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PURDY, Sumter. S. C. Bring ur Job Work to The Times offici ByGAREM.SELN ~,Auibo of "ntisSteps,""Robertirdy' Sennfl Copyjrigh1401, by Cha&crles ZM. $he d CHAPTER V. Tftt E sen aQ1Icro t a m i .gg By andL M. MaSHEhDN, a white apron came 1 up and, standing I S- directly in front of them, said, "What 3 '1l you have?" f "Cigars for three," said the officer. C And as the- man slowly moved away I after giving the three visitors a sharp look the officer said In answer to the I question from Mr. Marsh: "Oh, the t show's free. So's the lunch. But ev- c erybody is expected to take something. ( The saloons ain't doing this for their health nor for the love of the people, I not if they know it." t "What If we refuseI to buy " either E cigars or beerH" Gordon asked, for he had never entered one of the vaude. I vile balls but once before and had s then gone in to hunt for one of the young men who had been attending I the night classes at Hope House. His 3 knowledge of the character of the en tertainment was gained from Ford, the university resident. - The officer shrugged his shoulders. "They'd make it mighty uncBforta- C ble for you before you got out or got i in again. The saloon may be a social e necessity to the poor devils in the double deckers, but It don't furnish social amusements withiout getting E mighty well paid for it. It's free, but it's expensive," said Officer Roberts. As he f enished speaking, the bar tender came back with the cigars and a tray loaded with beer and whisky. The liquor was distributed around on little tables at which the boys and men in the audience were mostly seated. As the curtain went up to the music ofS the orchestra there were about 150 in the room and a stream of newcomers noisily entering. Before the first song was finished, the hail was flled to suf focatlon. d As the entertainment, if It could be( called such, went on, John Gordon's soul was stirred deep with a red blooded l indignation. After the first two or 1 three vulgar songs, which were fol-. lowed by some suggestive dances, he< sat there practically hearing and see-' ing nothing on tphe stage. The audi ence had become the absorbing study for him. The people! There they were!i His choice! To serve and to love! But was it worth while? The majority of the company was composed of young men between eight-1 een and twdnty-five years of age. They were as a type pale, listless and as tonishingly dull of expressicn. John Gordon was irresistibly drawn to im agine the exact appearance .of the rooms that these young men probably called home. He then began to raise a1 host of questions concerning their par-1 entage, their occupations, their wages, the amount they probably spent on the saloon and the places they went to on Sunday. The absolute absence of any thing interesting or elevating in their lives impressed him with tremendous reality. All the churches in the city were on the fine streets miles away. There was not a religious institution, with the possible exception of Hope House, tha-t had any influence in the lives of these apathetic, coarsened, dis sipated young men. The vaudeville and the saloon touched their lives, but the church never did. Yet it was the sinner that Jesus came to save. Was the church realizing her responsibility to neglect this awful swarm of youth that bred like disease in the tenement, and cursed God and died in the Im pre atmosphere of these polluted walls? God have mercy on them! Are they more sinned against than sinning? Can a boy or girl grow up pure in tene ments like these we have here in this greed smitten city? And the one social institution that comes forward to min ister to the social instincts is the sa loon! It says to the tired workingman who has no place worthy to be called a home, "Come, enjoy a 'social glass in a handsome, well lighted, cheerful room!" It says to the men whose appe-I tite Is never satisfied with ill prepared food: "Come, enjoy a free lunch! Only of course you will want beer or whisky to wash it down." And without saying. this to the man, only to itself, the sa looni, with devilish foresight, reckons on getting back by means of the free lunch 100 per cent in the actual sale of drinks. Truly Officer Roberts is right when he says, "Its free, but it's expen sie." It says to the young man who has no healthy outlet for physical life be cause he Is borni without playgrounds and without home pleasures: "-Come! In the vaudeville I will' amuse you. The songs and the dances will be sug gestive, and the young women who -furnish the amusement are fallen, but vice is a necessity to civilization, and we stand ready to furnish what the church and other religious organiza tions will never give you!" "Surely," John Gor-don meditated, "the saloon in its day and generation 5is wiser than the eiiildren of light. - The devil must dance In glee over the sight of the tenement and slum dis tricts in the city as he sees his finest agents occupying the tield of sociaLl: panderers to a human necessity, while the solemn, empty stone edifices called, --churches stand stately and still up on, th . -nd boulevards and open their )ays," Etc. ocrs- once or twice-ht week 'to receive roud men and women, clothed in pur de and fine linen, who fare sumptu usly every day, who enjoy their reli ion, but do not enjoy practicing it mong sinners - at least not among iuners like those who are born in ten ments and get their nourishment in aloon and vaudeville. Surely the sa on is giving the churches pointers on ow to reach the masses. Will the hurches take the broad hint and act n it, or will they still allow the sa >on to pre-empt the corner lots and nder the hypocritical guise of cater ig to a social c aving damn with phys cal and moral damnation lives that ave never :nown any other gospel ut the gospel of beer and free lunches s long as they are able to pay for hem?" His meditation was going deeper, nd he was beginning to philosophize ot bitterly, but with genuine sadness, hen he saw Mr. Marsh suddenly rise and clutch his arm hard. "I can't bear any more of this," he aid as Gordon glanced up at him. 'I'm going out. It's too revolting. ve seen all I care to." "And when you've seen one of 'em ou've seen all of 'em," said Officer oberts with a shrug. Gordon looked >ward the stage. A dance that was mply revolting in its indecency was eing performed. A roar of brutal xughter rose from the audience. It -as like a picture taken from some cene of the "Inferno." Gordon's spirit amed up in holy wrath at the sight f it, but he got up and went out with [arsh and the officer. Once outside, even in the tainted, eer poisoned air that floated out of e saloon, all three of the men breathed asier. Officer Roberts looked toward ordon with an air of resignation. "Does your friend wish to continue? may be allowed to say the show is he same one place as another-same ongs, same dances" "No more for me," Mr. Marsh Inter pted quickly. "Gordon, I'm simply Ick of it all. Let us go back to Hope louse. I should like to meet Miss An rews before going home. You thought he would be back after supper?" "Yes, but I want you to see Bowen treet by nignt; just two or three locks, and I'll not ask any more." "Very well." Mr. Marsh reluctantly onsented. He was evidently laboring nder great stress of feeling. His sen itive nature had suffered In ways that rere very unusual. "It won't be necessary for you to go long, Roberts," Gordon said as the ficer stood waiting. "Much obliged, sir," Roberts an wered with a look of relief. "I'm at our service of course. Miss Andrews ae special orders to me to be of any .elp to you that I can." "t will not be necessary, Roberts. uch obliged. We'll simply walk rough the street and not attempt any aside work tonight." "All right, sir." The officer turned ack to Hope House playground, which e had overseen ever since it had be me an important institution, and ~ordon, taking Mdr. Marsh's armn, alked down Bowen street for three locks, then turned and came back on e opposite sidewalk. If the street had been full during the Lay, it was running over at night. Che stoops were literally packed with ~eople. The child of the tenements, vith her little sister in her arms, was here, bending over the armful, sitting in the steps in various degrees of dis ~omfort and unconscious misery, but :heerful, resigned and apparently born her task. The night was breathless, and yet iut on the wide boulevard it was not tifling. Down here, however, not a igle sigh of fresh air came. The ~arbage boxes rotted visibly. On the ~overs of those few boxes that still re aned covers were lying men and boys, rying in the midst of the unnatural, ~eversh noises peculiar to tenement listricts to get a little rest On the tones and mud and offal of the street tself scores of people were lying, some n a few rags thrown down 1g soak up :he liquid filth, others with no covering etween their horrible clothing and the oul street. Twice they had to stop nd pick their way between the figures hat lay in the street, panting for a reath of air, wearily, but with the ndifference of years of accustomed liscomfort, counting the time when the lark sleeping rooms inside should be ome a little less unbearable. During the entire walk neither Gor on nor Marsh said anything but once, vhen Mr. Marsh asked a guestion: "Some of these children seem far etter dressed end cleaner, more at. ractive than others. Are these some )f the Hope House converts?" "No," replied John Gordon dryly, 'Those are saloon keeper's children." Mr. Marsh did not ask any more uestions until they were going into ope House entrance. Then he turned :o his companion and said: "I have seen things today I never ould believe if I had been told. It is ll too horrible, too horrible. I shall ream of it tonight Why have you nade me look at it?" They paused a moment under the irchway. "Would God, Mr. Marsh, that every jusiness man in this city could see ivhat you have seen, and what you have ;een Is nothing compared with the hor 'ors you will never even dream about." 'It has sickened me," Mr. Marsh re eated irritably, and John Gordon :ould see by his manner that he was erously affected by the day's expe ~ience. Before he could say anything dlss Andrews came in through the rchwy. "I understand you have been looking tout today. Come into the library nd tell me about it." She had greeted Gordon in her usual uiet, calm but delightful manner as t introduced Mr. Marsh. When they were seated at the great enter table, Gordon briefly recited the nain incidents of the day's experience. radualy Mr. Marsh lost his irrita :ion. There was something profoundly inpressive in the face and manner of :his woman. She was the first woman e had ever met who made him feel at she was deeply and exactly in. ormed on city life. He had met other vomen who were brilliant, witty, well ducated, cultured, but never one who ~vidently knew humanity like this one, full liossesioof -llh ilactsof Mr. Marsh's ownership of the property and his exact attitude in every particular toward the scenes he had witnessed. The talk had not proceeded ten min utes before she said with the utmost frankness: "Mr. Marsh, I am sure you will tear down No. 01 and put up the right kind of a building in its place. Of course, you are convinced now that the struc ture is a mistake in every particular." "I-I-don't know. I certainly did Lot know what sort of a building it was-it would prove to be," Mr. Marsh starnmered. "Then of course your judgment and humanity together will prompt you to put up a safe, sanitary, comfortable building," Miss Andrews continued calmly. "I-I-will have to give the matter ah - considerable consideration," Mr. Marsh replied, with caution. "It will be very expensive to tear it down." "It costs lives. Are they not of more value, Mr. Marsh, than money?" She said it calmly, but the repressed passion of a lifetime of patient endur ance for the love of the people pulsed through every syllable. A. voice of tenderest eloquence could not have been more definitely emphatic. "1 shall have to consider it," the man murmured uneasily. The events of the strange day had produced a curious result in him. He was not certain that he could trust his impulses. At the same time he felt moved to action of some kind. Miss Andrews quietly began to talk of something else. John Gordon, who had leaned over the table, intensely in terested in what he supposed was go ing to be an appeal on Miss Andrews' part, gradually relaxed his attitude into.one of disappointed surprise. Miss Andrews was still talking easily, and Mr. Marsh was listening intently, when one of the residents came in and called John Gordon out to answer a summons at the telephone. Gordon came back soon and said his friend Barton had sent for him, and that he might not return that night. Mr. Marsh rose and said, "l'll go along with you, Gordon, as far as you go my way." He said good night to Miss Andrews and the two passed out from under the archway, and when he and Gordon parted uptown Mr. Marsh said with a short laugh: "Miss Andrews came near making me a convert. But it would kill me to ive there and see those things every day. I don't see how she stands such a life." Gordon did not reply. He had spoken hardly a word all the way. The weight of all the misery that lay on the people bore him down. In the pres ence of this oversensitive, cultured, wealthy man who had it in his power to right the wrongs that were connect ed with his own possessions, Gordon felt a repulsion that he feared would break out in word or manner. Would Mr. Marsh do anything? Would he re build the tenement? Would he correct any of the abuses? Why did Miss An drews cease so suddenly to talk about it? Why did she not plead with him? She seemed on the point of doing so. In a moment of impulse he spoke, as Mr. Marsh was moving away.. "Mr. Marsh, you have It in your power 'to save the lives of those chil dren. If Louie dies in that hole, be fore God, I believe you will be held part guilty in the sight of God. Are you going to do anything?" "I'll dd something," Mr. Marsh re plied feebly. "Then in God's name do It quick, won't you?" "I'll consider it; yes, I'll consider It." Gordon let him go with that, and with the weariness of the day bearing down on his spirit he hastened to Barton's rooms, fearing bad news, for Barton had telephoned himself, asking his friend to come at once. He found Barton lying on the couch in the second room. "Come in, old man!".he said feebly, but cheerfully. "Excuse me for send ing for you, but my cough got so wild this evening about 7 o'clock that I thought you would like to see the show. It's a rattling good perform ance. Three rings and a drove of ele phans ad atranedautomobile don't the recumbent figure. The truth was very apparent to him. The great eyes that glowed in the face stamped by death's trademark burned like wast ing fires. It was evident that the time was short now. But after all It came as a sihoek to John Gordon. Hie had not really been expecting it. "What have you been Coing? Amuse me with it. I went down to the office this morning, but Hanrris sent me back. I tell you, he's not half bad. And-oh there's a matter I want to explain. Have you seen the 'evening edition? No? There's a copy on the table. Don't blame me. I kept the business out as long as I could. Might never have got in if I hadn't been off duty. Miss Andrews used her influence and actually went to see Harris herself. She dlid miracles in keeping matters out of all the papers for more than a week. But Harris got word that the Review was going to run in a story, and I suppose he couldn't stand it so-don't blame me, John. I'm sorry but I'm not" He sat up so that his knees touched his chin and began coughing so terri bly that John Gordon, on his knees by the side of the couch, feared that the end would come then and there. But the spell did not last as long as he feared, and Barton said as soon as he was able to speak: "She's getting out of gasoline or something. That spurt she made at 730 wimnded her. There! Let me down .,a n a :d gia~ that stufP in thA battle. It-s nb particular good, only it keeps the cough from thinking of me all the time, the stuff's so strong and bad tasting." Gordon gave him the medicine, and Barton lay back exhausted. After a moment he whispered: "Read the story if you want to. But, if you are going to.swear or anything at the close and want help, ask Wil liams to go out into the hall. Give him a dollar, and he'll pitch into Harris and the News as long as you want" John Gordon picked up the paper and went over by the table. He seldom saw the News, and he never read it. His whole refined nature rebelled in disgust at the monstrosity of yellow journalism, but his curiosity was strong enough to make him read what Barton seemed so genuinely sorrow for. The headlines were bold and obtru sive: "Quarrels With His Father! John Gordon, Son of Rufus Gordon, the Banker and Stock Manipulator, Goes to Live at Hope House. A Rich Slum mer. Breaks With His Fiancee, Miss Luella Marsh. A Stormy Interview. Miss Marsh Refuses to Go With Him. All the Parties Prominent In Business and Social Circles. Mr. Gordon Re. pudiates His Son. Miss Marsh Refuses to Talk. Does Not Deny Interview With Her Former Lover. John Gordon to Make a Special Study of Tenement House Conditions In Bowen Street." The whole "story" occupied two col umns,'and directly under the headlines, which covered two columns in width, were two cuts, one of John Gordon and the other of- Luella Marsh. The title under these cuts read, "Cupid Balks at Social Sacrifice." John Gordon read the headlines and glared at the pictures. Then he crushed the paper between his hands and flung it on the floor. "Ring the befl for Williams, John. I think he's in the pantry. You need his help to do it justice. Sorry I don't feel able to chip in with you." For a moment John Gordon stood still by the table; then he came over and sat down by his friend. "I don't care for myself, but Luella! David, it's a horrible invasion of all one's sacred private affairs. I have never understood how you could believe in that sort of journalism." David Barton looked lovingly at John Gordon. His cynical, whimsical, reck less manner disappeared for a moment "I don't believe in it. Never did, John. It's purely business with me. I'm awfully sorry for you. What do I believe anyway? My whole life has contradicted my creed. But maybe there's hope for me yet. What do you think? Am I too bad to repent and be saved?" John Gordon stared at his friend, and in a moment his own deep, abiding, re ligious experience reminded him that here was a soul groping after light "David," he exclaimed softly, "no one is too bad to repent and be saved. Oh, David, Christ makes all life worth while." "I believe that," the reply came i a whisper. "I've never said much, John, but I've tried to" The usually cynical voice actually broke with a sob that cut John Gordon deep, although in that tense moment which had come on so swiftly there was a fierce joy at the confession his friend had made. He bent over and put a hand on Bar ton's, and they sat thus silent for a gracious moment. It was significant that neither of them had said a word about Barton's physical condition and his hopeless future, so far as physical life was conc'erned. The stillness in the room was suddenly interrupted by a clang out on the street. Gordon went over to the window and looked out "The department Is making a fine run," he said briefly to :Barton. It was late and the avenue was al most empty of traffic. A team of pure white horses on the engine which pre ceded the hose and ladder wagons plunged forward with a desperate but glad abandon that struck fire from the pavement and whirled the engine along with a mad but gloricous energy that made human blood run faster and kept the pulses beating with sympathy. The driver- and his assistant leaned for ward, their bare heads tossing their free hair behind; the whole scene flashed by in the night like a bit torn out of a Roman chariot race of the dead past, transformed by chance to the modern municipality, whose streets are lighted with electricity, and whose buildings loom up in the smoky air like crags beside the prairie sea. The whirling group swept around the corner at the end of the nextt block, slacking speed just enough to avoid turning over. John Gordon came back to David's side. "Where is the fire?" "I didn't notice the alarm. Must have been a still one." "Have you ever thought what would happen, John, if a fire ever got a good chance around Hope House?" "Have I-? I think of It every time I go into the double decker. They are simply traps. If a fire ever started in the basement of No. 1)1, it would be a miracle if anybody got out alive." "How about Hope House itself?" The question showed uneasiness. "Hope House is a dry old shell in side. It would go like tinder." "The fire tonight is not down that way?" "No; the teams turned up Faveill street." "Is No. 91 any worse than other num bers?" "No; it's better in some ways. But there's a bakery in th e basement. They fry greasy doughnuts over cracked stoe. One drop of grease catching fire in the place might sweep a score of children into eternity." "They'd be better off in eternity than in the tenement, wouldn't they? Maybe the best thing you could do would be to pray for No. 01 to catch on fire when the wind's just right." John Gordon made no answer, and Barton asked drowsily: "How about Mr. Marsh? You dropped me a line about the probability of his having an Interest in helping Miss An drews financially." "Mr. Marsh is the landlord of No. "Sho! You don't say!" The voice was awake again. "Then the amount of his contribution to social settlements is not yet made public?" "Mr. Marsh has been with me through the district today. He saw his own tenement for the first time." "That's a good story; tell me about it." The voice was again drowsy. "It's too late, David," Gordon remon strated. "No; it isn't. I'm going to sleep here, I often do. It starts the cough if I get up again. I'm comfortable. You'll stay all night? You know your room. Do, that's a good fellow. I may want you to help me harness up the cough in the morning." "Yes; I'll stay If you want me to. Are you comfortable there?" "Very much so. old man. Go ahead with Mr. Marsh." before Barton was asieep,-an-unht ural slumber, more like- death than healthy refreshing of wearied powers. His whole attitude was that of com plete exhaustion. The seal of death a' was upon him. John Gordon stopped talking, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. David Barton was the dearest friend he had. t The two were ten years apart in age, but from the time when they first met at they had been instantly drawn to gether and had begun to love each tl other. It was after 11 o'clock, and yet Gor- P( don hesitated to go to bed. He almost h feared that Barton would never wake h up, the pallor of his face, the attitude w of the body, were so suggestive of the a great change. He was still sitting there, his cheeks a still wet with the tears that he did not try to repress, when Williams came in softly on tiptoe. "There's a queer old lady outside, h Mr. Gordon, says she wants to see Mr. Barton, if it ain't too late. She's a B mighty queer looking specimen. She won't go away, and I thought maybe you'd go and see her." 0 "Barton is asleep now. He can't be la wakened. Ask the lady to come Into the hall." Gordon went out, drawing the cur tains between the first room and the wide hallway, and met in the hall the visitor, who was promptly ushered in by Williams. She was dressed in a remarkably old iy fashioned style that struck John Gor- I don aes exceedingly interesting rather than grotesque. She was very old, at tr least ninety, but straight and vigor- a ous. Her keen blue eyes looked search- to ingly at John Gordon, and she spoke m in a sharp but remarkably clear voice. y "Are you Mr. Barton?" "No, madam. I am his friend, Mr- d< Gordon. Mr. Barton is asleep and tj not well. What can I do for you? h Will you be seated?" ri "In a moment, sir." She placed up- d on the floor a faded old carpetbag, tt took a handkerchief out of her pocket, V carefully dusted one of the hall 01 seats and then sat down. As she took Out the handkerchief a delicate % aroma was wafted to John Gordon. It reminded him of the fragrance y he remembered once while visiting the . East India Marine museum at Salem, Mass., when the attendant opened an old sea chest, lined with cedar and packed with silk shawls. John Gordon .was now thoroughly awake. The sharp eyes looked at him kindly. "I am exceedingly sorry to hear that Mr. Barton is ill. I very much wished to see him. First I must be pardoned for calling at this unseasonable hour. But I had the address and saw the light and knew that newspaper men kept queer hours. I have called at the office of the paper and was told Mr. Barton was at his apartments. -I must go on my journey tonight" John Gordon had not the remotest inkling as to the old lady's errand. She was evidently a person of great refine ment and culture. "How much of a friend are you to Mr. Barton?" The question was so direct and frank that Gordon smiled. "I am his dearest friend." "Man or woman?2" the old lady asked, with a twinkle of the eyes that made John Gordon smile again. "My friend has never had any love affair. He Is a confirmed bachelor." "Ah, don't deceive yourself, young man. I am old enough to be your grandmother, your great-grandmother almost, and I have seen a great deal of the world. But, pardon me; I must tell you what I came for." She put her hand into a little bag that hung from a silk cord tlldabout her wrist As she opened the bag the same delicate aromagenetrated theb hal-again. She handed a card to Gordon. He took It and read: "Mrs. Captain George Effingham, Sn lem." "Well?" Gordon said. "I am Captain Effingham's widow. My great-grandson was born on the day Captain Effingham died. His name was Clark Effingham. He ran away to sea when he 'was sixteen. Since then I have heard nothing of him until a week ago I had a letter from him dated Colorado Springs. He was con sumptive, but Is getting better. I am on my way to see him." She paused, and John Gordon, still in ~A the dark as to the object of her call ons Barton, said: D "W'ell?" "You said you were Mr. Barton's h nearest friend? How much of his real life do you know?" Gordon was thoroughly surprised. yC For the first time he looked suspicious ly and even doubtfully at the old lady. T "I know him welL. There is not a kinder, purer, truer soul in this city tc than David Barton." e "I believe.you," the old lady nodded la Ivigorously. "But I know more about 'w him than you do. Listen! One night m six months ago a young man, penniless, pi homeless, alone in this great city, was waking its streets in a cold, penetrat- w~ ng rain. An east wind blew off the or water. The young man was proud. He fr would not write his relatives for help. si He was afraid to let his aristocratic D grandmother know that he had drifted off the sea, into one kind of vagabond re life after another, until he was on the te ferge of starvation and crime in a great, merciless city. l "Out in the night, that night, this tb lad stumbled against your friend Mr. B Barton. He gave him shelter and food. Then he sent him out to Colorado be- iv fore it was too late.- Then"-- Gordon was crying. The old lady had some- B thing in her sharp eyes that glittered ri brighter than the eyes. "Then this lad discovered a secret. ol The Effinghams always were quick. les He found out that he was not the only ra one. Mr. Gordon, do you know that ca this friend of yours has during the last te; five years sent a little colony of con- ne sumptive people to Colorado and'paid all their expenses there, saving at least C: a dozen lives? This much my grand- je, son has discovered. He was the first one of them to find out his benefactor's pE name and address. It first came to him through an accident But your wi friend Is-and you did not know it? I g want to thank him. I want to tell him sif how much my boy owes him. You | said he was ill I trust it is nothing er serious?" b .ohn Gordon let the tears flow down to: his face. His friend's jealously guard- ny ed secret was out at last. Now he sa knew why he had so stubbornly re fused to go to Colorado himself. He off knew it was too late and had always as been. But, knowing it, he had put his own life aside and had thus saved hit others. And it was too late for him of) now. The cynical, careless, great wa hearted friend suddenly grew Into an ha image~that would always sit on the to throne of his memory in the high place inl of honor. ox "He is very ill? Tell me. Is it se - s rious" The old lady for the first time betrayed uneasiness. .re John Gordon answered gently. .w um .toyr Ill. He has consumption. e cannot live"' "God bless him!" the old lady ex aimed, and her tears fell fast After vhile she said gently: "Do you think I might see him? I ould like to look on his face." For answer John Gordon rose, parted e curtains and beckoned. The old dy followed and soon stood looking : the wasted face. She stood a moment silently gazing, en she putout a hand, which Gor m had noted before as astonishingly hite and beautiful for such an aged son, and softly touched Barton's !ad. As she straightened up and epped back, Gordon saw that she as much agitated. He offered her sistance to walk back into the hall. ie accepted with an- old fashioned knowledgment of his politeness that uched him deeply. When they were in the hall she said, "Will you tell him I came to -see M?" Gordon was thinking it over. Would urton care to have his secret known? "Yes, I will tell him." "I think it will be better to let him iow. Yes, it will be better," the old dy said with approval. "The time il: not. be long. Will you write me hen the end comes for him?" "Yes, madam. I thank you for him at you came." "The pilgrimage is brief at the Ion st," she said with a strong gravity at was far from gloom. "But sure your friend has redeemed his tlne. am glad I saw his face. Yes, glad." Gordon offered to see her to the ain, but she firmly refused to be of iy trouble to any one. "I am able go alone. A carriage is waiting.for e. Good night, sir, and God be with "Good night, madam," replied Gor )n. Williams appeared and opened te door. Gordon insisted on seei4i r down the steps and Into the cai age. He had shut the door and the ver. had just started his horse when te old lady stopped the driver with- a ord, her fine sharp cut face looking it of the window. "Tell your fr-* d I will write. It Ill not be lorg before we shall meet." The carriage went on, and Gordon alked up the steps and into the hall ith a feeling that he had been dream "Who are yjou?" ig. But the perfume of a cedar chest ist opened after. a long sea..voyage agered in the hall and followed himr tto the rooms as he thoughtfully went tagain and took a look at Barton 3fore resting. In the morning when Gordon came at of his room he found Barton up id whistling. He noticed his friend's apparently aproved condition. "You had a caller last night after > fell asleep." "That so? -Some one from the of se?" Barton asked carelessly. "An old lady off an East Indaman Lted .185." "I'm too tired to guess. Explain.' "Here is her card." Gordon handed to Barton. Mrs. Capta'in George fmgiham, tem,'"Barton read. Then his cheeks owed a color in addition to the un ttural glow there. Gordon went up and put a hand on s arm. 'David, I know now why-why" "Say, you aren't going to cry, are "Cry! I've been crying all night think that you" "Well, why shouldn't I enjoy trips Colorado, even If I can't personally nduct them? Tell me about the old dy. Efangham said his grandmother as going on a hundred. Sorry I issed seeing her. I expect she is a eure." "A picture! She Is a romance. You ould have fallen in love with her at ice. She 'brought into the room the agrance of cinnamon and cloves and dce from the Islands of the se. on't you detect It now?" "Smells to me like Williams' coffee," plied Barton, sniffng critically. "But l me about her.". Gordon described the visit as vivid as possible. When he had finished, ere was a. suspicion of moisture In arton's eyes. 'She wanted me to tell you she would "First love letter I'll ever get," sighed arton whimsically. "I expect she's "No doubt. I can Imagine the square 1 fashioned house she owns in Sa m-colonial front, fan window ar ngement over the doors and a stair se big enough to drive up a double am. But, .oh, David, why did you it go out there yourself before" "Before it was too late? No good. tse is chronic. Let's change the sub t. Tell me about Mr. Marsh." 'But how many persons are you sup trting n Colorado?" - "Don't remember. Quit it or you [11 bring on my cough. It always ts me when inconsiderate friends In t on talking about It." So Gordon took up the day's experi ce with Mr. Marsh while Williams ought in the coffee and rolls, and Bar a seemed unusually cheerful and fun . W~hen Gordon rose to go, Barton "I think maybe I'll get down to the ice next week. But come up as often you can,.old man, won't you?" Gordon promised, with a choking in s throat as he shook hands, and went !, carrying with him a memory that as both sad and inspiring. After he .d gone out David Barton went.. over the couch and, kneeling down, sobbed e a child. He was a gifted man, Jy forty years old, and life was very reet to him. rhe first thing John Gordon did on aching Hope House was to confer ith Miss Andrews. "~oyou think _Mr. Marsh will dlo anythiiig?" she asked. "I think so-yes." Bit ply was not very strong. "You are in doubt. impressed. But, if I the kind of man to d that means a real horror of the tenement co equal to his dread of ul loss if he tears the double or remodels it" - "I'm afraid-yes," Gord with a sigh. "But of course," he said "you have used your the board of healthand cials and all other dep "Yes," Miss Andrews ly. '"But conditions are Why?" "Ask Tommy Randall." "The political boss?" "Of course you know h on which most of. our ref "I have never met hime. you have been to him "Often. He's the most man In the city. Heisu of conscience. I have n single quality ak-him toqw appeal. But, if he move the powers that ly every wrong inrthe Gordon was on the with the Inquiries, for w heard of Tommy Bandall surrounded that potentf .certain human faseinati Andrews was lled aa talk was not rentewd again at dinner. For a week John Go d his special investigationwi university student . e him into another block-' one evening from the distrl by2Xo...9., and the . ht& commotlon, ere ca and go in. friend, Loule, d reproa for not having gone-to see inquiries. 'But the ehild e of hundreds for whom .bis. beginning to bleed as the onfy of childhood'st ments was beginning t6 him. He went Into the court staircase and out upon Several women there by some recent "What is it?" he askedof women, who was cryig. apron. "' Loule's dead, she.elfd sumed her crying. John Gordon stepped leading IntoJa. Caylo er met him there. and tearless. "May I go in?"Gordon The woman made no.ely don went on.- The rooms:-were with candles. Several we the room. - A man was table on which was- a rough at which he was'lookin. or contempt. Ile looked'up as "Who are you?" was the greeting. "My name Is John Gorda House!" . - The man turned suddeny t the women who stood loodng missively. "Take the'thng ing to the coffin, "and4efl send up somethin~g better or from me." And this. tion to -Tommy Ran boss of Hope Houseditc, PICKINGS FROMFG Ambitious people must al appointed people.-"Fame o an." The best kind of couirage - - from a full stomach.2Z"Cap Love is like honey-it must by sips. One must not si~ "The Pharaoh and the Priest. The man who is weakened 3D, doing by the ingratitude of'ot" serving God on a salary basis. Power of Truth." - - Nine times out of ten a woman through love, and she must be by love if she is to be restord' In Water Street" Don't call yourself a friend an& thinking all the time what the o side of the friendship can do tor o6 -"Aunt Abby's Neighbors." Philosophy is primarily a matter o food; secondarily, a matter of ed it does not concern the head at "Two Thousand Miles on an Auto bile." Half the trouble of this tronbl. world comes from .the fact that 1or one reason or another, women are not able to look up to t'h'e en .with w they have dealings.-"Thes~ultures. A Couple o'f Inserlptions. "I was In New York one day an took a trip down to Coney Island,. said the agent of a Pittsburg mill. "I had heard of the slicklfell down there, and so I left my watch home and -crried a dummy a which I pisted a slip of paper the words, 'Look Inside for a fool.K hadn't got the salt taste of the yet when the watch disappeared, It was three hours later, as I 3at in booth drinking beer, when I felt' watch in .a side pocket of my coat.) pulled it out In amazement, and. t found my slip of paper repla one bearing the wdrds, 'Look outsid for an ass!' It may be that Igot the~ bulge 'on the gang, but somehowIZ hve always thought that they camen out a trinle ahead-just a trifle." - SICKROOM PHiLOSOPHY.~; Never confine a patient to one room if you can obtain the use of two. Never play the piano to -a siek perso if you can play on strings or sing. Never stand and fidget when a sick person is talking to you. Sit down. Never complain that you cannot~e' a feeding cup if there is a teapot to. had instead. -4 Never resad fast to a sick person The way to make a story seem short Is to tell it slowly. Never judge the condition of your patient from his appearance dualig a-' conversation. See how he- looks an hour afterward. - Never put a hot water bottle nxi ' the skin. Its pefficiency and the pa. tieni's safety are both enhancedby surrounding the bottle with flannek ~ Never allow the patient to take the temperature himself. Many patients' are more knowing than nurses where there is a question of temperature. Very conservative in all matters are the Turks, and especially slow to adopt modