen's wedding?" she demanded.

"What's the matter with the suit I go to town in?"

"Y.D.," said his wife, kindly, "there are certain little touches
which you overlook. Your town suit is all right for selling
steers, although I won't say that it hasn't outlived its prime even
for that. To attend Zen's wedding it is--hardly the thing."

"It's been a good suit," he protested. "It is--"

"It HAS. It is also a venerable suit. But really, Y.D., it will
not do for this occasion. You must get yourself a new suit, and a
white shirt--"

"What do I want with a white shirt--"

"It has to be," his wife insisted. "You'll have to deck yourself
out in a new suit and a while shirt and collar."

Y.D. stamped around the room, and in a moment slipped out. "All
fool nonsense," he confided to himself, on his way to the bunk-
house. "It's all right for Zen to have good clothes--didn't I tell
her to go the limit?--but as for me, 'tain't me that's gettin'
married, is it? Standin' up before all them cow punchers in a
white shirt!" The bitterness of such disgrace cut the old rancher
no less keenly than the physical discomfort which he forecast for
himself, yet he put his own desires sufficiently to one side to buy
a suit of clothes, and a white shirt and collar, when he was next
in town.

It must not be supposed that Y.D. admitted to the salesman that he
personally was descending to any such garb.

"A suit for a fellow about my size," he explained. "He's visitin'
out at the ranch, an' he hefts about the same as me. Put in one of
them Hereford shirts an' a collar."

Y.D. tucked the package surreptitiously in his room and awaited the
day of Zen's marriage with mingled emotions.

Zen, yielding to Transley's importunities, had at last said that it
should be Christmas Day. The wedding would be in the house, with
the leading ranchers and farmers of the district as invited guests,
and the general understanding was to be given out that the
countryside as a whole would be welcome. All could not be taken
care of in the house, so Y.D. gave orders that the hay was to be
cleared out of one of the barns and the floor put in shape for
dancing. Open house would be held in the barn and in the bunk-
house, where substantial refreshments would be served to all and

Christmas Day dawned with a seasonable nip to the air, but the sun
rose warm and bright. There was no snow, and by early afternoon
clouds of dust were rising on every trail leading to the Y.D. The
old ranchers and their wives drove in buckboards, and one or two in
automobiles; the younger generation, of both sexes, came on
horseback, with many an exciting impromptu race by the way. Y.D.
received them all in the yard, commenting on the horses and the
weather, and how the steers were wintering, and revealing, at the
proper moments, the location of a well-filled stone jug. The
faithful Linder was on hand to assist in caring for the horses and
maintaining organization about the yard. The women were ushered
into the house, but the men sat about the bunk-house or leaned
against the sunny side of the barn, sharpening their wits in
conversational sallies which occasionally brought loud guffaws of

In the house every arrangement had been completed. Zen was to come
down the stairs leaning on her father's arm, and the ceremony would
take place in the big central room, lavishly decorated with flowers
which Transley had sent from town in a heated automobile. After
the ceremony the principals and the older people would eat the
wedding dinner in the house, and all others would be served in the
bunk-house. One of the downstairs rooms was already filled with

As the hour approached Zen found herself possessed of a calmness
which she deemed worthy of Y.D.'s daughter. She had elected to be
unattended as she had no very special girl friend, and that seemed
the simplest way out of the problem of selecting someone for this
honor. She was, however, amply assisted with her dressing, and the
color of her fine cheeks burned deeper with the compliments to
which she listened with modest appreciation.

At a quarter to the hour it was discovered that Y.D. had not yet
dressed for the occasion. He was, in fact, engaged with Landson in
making a tentative arrangement for the distribution of next year's
hay. Zen had been so insistent upon an invitation being sent to
Mr. and Mrs. Landson, that Y.D., although fearing a snub for his
pains, at last conceded the point. He had done his neighbor rather
less than justice, and now he and Landson, with the assistance of
the jug already referred to, were burying the hatchet in a corner
of the bunk-house.

"Dang this dressin'," Y.D. remonstrated when a message demanding
instant action reached him. "Landson, hear me now! I wouldn't
take a million dollars for that girl, y' understand--and I wouldn't
trade a mangy cayuse for another!"

So, grumbling, he found his way to his room and began a wrestle
with his "store" clothes. Before the fight was over he was being
reminded through the door that he wasn't roping a steer, and
everybody was waiting. At the last moment he discovered that he
had neglected to buy shoes. There was nothing for it but his long
ranch boots, so on they went.

He sought Zen in her room. "Will I do in this?" he asked, feeling
very sheepish.

Zen could have laughed, or she could have cried, but she did
neither. She sensed in some way the fact that to her father this
experience was a positive ordeal. So she just slipped her arm
through his and whispered, "Of course you'll do, you silly old
duffer," and tripped down the stairs by the side of his ponderous

After the ceremony the elder people sat down to dinner in the
house, and the others in the bunk-house. Zen was radiant and calm;
Transley handsome, delighted, self-possessed. His good luck was
the subject of many a comment, both inside and out of the old
house. He accepted it at its full value, and yet as one who has a
right to expect that luck will play him some favors.

Suddenly there was a rush from outside, and Zen found herself being
carried bodily away. The young people had decided that the dancing
could wait no longer, so a half dozen hustlers had been deputed to
kidnap the bride and carry her to the barn, where the fiddles were
already strumming. Zen insisted that the first dance must belong
to Transley, but after that she danced with the young ranchers and
cowboys with strict impartiality. And even as she danced she found
herself wondering if, among all this representation of the
countryside, that one upon whom her thoughts had turned so much
should be missing. She found herself watching the door. Surely it
would have been only a decent respect to her--surely he might have
helped to whirl her joyously away into the new life in which the
past had to be forgotten. . . . How much better that they should
part that way, than with the memories they had!

But Dennison Grant did not appear. Evidently he preferred to keep
his memories. . . .

When at last the night had worn thin and it was time for the bridal
couple to leave if they were to catch the morning train in town, and
they had ridden down the foothill trails to the thunder of many
accompanying hoof-beats, the old ranch became suddenly a place very
quiet and still and alone. Y.D. sat down in the corner of the big
room by the fire, and saw strange pictures in its dying embers.
Zen. . . . Zen! . . . Transley was a good fellow, but how much a
man will take with scarce a thank-you! . . . Presently Y.D. became
aware of a hand resting upon his shoulder, and tingling from its
fingertips came something akin to the almost forgotten rapture of a
day long gone. He raised his great palm and took that slowly ageing
hand, once round and fresh like Zen's, in his. Together they
watched the fire die out in the silence of their empty house. . . .


Grant read the account of her wedding in the city papers a day or
two later. It was given the place of prominence among the
Christmas Day nuptials. He read it through twice and then tossed
the paper to the end of his little office. Grant was housed in a
building by himself; a shack twelve by sixteen feet, double boarded
and tar-papered. A single square window in the eastern wall
commanded a view of the Landson corrals. On the opposite side of
the room was his bed; in the centre a huge wood-burning stove; near
the window stood a table littered with daily papers and agricultural
journals. The floor was of bare boards; a leather trunk, with D. G.
in aggressive letters, sat by the head of his bed, and in the corner
near the foot was a washstand with basin and pitcher of graniteware.
In another corner was a short shelf of well-selected books; clothing
hung from nails driven into the two-by-fours which formed the
framework of the little building; a rifle was suspended over the
door, and lariat and saddle hung from spikes in the wall. Grant sat
in an arm chair by the stove, where the bracket lamp on the wall
could shed its yellow glare upon his paper.

After throwing the sheet across the room he half turned in his
chair, so that the yellow light fell across his face. Fidget, the
pup, always alert for action, was on her feet in a moment, eager to
lead the way to the door and whatever adventure might lie outside.
But Grant did not leave his chair, and, finding all her tail-waving
of no avail, she presently settled down again by the stove, her
chin on her outstretched paws, her drooping eyes half closed, but a
wakeful ear flopping occasionally forward and back. Grant snuggled
his foot against her friendly side and fell into reverie. . . .

There was nothing else for it; he must absolutely dismiss Zen--Zen
Transley--from his mind. That was not only the course of honor; it
was the course of common sense. After all, he had not sought her
for his bride. He had not pressed his suit. He had given her to
Transley. The thought was rather a pleasant one. It implied some
sort of voluntary action upon Grant's part. He had been magnanimous.
Nevertheless, he was cave man enough to know pangs of jealousy which
his magnanimity could not suppress.

"If things had been different," he remarked to himself; "if I had
been in a position to offer her decent conditions, I would have
followed up the lead. And I would have won." He turned the
incident on the river bank over in his mind, and a faint smile
played along his lips. "I would have won. But I couldn't bring
her here. . . . It's the first time I ever felt that money could
really contribute to happiness. Well--I was happy before I met
her; I can be happy still. This little episode. . . ."

He crossed the room and picked up the newspaper he had thrown away;
he crumpled it in his hand as he approached the stove. It said the
bride was beautiful--the happy couple--the groom, prosperous young
contractor--California--three months. . . . He turned to the
table, smoothed out the paper, and studied it again. Of course he
had heard the whole thing from the Landsons; they had done Y.D. and
his daughter justice. He clipped the article carefully from the
sheet and folded it away in a little book on the shelf.

Then he told himself that Zen had been swept from his mind; that
if ever they should meet--and he dallied a moment with that
possibility--they would shake hands and say some decent, insipid
things and part as people who had never met before. Only they
would know. . . .

Grant occupied himself with the work of the ranch that winter,
spring, and summer. Occasional news of Mrs. Transley filtered
through; she was too prominent a character in that countryside to
be lost track of in a season. But anything which reached Grant
came through accidental channels; he sought no information of her,
and turned a deaf ear, almost, to what he heard. Then in the fall
came an incident which immediately changed the course of his

It came in the form of an important-looking letter with an eastern
postmark. It had been delivered with other mail at the house, and
Landson himself brought it down. Grant read it and at first stared
at it somewhat blankly, as one not taking in its full portent.

"Not bad news, I hope?" said his employer, cloaking his curiosity
in commiseration.

"Rather," Grant admitted, and handed him the letter. Landson read:

"It is our duty to place before you information which must be of a
very distressing nature, and which at the same time will have the
effect of greatly increasing your responsibilities and opportunities.
Unless you have happened to see the brief despatches which have
appeared in the Press this letter will doubtless be the first
intimation to you that your father and younger brother Roy were the
victims of a most regrettable accident while motoring on a brief
holiday in the South. The automobile in which they were travelling
was struck by a fast train, and both of them received injuries from
which they succumbed almost immediately.

"Your father, by his will, left all his property, aside from
certain behests to charity, to his son Roy, but Roy had no will,
and as he was unmarried, and as there are no other surviving
members of the family except yourself, the entire estate, less the
behests already referred to, descends to you. We have not yet
attempted an appraisal, but you will know that the amount is very
considerable indeed. In recent years your father's business
undertakings were remarkably successful, and we think we may
conservatively suggest that the amount of the estate will be very
much greater than even you may anticipate.

"The brokerage firm which your father founded is, temporarily,
without a head. You have had some experience in your father's
office, and as his solicitors for many years, we take the liberty
of suggesting that you should immediately assume control of the
business. A faithful staff are at present continuing it to the
best of their ability, but you will understand that a permanent
organization must be effected at as early a date as may be

"Inability to locate you until after somewhat exhaustive inquiries
had been made explains the failure to notify you by wire in time to
permit of your attending the funeral of your father and brother,
which took place in this city on the eighth instant, and was marked
by many evidences of respect.

"We beg to tender our very sincere sympathy, and to urge upon you
that you so arrange your affairs as to enable you to assume the
responsibilities which have, in a sense, been forced upon you, at a
very early date. In the meantime we assure you of our earnest
attention to your interests.

"Yours sincerely,


"Well, I guess it means you've struck oil, and I've lost a good
foreman," said Landson, as he returned the letter. "I'm sorry
about your loss, Grant, and glad to hear of your good luck, if I
may put it that way."

"No particular good luck that I can see," Grant protested. "I came
west to get away from all that bothering nuisance, and now I've got
to go back and take it all up again. I feel badly about Dad and
the kid; they were decent, only they didn't understand me. . . . I
suppose I didn't understand them, either. At any rate they didn't
wish this on me. They had quite other plans."

"What do you reckon she's worth?" Landson asked, after waiting as
long as his patience would permit.

"Oh, I don't know. Possibly six or eight millions by this time."

"Six or eight millions! Jehoshaphat! What will you do with it?"

"Look after it. Mr. Landson, you know that I have never worried
about money; if I had I wouldn't be here. I figure that the more
money a man has the greater are his responsibilities and his
troubles; worse than that, his wealth excites the jealousy of the
public and even the envy of his friends. It builds a barrier
around him, shutting out all those things which are really most
worth while. It makes him the legitimate prey of the unprincipled.
I know all these things, and it is because I know them that I
sought happiness out here on the ranges, where perhaps some people
are rich and some are poor, but they all think alike and live alike
and are part of one community and stand together in a pinch--and
out here I have found happiness. Now I'm going back to the other
job. I don't care for the money, but any son-of-a-gun who takes it
from me is a better man than I am, and I'll sit up nights at both
ends of the day to beat him at his own game. Now, just as soon as
you can line up someone to take charge I'll have to beat it."

The news of Grant's fortune spread rapidly, and many were the
congratulations from his old cow puncher friends; congratulations,
for the most part, without a suggestion of envy in them. Grant put
his affairs in order as quickly as possible, and started for the
East with a trunkful of clothes. But even before he started one
thought had risen up to haunt him. He crushed it down, but it
would insist. If only this had happened a year ago. . . .

Dennison Grant's mother had died in his infancy, and as soon as Roy
was old enough to go to boarding-school his father had given up
housekeeping. The club had been his home ever since. Grant
reflected on this situation with some satisfaction. He would at
least be spared the unpleasantness of discharging a houseful of
servants and disposing of the family furniture. As for the club--
he had no notion for that. A couple of rooms in some quiet
apartment house, where he could cook a meal to his own liking as
the fancy took him; that was his picture of something as near
domestic happiness as was possible for a single man rather sadly
out of his proper environment.

Grant reached his old home city late at night, and after a quiet
cigar and a stroll through some of the half-forgotten streets he
put up at one of the best hotels. He was deferentially shown to a
room about as large as the whole Landson house; soft lights were
burning under pink shades; his feet fell noiselessly on the thick
carpets. He placed a chair by a window, where he could watch the
myriad lights of the city, and tried to appraise the new sphere in
which he found himself. It would be a very different game from
riding the ranges or roping steers, but it would be a game,
nevertheless; a game in which he would have to stand on his own
resources even more than in those brave days in the foothills. He
relished the notion of the game even while he was indifferent to
the prize. He had no clear idea what he eventually should do with
his wealth; that was something to think about very carefully in the
days and years to come. In the meantime his job was to handle a
big business in the way it should be handled. He must first prove
his ability to make money before he showed the world how little he
valued it.

He turned the water into his bath; there was a smell about the
towels, the linen, the soap, that was very grateful to his
nostrils. . . .

In the morning he passed by the office of Grant & Son. He did not
turn in, but pursued his way to a door where a great brass plate
announced the law firm of Barrett, Jones, Barrett, Deacon &
Barrett. He smiled at this elaboration of names; it represented
three generations of the Barrett family and two sons-in-law. Grant
found himself speculating over a name for the Landson ranch; it
might have been Landson, Grant, Landson, Murphy, Skinny & Pete. . . .

He entered and inquired for Mr. Barrett, senior.

"Mr. David Barrett, senior, sir; he's out of the city, sir; he has
not yet come in from his summer home in the mountains."

"Then the next Mr. Barrett?"

"Mr. David Barrett, junior, sir; he also is out of the city."

"Have you any more Barretts?"

"There's young Mr. Barrett, but he seldom comes down in the
forenoon, sir."

Grant suppressed a grin. "The Barretts are a somewhat leisurely
family, I take it," he remarked.

"They have been very successful," said the clerk, with a touch of

"Apparently; but who does the work?"

"Mr. Jones is in his office. Would you care to send in your card?"

"No, I think I'll just take it in." He pressed through a counter-
gate and opened a door upon which was emblazoned the name of Mr.

Mr. Jones proved to be a man with thin, iron-grey hair and a
stubby, pugnacious moustache. He sat at a desk at the end of a
long, narrow room, down both sides of which were rows of cases
filled with impressive-looking books. He did not raise his eyes
when Grant entered, but continued poring over a file of

"What an existence!" Grant commented to himself. "And yet I
suppose this man thinks he's alive."

Grant remained standing for a moment, but as the lawyer showed no
disposition to divide his attention he presently advanced to the
desk. Mr. Jones looked up.

"You are Mr. Jones, I believe?"

"I am, but you have the better of me--"

"Only for the moment. You are a lawyer. You will take care of
that. I understand the firm of Barrett, Jones, Barrett, Deacon &
Barrett have somewhat leisurely methods?"

"Is the firm on trial?" inquired Mr. Jones, sharply.

"In a sense, yes. I also understand that although all the
Barretts, and also Mr. Deacon, share in the name plate, Mr. Jones
does the work?"

The lawyer laid down his papers. "Who the dickens are you, anyway,
and what do you want?"

"That's better. With undivided attention we shall get there much
quicker. I have a certain amount of legal business which requires
attention, and in connection with which I am willing to pay what
the service is worth. But I'm not going to pay two generations of
Barretts which are out of the city, and a third which doesn't come
down in the forenoon. If I have to buy name plates, I'll buy name
plates of my own, and that is what I've decided to do. Do you mind
saying how much this job here is worth?"

"Of course I do, sir. I don't understand you at all--"

"Then I'll make myself understood. I am Dennison Grant. By force
of circumstances I find myself--"

The lawyer had risen from his chair. "Oh, Mr. Dennison Grant! I'm
so glad--"

Grant ignored the outstretched hand. "I'm exactly the same man who
came into your office five minutes ago, and you were too busy to
raise your eyes from your papers. It is not me to whom you are now
offering courtesy; it's to my money."

"I am sure I beg your pardon. I didn't know--"

"Then you will know in future. If you've got a hand on you, stick
it out, whether your visitor has any money or not."

Grant was glaring at the lawyer across the desk, and the
pugnacious-looking moustache was beginning to bristle back.

"Did you come in here to read me a lecture, or to get legal
advice?" the lawyer returned with some spirit.

"I came in here on business. In the course of that business I find
it necessary to tell you where you get off at, and to ask you what
you're going to do about it."

The lawyer came around from behind his desk. "And I'll show you,"
he said, very curtly. "You've been drinking, or you're out of your
head. In either case I'm going to put you out of this room until
you are in a different frame of mind."

"Hop to it!" said Grant, bracing himself. Jones was an oldish man,
and he had no intention of hurting him. In a moment they clenched,
and before Grant could realize what was happening he was on his

He arose quickly, laughing, and sat down in a chair. "Mr. Jones,
will you sit down? I want to talk to you."

"If you will talk business. You were rude to me."

"Perhaps. For my rudeness I apologize. But I was not untruthful.
And I wanted to find something out. I found it."


"Whether you had any sand in you. You have, and considerable
muscle, or knack, as well. I'm not saying you could do it again--"

"Well, what is this all about?"

"Simply this. If I am to manage the business of Grant & Son I
shall need legal advice of the highest order, and I want it from a
man with red blood in him--I should be afraid of any other advice.
What is your price? You understand, you leave this firm and think
of nothing, professionally, but what I pay you for."

Mr. Jones had seated himself, and the pugnacious moustache was
settling back into a less hostile attitude.

"You are quite serious?"

"Quite. You see, I know nothing about business. It is true I
spent some time in my father's office, but I never had much heart
for it. I went west to get away from it. Fate has forced it back
upon my hands. Well--I'm not a piker, and I mean to show Fate that
I can handle the job. To do so I must have the advice of a man who
knows the game. I want a man who can look over a bond issue, or
whatever it is, and tell me at a glance whether it's spavined or
wind-broken. I want a man who can sense out the legal badger-
holes, and who won't let me gallop over a cutbank. I want a man
who has not only brains to back up his muscle, but who also has
muscle to back up his brains. To be quite frank, I didn't think
you were the man. I had no doubt you had the legal ability, or you
wouldn't be guiding the affairs of this five-cylinder firm, but I
was afraid you didn't have the fight in you. I picked a quarrel
with you to find out, and you showed me, for which I am much
obliged. By the way, how do you do it?"

Before answering Mr. Jones got up, walked around behind his desk,
unlocked a drawer and produced a box of cigars.

"That's a mistake you Westerners make," he remarked, when they had
lighted up. "You think the muscle is all out there, just as some
Easterners will admit that the brains are all down here. Both are
wrong. Life at a desk calls for an antidote, and two nights a week
keep me in form. I wrestled a bit when I was a boy, but I haven't
had a chance to try out my skill in a long while. I rather
welcomed the opportunity."

"I noticed that. Well--what's she worth?"

Mr. Jones ruminated. "I wouldn't care to break with the firm," he
said at length. "There are family ties as well as those of
business. A year's leave of absence might be arranged. By that
time you would be safe in your saddle. By the way, do you propose
to hire all your staff by the same test?"

Grant smiled. "I don't expect to hire any more staff. I presume
there is already a complete organization, doubtless making money
for me at this very moment. I will not interfere except when
necessary, but I want a man like you to tell me when it is

Terms were agreed upon, and Mr. Jones asked only the remainder of
the week to clean up important matters on hand. Telegrams were
despatched to Mr. David Barrett, senior, and Mr. David Barrett,
junior, and Jones in some way managed to convey the delicate
information to young Mr. Barrett that a morning appearance on his
part would henceforth be essential. Grant decided to fill in the
interval with a little fishing expedition. He was determined that
he would not so much as call at the office of Grant & Son until
Jones could accompany him. "A tenderfoot like me would stampede
that bunch in no time," he warned himself.

When he finally did appear at the office he was received with a
deference amounting almost to obeisance. Murdoch, the chief clerk,
and manager of the business in all but title, who had known him in
the old days when he had been "Mr. Denny," bore him into the
private office which had for so many years been the sacred recess
of the senior Grant. Only big men or trusted employees were in the
habit of passing those silent green doors.

"Well Murdy, old boy, how goes it?" Grant had said when they met,
taking his hand in a husky grip.

"Not so bad, sir; not so bad, considering the shock of the
accident, sir. And we are all so glad to see you--we who knew you
before, sir."

"Listen, Murdy," said Grant. "What's the idea of all the sirs?"

"Why," said the somewhat abashed official, "you know you are now
the head of the firm, sir."

"Quite so. Because a chauffeur neglected to look over his shoulder
I am converted from a cow puncher to a sir. Well, go easy on it.
If a man has native dignity in him he doesn't need it piled on from

"Very true, sir. I hope you will be comfortable here. Some
memorable matters have been transacted within these walls, sir.
Let me take your hat and cane."

"Cane? What cane?"

"Your stick, sir; didn't you have a stick?"

"What for? Have you rattlers here? Oh, I see--more dignity. No,
I don't carry a stick. Perhaps when I'm old--"

"You'll have to try and accommodate yourself to our manners," said
Jones, when Murdoch had left the room. "They may seem unnecessary,
or even absurd, but they are sanctioned by custom, and, you know,
civilization is built on custom. The poet speaks of a freedom
which 'slowly broadens down from precedent to precedent.'
Precedent is custom. Never defy custom, or you will find her your
master. Humor her, and she will be your slave. Now I think I
shall leave, while you try and tune yourself to the atmosphere of
these surroundings. I need hardly warn you that the furniture is--
quite valuable."

Grant saw him out with a friendly grip on his arm. "You will need
another course of wrestling lessons presently," he warned him.

So this was the room which had been the inner shrine of the firm of
Grant & Son. The quarters were new since he had left the East; the
furnishings revealed that large simplicity which is elegance and
wealth. A painting of the elder Grant hung from the wall; Dennison
stood before it, looking into the sad, capable, grey eyes. What
had life brought to his father that was worth the price those eyes
reflected? Dennison found his own eyes moistening with memories
now strangely poignant. . . .

"Environment," the young man murmured, as he turned from the
portrait, "environment, master of everything! And yet--"

A photograph of Roy stood on the mantelpiece, and beside it, in a
little silver frame, was one of his mother. . . . Grant pulled
himself together and fell to an examination of the papers in his
father's desk.


Grant's first concern was to get a grasp of the business affairs
which had so unexpectedly come under his direction. To accomplish
this he continued the practice of the Landson ranch; he was up
every morning at five, and had done a day's work before the members
of his staff began to assemble. For advice he turned to Jones and
Murdoch, and the management of routine affairs he left entirely in
the hands of the latter. He had soon convinced himself that the
camaraderie of the ranch would not work in a staff of this kind, so
while he was formulating plans of his own he left the administration
to Murdoch. He found this absence of companionship the most
unpleasant feature of his position; it seemed that his wealth had
elevated him out of the human family. He wavered between amusement
and annoyance over the deference that was paid him. Some of the
staff were openly terrified at his approach.

Not so Miss Bruce. Miss Bruce had tapped on the door and entered
with the words, "I was your father's stenographer. He left
practically all his personal correspondence to me. I worked at
this desk in the corner, and had a private office through the door
there into which I slipped when my absence was preferred."

She had crossed the room, and, instead of standing respectfully
before Grant's desk, had come around the end of it. Grant looked
up with some surprise, and noted that her features were not without
commending qualities. The mouth, a little large, perhaps--

"How do you think you're going to like your job?" she asked.

Grant swung around quickly in his chair. No one in the staff had
spoken to him like that; Murdoch himself would not have dared
address him in so familiar a manner. He decided to take a firm

"Were you in the habit of speaking to my father like that?"

"Your father was a man well on in years, Mr. Grant. Every man
according to his age."

"I am the head of the firm."

"That is so," she assented. "But if it were not for me and the
others on your pay roll there would be no firm to require a head,
and you'd be out of a job. You see, we are quite as essential to
you as you are to us."

Grant looked at her keenly. Whatever her words, he had to admit
that her tone was not impertinent. She had a manner of stating a
fact, rather than engaging in an argument. There was nothing
hostile about her. She had voiced these sentiments in as matter-
of-fact a way as if she were saying, "It's raining out; you had
better take your umbrella."

"You appear to be a very advanced young woman," he remarked. "I am
a little surprised--I had hardly thought my father would select
young women of your type as his confidential secretaries."

"Private stenographer," she corrected. "A little extra side on a
title is neither here nor there. Well, I will admit that I rather
took your father's breath at times; he discharged me so often it
became a habit, but we grew to have a sort of tacit understanding
that that was just his way of blowing off steam. You see, I did
his work, and I did it right. I never lost my head when he got
into a temper; I could always read my notes even after he had spent
most of the day in death grips with some business rival. You see,
I wasn't afraid of him, not the least bit. And I'm not afraid of

"I don't believe you are," Grant admitted. "You are a remarkable
woman. I think we shall get along all right if you are able to
distinguish between independence and bravado." He turned to his
desk, then suddenly looked up again. He was homesick for someone
he could talk to frankly.

"I don't mind telling you," he said abruptly, "that the deference
which is being showered upon me around this institution gives me a
good deal of a pain. I've been accustomed to working with men on
the same level. They took their orders from me, and they carried
them out, but the older hands called me by my first name, and any
of them swore back when he thought he had occasion. I can't fit
in to this 'Yes sir,' 'No sir,' 'Very good, sir,' way of doing
business. It doesn't ring true."

"I know what you mean," she said. "There's too much servility in
it. And yet one may pay these courtesies and not be servile. I
always 'sir'd' your father, and he knew I did it because I wanted
to, not because I had to. And I shall do the same with you once we
understand each other. The position I want to make clear is this:
I don't admit that because I work for you I belong to a lower order
of the human family than you do, and I don't admit that, aside from
the giving of faithful service, I am under any obligation to you.
I give you my labor, worth so much; you pay me; we're square. If
we can accept that as an understanding I'm ready to begin work now;
if not, I'm going out to look for another job."

"I think we can accept that as a working basis," he agreed.

She produced notebook and pencil. "Very well, SIR. Do you wish to

The selection of a place to call home was a matter demanding
Grant's early attention. He discussed it with Mr. Jones.

"Of course you will take memberships in some of the better clubs,"
the lawyer had suggested. "It's the best home life there is. That
is why it is not to be recommended to married men; it has a
tendency to break up the domestic circle."

"But it will cost more than I can afford."

"Nonsense! You could buy out one of their clubs, holus-bolus, if
you wanted to."

"You don't quite get me," said Grant. "If I used the money which
was left by my father, or the income from the business, no doubt I
could do as you say. But I feel that that money isn't really mine.
You see, I never earned it, and I don't see how a person can,
morally, spend money that he did not earn."

"Then there are a great many immoral people in the world," the
lawyer observed, dryly.

"I am disposed to agree with you," said Grant, somewhat pointedly.
"But I don't intend that they shall set my standards."

"You have your salary. That comes under the head of earnings, if
you are finnicky about the profits. What do you propose to pay

"I have been thinking about that. On the ranch I got a hundred
dollars a month, and board."

"Well, your father got twenty thousand a year, and Roy half that,
and if they wanted more they charged it up as expenses."

"Considering the cost of board here, I think I would be justified
in taking two hundred dollars a month," Grant continued.

Jones got up and took the young man by the shoulders. "Look here,
Grant, you're not taking yourself seriously. I don't want to
assail your pet theories--you'll grow out of them in time--but you
hired me to give you advice, and right here I advise you not to
make a fool of yourself. You are now in a big position; you're a
big man, and you've got to live in a big way. If for nothing else
than to hold the confidence of the public you must do it. Do you
think they're going to intrust their investments to a firm headed
by a two-hundred-dollar-a-month man?"

"But I AM a two-hundred-dollar-a-month man. In fact, I'm not sure
I'm worth quite that much. I've got no more muscle, and no more
sense, and very little more experience than I had a month ago, when
in the open market my services commanded a hundred and board."

"When a man is big enough--or his job is big enough--" Jones
argued, "he arises above the ordinary law of supply and demand. In
fact, in a sense, he controls supply and demand. He puts himself
in the job and dictates the salary. You have a perfect right to
pay yourself what other men in similar positions are getting.
Besides, as I said, you'll have to do so for the credit of the
firm. Do you call a doctor who lives in a tumble-down tenement?
You do not. You call one from a fine home; you select him for his
appearance of prosperity, regardless of the fact that he may have
mortgaged his future to create that appearance, and of the further
fact that he will charge you a fee calculated to help pay off the
mortgage. When you want a lawyer, do you seek some garret
practitioner? You do not. You go to a big building, with a big
name plate"--the pugnacious moustache gave hint of a smile
gathering beneath--"and you pay a big price for a man with an
office full of imposing-looking books, not a tenth part of which he
has ever read, or intends ever to read. I admit there's a good
deal of bunco in the game, but if you sit in you've got to play it
that way, or the dear public will throw you into the discard. Many
a man who votes himself a salary in five figures--or gets a
friendly board of directors to do it for him--if thrown unfriended
between the millstones of supply and demand probably couldn't
qualify for your modest hundred dollars a month and board. But he
has risen into a different world; instead of being dictated to, he
dictates. That is your position, Grant. Look at it sensibly."

"Nevertheless, I shall get along on two hundred a month. If I find
it necessary in order to protect the interests of the business to
take a membership in an expensive club, or commit any other
extravagance, I shall do so, and charge it up as a business
expense. Besides, I think I can be happier that way."

"And in the meantime your business is piling up profits. What are
you going to do with them? Give them away?"

"No. That, too, is immoral--whether it be a quarter to a beggar or
a library to a city. It feeds the desire to get money without
earning it, which is the most immoral of all our desires. I have
not yet decided what I shall do with it. I have hired an expert,
in you, to show me how to make money. I shall probably find it
necessary to hire another to show me how to dispose of it. But not
a dollar will be given away."

"And so you would let the beggar starve? That's a new kind of

"No. I would correct the conditions that made him a beggar.
That's the only kind of altruism that will make him something
better than a beggar."

"Some people would beg in any case, Grant. They are incapable of
anything better."

"Then they are defectives, and should be cared for by the State."

"Then the State may practise charity--"

"It is not charity; it is the discharge of an obligation. A father
may support his children, but he must not let anyone else do it."

"Well, I give up," said Jones. "You're beyond me."

Grant laughed and extended a cigar box. "Don't hesitate," he said,
"this doesn't come out of the two hundred. This is entertainment
expense. And you must come and see me when I get settled."

"When you get settled--yes. You won't be settled until you're
married, and you might as well do some thinking about that. A man
in your position gets a pretty good range of choice; you'd be
surprised if you knew the wire-pulling I have already encountered;
ambitious old dames fishing for introductions for their daughters.
You may be an expert with rope or branding-iron, but you're
outclassed in this matrimonial game, and some one of them will land
you one of these times before you know it. You should be very
proud," and Mr. Jones struck something of an attitude. "The youth
and beauty of the city are raving about you."

"About my money," Grant retorted. "If my father had had time to
change his will they would every one of them have passed me by with
their noses in the air. As for marrying--that's all off."

The lawyer was about to aim a humorous sally, but something in
Grant's appearance closed his lips. "Very well, I'll come and see
you if you say when," he agreed.

Grant found what he wanted in a little apartment house on a side
street, overlooking the lake. Here was a place where the vision
could leap out without being beaten back by barricades of stone and
brick. He rested his eyes on the distance, and assured the
inveigling landlady that the rooms would do, and he would arrange
for decorating at his own expense. There was a living-room, about
the size of his shack on the Landson ranch; a bathroom, and a
kitchenette, and the rent was twenty-two dollars a month. A
decorator was called in to repaper the bathroom and kitchenette, but
for the living-room Grant engaged a carpenter. He ordered that the
inside of the room should be boarded up with rough boards, with
exposed scantlings on the walls and ceiling. No doubt the tradesman
thought his patron mad, or nearly so, but his business was to obey
orders, and when the job was completed it presented a very passable
duplicate of Grant's old quarters on the ranch. He had spared the
fireplace, as a concession to comfort. When he had gotten his
personal effects out of storage, when he had hung rifle, saddle and
lariat from spikes in the wall; had built a little book-shelf and
set his old favorites upon it; had installed his bed and the trunk
with the big D. G.; sitting in his arm chair before the fire, with
Fidget's nose snuggled companionably against his foot, he would not
have traded his quarters for the finest suite in the most expensive
club in the city. Here was something at least akin to home.

As he was arranging the books on his shelf the clipping with the
account of Zen's wedding fell to the floor. He sat down in his
chair and read it slowly through. Later he went out for a walk.

It was in his long walks that Grant found the only real comfort of
his new life. To be sure, it was not like roaming the foothills;
there was not the soft breath of the Chinook, nor the deep silence
of the mighty valleys. But there was movement and freedom and a
chance to think. The city offered artificial attractions in which
the foothills had not competed; faultlessly kept parks and lawns;
splashes of perfume and color; spraying fountains and vagrant
strains of music. He reflected that some merciful principle of
compensation has made no place quite perfect and no place entirely
undesirable. He remembered also the toll of his life in the
saddle; the physical hardship, the strain of long hours and broken
weather. And here, too, in a different way, he was in the saddle,
and he did not know which strain was the greater. He was beginning
to have a higher regard for the men in the saddle of business. The
world saw only their success, or, it may be, their pretence of
success. But there was a different story from all that, which each
one of them could have told for himself.

On this evening when his mind had been suddenly turned into old
channels by the finding of the newspaper clipping dealing with the
wedding of Y.D.'s daughter, Grant walked far into the outskirts of
the city, paying little attention to his course. It was late
October; the leaves lay thick on the sidewalks and through the
parks; there was in all the air that strange, sad, sweet dreariness
of the dying summer. . . . Grant had tried heroically to keep his
thoughts away from Transley's wife. The past had come back on him,
had rather engulfed him, in that little newspaper clipping. He let
himself wonder where she was, and whether nearly a year of married
life had shown her the folly of her decision. He took it for
granted that her decision had been folly, and he arrived at that
position without any reflection upon Transley. Only--Zen had been
in love with him, with him, Dennison Grant! Sooner or later she
must discover the tragedy of that fact, and yet he told himself he
was big enough to hope she might never discover it. It would be
best that she should forget him, as he had--almost--forgotten her.
There was no doubt that would be best. And yet there was a
delightful sadness in thinking of her still, and hoping that some
day-- He was never able to complete the thought.

He had been walking down a street of modest homes; the bare trees
groped into a sky clear and blue with the first chill presage of
winter. A quick step fell unheeded by his side; the girl passed,
hesitated, then turned and spoke.

"You are preoccupied, Mr. Grant."

"Oh, Miss Bruce, I beg your pardon. I am glad to see you." Even
at that moment he had been thinking of Zen, and perhaps he put more
cordiality into his words than he intended. But he had grown to
have considerable regard, on her own account, for this unusual girl
who was not afraid of him. He had found that she was what he
called "a good head." She could take a detached view; she was
absolutely fair; she was not easily flustered.

Her step had fallen into swing with his.

"You do not often visit our part of the city," she essayed.

"You live here?"

"Near by. Will you come and see?"

He turned with her at a corner, and they went up a narrow street
lying deep in dead leaves. Friendly domestic glimpses could be
caught through unblinded windows.

"This is our home," she said, stopping before a little gate.
Grant's eye followed the pathway to a cottage set back among the
trees. "I live here with my sister and brother and mother. Father
is dead," she went on hurriedly, as though wishing to place before
him a quick digest of the family affairs, "and we keep up the home
by living on with mother as boarders; that is, Grace and I do.
Hubert is still in high school. Won't you come in?"

He followed her up the path and into a little hall, lighted only by
chance rays falling through a half-opened door. She did not switch
on the current, and Grant was aware of a comfortable sense of her
nearness, quite distinct from any office experience, as she took
his hat. In the living-room her mother received him with visible
surprise. She was not old, but widowhood and the cares of a young
family had whitened her hair before its time.

"We are glad to see you, Mr. Grant," she said. "It is an
unexpected pleasure. Big business men do not often--"

"Mr. Grant is different," her daughter interrupted, lightly. "I
found him wandering the streets and I just--retrieved him."

"I think I AM different," he admitted, as his eye took in the
surroundings, which he appraised quickly as modest comfort,
attained through many little economies and makeshifts. "You are
very happy here," he went on, frankly. "Much more so, I should
say, than in many of the more pretentious homes. I have always
contended that, beyond the margin necessary for decent living, the
possession of money is a burden and a handicap, and I see no reason
to change my opinion."

"Phyllis is a great help to me--and Grace," the mother observed.
"I hope she is a good girl in the office."

Grant was hurrying an assent but the girl interrupted, perhaps
wishing to relieve him of the necessity of an answer.

"'Decent living' is a very elastic term," she remarked. "There are
so many standards. Some women think they must have maids and
social status--whatever that is--and so on. It can't be done on
mother's income."

"That quality is not confined to women," Grant said. "I know I am
regarded as something of a freak because I prefer to live simply.
They can't understand my preference for a plain room to read and
sleep in, for quiet walks by myself when I might be buzzing around
in big motor cars or revelling with a bunch at the club. I suppose
it's a puzzle to them."

Miss Bruce had seated herself near him. "They are beginning to
offer explanations," she said. "I hear them--such things always
filter down. They say you are mean and niggardly--that you're
afraid to spend a dollar. The fact that you have raised the wages
of your staff doesn't seem to answer them; they rather hold that
against you, because it has a tendency to make them do the same.
Other office staffs are going to their heads and saying, 'Grant is
paying his help so much.' That doesn't popularize you. To be a
good fellow you should hold your staff down to the lowest wages at
which you can get service, and the money you save in this way
should be spent with gusto and abandon at expensive hotels and
other places designed to keep rich people from getting too rich."

"I am afraid you are satirizing them a little, but there is a good
deal in what you say. They think I'm mean because they don't
understand me, and they can't understand my point of view. I
believe that money was created as a medium for the exchange of
value. I think they will all agree with me there. If that is so,
then I have no right to money unless I have given value for it, and
that is where they part company with me; but surely we can't accept
the one fact without the other."

Grant found himself thumbing his pockets. "You may smoke, if you
have tobacco," said Mrs. Bruce. "My husband smoked, and although I
did not approve of it then, I think I must have grown to like it."

He lighted a cigarette, and continued. "Not all the moral law was
given on Mount Sinai. It seems to me that the supernaturalism
which has been introduced into the story of the Ten Commandments is
most unfortunate. It seems to remove them out of the field of
natural law, whereas they are, really, natural law itself. No
social state can exist where they are habitually ignored. But of
course these natural laws existed long before Moses. He did not
make the law; he discovered it, just as Newton discovered the law
of gravitation. Well--there must be many other natural laws, still
undiscovered, or at least unaccepted. The thing is to discover
them, to obey them, and, eventually, to compel others to obey them.
I am no Moses, but I think I have the germ of the law which would
cure our economic ills--that no person should be allowed to receive
value without earning it. Because I believed in that I gave up a
fortune and went to work as a laborer on a ranch, but Fate has
forced wealth upon me, doubtless in order that I may prove out my
own theories. Well, that is what I am doing."

"It shouldn't be hard to get rid of money if you don't want it,"
Mrs. Bruce ventured.

"But it is. It is the hardest kind of thing. You see, I am
limited by my principles. I believe it is morally wrong to receive
money without earning it; consequently I cannot give it away, as by
doing so I would place the recipient in that position. I believe
it is morally wrong to spend on myself money which I have not
earned; consequently I can spend only what I conceive to be a
reasonable return for my services. Meanwhile, my wealth keeps
rolling up."

"It's a knotty problem," said Phyllis. "I think there is only one

"And that is?--"

"Marry a woman who is a good spender."

At this moment Grace and Hubert came in from the picture-show
together, and the conversation turned to lighter topics. Mrs.
Bruce insisted on serving tea and cake, and when Grant found that
he must go Phyllis accompanied him to the gate.

"This all seems so funny," she was saying. "You are a very
remarkable man."

"I think I once passed a similar opinion about you."

She extended her hand, and he held it for a moment. "I have not
changed my first opinion," he said, as he released her fingers and
turned quickly down the pavement.


Grant's first visit to the home of his private stenographer was not
his last, and the news leaked out, as it is sure to do in such
cases. The social set confessed to being on the point of being
shocked. Two schools of criticism developed over the five o'clock
tea tables; one held that Grant was a gay dog who would settle down
and marry in his class when he had had his fling, and the other
that Phyllis Bruce was an artful hussy who was quite ready to sell
herself for the Grant millions. And there were so many eligible
young women on the market, although none of them were described as
artful hussies!

Grant's behavior, however, placed him under no cloud in so far as
social opportunities were concerned; on the contrary, he found
himself being showered with invitations, most of which he managed
to decline on the grounds of pressure of business. When such an
excuse would have been too transparent he accepted and made the
best of it, and he found no lack of encouragement in the one or two
incipient amorous flurries which resulted. From such positions he
always succeeded in extricating himself, with a quiet smile at the
vagaries of life. He had to admit that some of the young women
whom he had met had charms of more than passing moment; he might
easily enough find himself chasing the rainbow. . . .

Mrs. LeCord carried the warfare into his own office. The late Mr.
LeCord had left her to face the world with a comfortable fortune
and three daughters, of whom the youngest was now married and the
oldest was a forlorn hope. To place the second was now her
purpose, and the best bargain on the market was young Grant.
Caroline, she was sure, would make a very acceptable wife, and the
young lady herself confessed a belief that she could love even a
bold Westerner whose bank balance was expressed in seven figures.

The fact that Grant avoided social functions only added zest to the
determination with which Mrs. LeCord carried the war into his own
office. She chose to consult him for advice on financial matters
and she came accompanied by Caroline, a young woman rather
prepossessing in her own right. The two were readily admitted into
Grant's private office, where they had opportunity not only to meet
the young man in person, but to satisfy their curiosity concerning
the Bruce girl.

"I am Mrs. LeCord, Mr. Grant," the lady introduced herself. "This
is my daughter Caroline. We wish to consult you on certain
financial matters, privately, if you please."

Grant received them cordially. "I shall be glad to advise you, if
I can," he said.

Mrs. LeCord cast a significant glance at Phyllis Bruce.

"Miss Bruce is my private stenographer. You may speak with perfect

Mrs. LeCord took up her subject after a moment's silence. "Mr.
LeCord left me not entirely unprovided for," she explained.
"Almost a million dollars in bonds and real estate made a
comfortable protection for me and my three daughters against the
buffetings of a world which, as you may have found, Mr. Grant, is
not over-considerate."

"The buffetings of the world are an excellent training for the
world's affairs."

"Maybe so, maybe so," his visitor conceded. "However, there are
other trainings--trainings of finer quality, Mr. Grant--than those
which have to do with subsistence. I have been able to give my
daughters the best education that money could command, and, if I do
say it, I permit myself some gratification over the result. Gretta
is comfortably and happily married,--a young man of some distinction
in the financial world--a Mr. Powers, Mr. Newton Powers--you may
happen to know him; Madge, I think, is always going to be her
mother's girl; Caroline is still heart-free, although one can never

"Oh, mother!" the girl protested, blushing daintily.

"I said you could never tell, Mr. Grant,--while handsome young men
like yourself are at large. Mrs. LeCord laughed heartily, as much
as to say that her remark must be regarded only as a little
pleasantry. "But you will think I am a gossipy old body," she
continued briskly. "I really came to discuss certain financial
matters. Since Mr. LeCord's death I have taken charge of all the
family business affairs with, if I may confess it, some success.
We have lived, and my girls have been educated, and our little
reserve against a rainy day has been almost doubled, in addition to
giving Gretta a hundred thousand in her own right on the occasion
of her marriage. Caroline is to have the same, and when I am done
with it there will be a third of the estate for each. In the
meantime I am directing my investments as wisely as I can. I want
my daughters to be provided for, quite apart from any income
marriage may bring them. I should be greatly humiliated to think
that any daughter of mine would be dependent upon her husband for
support. On the contrary, I mean that they shall bring to their
husbands a sum which will be an appreciable contribution toward the
family fortune."

"If I can help you in any way in your financial matters--" Grant

"Oh, yes, we must get back to that. How I wander! I'm afraid, Mr.
Grant, I must be growing old."

Grant protested gallantly against such conclusion, and Mrs. LeCord,
after asking his opinion on certain issues shortly to be floated,
arose to leave.

"You must find life in this city somewhat lonely, Mr. Grant," she
murmured as she drew on her gloves. "If ever you find a longing
for a quiet hour away from business stress--a little domesticity,
if I may say it--our house--"

"You are very kind. Business allows me very few intermissions.

She extended her hand with her sweetest smile. Caroline shook
hands, too, and Grant bowed them out.

On other occasions Mrs. LeCord and her daughter were fortunate
enough to find Grant alone, and at such times the mother's
conversation became even more pointed than in their first
interview. Grant hesitated to offend her, mainly on account of
Caroline, for whom he admitted to himself it would not be at all
difficult to muster up an attachment. There were, however, three
barriers to such a development. One was the obvious purpose of
Mrs. LeCord to arrange a match; a purpose which, as a mere matter
of the game, he could not allow her to accomplish. One was Zen
Transley. There was no doubt about it. Zen Transley stood between
him and marriage to any girl. Not that he ever expected to take
her into his life, or be admitted into hers, but in some way she
hedged him about. He felt that everything was not yet settled; he
found himself entertaining a foolish sense that everything was not
quite irrevocable. . . . And then there was--perhaps--Phyllis

When at length, for some reason, Mrs. LeCord visited him alone he
decided to be frank with her.

"You have thought me clever enough to advise you on financial
matters?" he queried, when his visitor had discussed at some length
the new loan in which she was investing.

"Why, yes," she returned, detecting the personal note in his voice.
"I sometimes think, Mr. Grant, you hardly do yourself justice.
Even the hardest old heads on the Exchange are taking notice of
you. I have heard your name mentioned--"

"Then it may be presumed," he interrupted, "that I am clever enough
to know the real purpose of your visits to this office?"

She turned a little in her chair, facing him squarely. "I hardly
understand you, Mr. Grant."

"Then I possess an advantage, because I quite clearly understand
you. I have hesitated, out of consideration for your daughter, to
show any resentment of your behavior. But I must now tell you that
when I marry, if ever I do, I shall choose my wife without the
assistance of her mother, and without regard to her dowry or the
size of the family bank account."

"Oh, I protest!" exclaimed Mrs. LeCord, who had grown very red. "I
protest against any such conclusion. I have seen fit to intrust my
financial affairs to your firm; I have visited you on business--
accompanied at times by my daughter, it is true--but only on
business; recognizing in you a social equal I have invited you to
my house, a courtesy which, so far, you have not found yourself
able to accept; but in all this I have shown toward you surely
nothing but friendliness and a respect amounting, if I may say it,
to esteem. But now that you are frank, Mr. Grant, I too will be
frank. You cannot be unaware of the rumors which have been
associated with your name?"

"You mean about Miss Bruce?"

"Ah, then you know of them. You are a young man, and we older
people are disposed to make allowance for the--for that. But you
must realize the great mistake you would be making should you allow
this matter to become more than--a rumor."

"I do not admit your right to question me on such a subject, Mrs.
LeCord, but I shall not avoid a discussion of it. Suppose, for the
sake of argument, that I were to contemplate marriage with Miss
Bruce; if she and her relatives were agreeable, what right would
anyone have to object?"

"It would be a great mistake," Mrs. LeCord insisted, avoiding his
question. "She is not in your class--"

"What do you mean by 'class'?"

"Why, I mean socially, of course. She lives in a different world.
She has no standing, in a social way. She works in an office for a

"So do I," he interrupted, "and your daughters do not. It would
therefore appear that I am more in Miss Bruce's 'class' than in

"Ah, but you are an employer. You direct things. You work because
you want to, not because you have to. That makes a difference."

"Apparently it does. Well, if I had my way, everybody would work,
whether he wanted to or not. I would not allow any healthy man to
spend money which he had not earned by the sweat of his own brow.
I am convinced that that is the only economic system which is sound
at the bottom, but it would destroy 'class,' as at present
organized, so 'class' must fight it."

"I am afraid you are rather radical, Mr. Grant. You may be sure
that a system which has served so long and so well is a good

"That introduces the clash between East and West. The East says
because things are so, and have always been so, they must be right.
The West says because things are so, and have always been so, they
are in all probability wrong. I guess I am a Westerner."

"You should not allow your theories of economics to stand in the
way of your success," Mrs. LeCord pursued. "Suppose I admit that
Caroline would not be altogether deaf to your advances. Suppose I
admit that much. Allowing for a mother's prejudice, will you not
agree with me that Caroline has her attractions? She is well bred,
well educated, and not without appearance. She belongs to the
smartest set in town. Her circle would bring you not only social
distinction, but valuable business connections. She would
introduce that touch of refinement--"

But Grant, now thoroughly angry, had risen from his chair. "You
speak of refinement," he exclaimed, in the quick, sharp tones which
alone revealed the fighting Grant;--"you, who have been guilty of--
I could use a very ugly word which I will give you the credit of
not understanding. When I decide to buy myself a wife I will send
to you for a catalogue of your daughter's charms."

Grant dismissed Mrs. LeCord from his office with the confident
expectation that he soon would have occasion to know something of
the meaning of the proverb about hell's furies and a woman scorned.
She would strike at him, of course, through Phyllis Bruce. Well--

But his attention was at once to be turned to very different
matters. A stock market, erratic for some days, went suddenly into
a paroxysm. Grant escaped with as little loss as possible for
himself and his clients, and after three sleepless nights called
his staff together. They crowded into the board-room, curious,
apprehensive, almost frightened, and he looked over them with an
emotion that was quite new to his experience. Even in the
aloofness which their standards had made it necessary for him to
adopt there had grown up in his heart, quite unnoticed, a tender,
sweet foliage of love for these men and women who were a part of
his machine. Now, as he looked in their faces he realized how,
like little children, they leaned on him--how, like little
children, they feared his power and his displeasure--how, perhaps,
like little children, they had learned to love him, too. He
realized, as he had never done before, that they WERE children;
that here and there in the mass of humanity is one who was born to
lead, but the great mass itself must be children always, doing as
they are bid.

"My friends," he managed to say, "we suddenly find ourselves in
tremendous times. Some of you know my attitude toward this
business in which we are engaged. I did not seek it; I did not
approve of it; I tried to avoid it; yet, when the responsibility
was forced upon me I accepted that responsibility. I gave up the
life I enjoyed, the environment in which I found delight, the
friends I loved. Well--our nation is now in a somewhat similar
position. It has to go into a business which it did not seek, of
which it does not approve, but which fate has thrust upon it. It
has to break off the current of its life and turn it into
undreamed-of channels, and we, as individuals who make up the
nation, must do the same. I have already enlisted, and expect that
within a few hours I shall be in uniform. Some of you are single
men of military age; you will, I am sure, take similar steps. For
the rest--the business will be wound up as soon as possible, so
that you may be released for some form of national service. You
will all receive three months' salary in lieu of notice. Mr.
Murdoch will look after the details. When that has been done my
wealth, or such part of it as remains, will be placed at the
disposal of the Government. If we win it will be well invested in
a good cause; if we lose, it would have been lost anyway."

"We are not going to lose!" It was one of the younger clerks who
interrupted; he stood up and for a moment looked straight at his
chief. In that instant's play of vision there was surely something
more than can be told in words, for the next moment he rushed
forward and seized one of Grant's hands in both his own. There was
a moment's handclasp, and the boy had become a man.

"I'm going, Grant," he said. "I'm going--NOW!"

He turned and made his way out of the room, leaving his chief
breathless in a rapture of joy and pride. Others crowded up. They
too were going--NOW. Even old Murdoch tried to protest that he was
as good a man as ever. It seemed to Grant that the drab everyday
costumings of his staff had fallen away, and now they were heroes,
they were gods!

No one knew just how the meeting broke up, but Grant had a confused
remembrance of many handclasps and some tears. He was not sure
that he had not, perhaps, added one or two to the flow, but they
were all tears of friendship and of an emotion born of high
resolve. . . . The most wonderful thing was that the youngster had
called him Grant!

As he stood in his own office again, trying to get the events of
these last few days into some sort of perspective, Phyllis Bruce
entered. He motioned dumbly to a chair, but she came and stood by
his desk. Her face was very white and her lips trembled with the
words she tried to utter.

"I can't go," she managed to say at length.

"Can't go? I don't understand?"

"Hubert has joined," she said.

"Hubert, the boy! Why, he is only in school--"

"He is sixteen, and large for his age. He came home confessing,
and saying it was his first lie, and the first important thing he
ever did without consulting mother. He said he knew he wouldn't be
able to stand it if he told her first."

"Foolish, but heroic," Grant commented. "Be proud of him. It
takes more than wisdom to be heroic."

"And Grace is going to England. She was taking nursing, you know,
and so gets a preference. We can't ALL leave mother."

He found it difficult to speak. "You wanted to go to the Front?"
he managed.

"Of course; where else?"

Her hand was on the desk; his own slipped over until it closed on

"You are a little heroine," he murmured.

"No, I'm not. I'm a little fool to tell you this, but how can I
stay--why should I stay--when you are gone?"

She was looking down, but after her confession she raised her eyes
to his, and he wondered that he had never known how beautiful she
was. He could have taken her in his arms, but something, with the
power of invisible chains, held him back. In that supreme moment a
vision swam before him; a vision of a mountain stream backed by
tawny foothills, and a girl as beautiful as even this Phyllis who
had wrapped him in her arms . . . and said, "We must go and
forget." And he had not forgotten. . . .

When he did not respond she drew herself slowly away. "You will
hate me," she said.

"That is impossible," he corrected, quickly. "I am very sorry if I
have let you think more than I intended. I care for you very, very
much indeed. I care for you so much that I will not let you think
I care for you more. Can you understand that?"

"Yes. You like me, but you love someone else."

He was disconcerted by her intuition and the terse frankness with
which she stated the case.

"I will take you into my confidence, Phyllis, if I may," he said at
length. "I DO like you; I DID love someone else. And that old
attachment is still so strong that it would be hardly fair--it
would be hardly fair--"

"Why didn't you marry her?" she demanded.

"Because some one else did."


Her hands found his this time. "I'm sorry," she said. "Sorry I
brought this up--sorry I raised these memories. But now you--who
have known--will know--"

"I know--I know," he murmured, raising her fingers to his lips. . . .

"Time, they say, is a healer of all wounds. Perhaps--"

"No. It is better that you should forget. Only, I shall see you
off; I shall wave my handkerchief to YOU; I shall smile on YOU in
the crowd. Then--you will forget." . . .


Four years of war add only four years to the life of a man
according to the record in the family Bible, if he happen to spring
from stock in which that sacred document is preserved. But four
years of war add twenty years to the grey matter behind the eyes--
eyes which learn to dream and ponder strangely, and sometimes to
shine with a hardness that has no part with youth. When Captain
Grant and Sergeant Linder stepped off the train at Grant's old city
there was, however, little to suggest the ageing process that
commonly went on among the soldiers in the Great War. Grant had
twice stopped an enemy bullet, but his fine figure and sunburned

Book of the day: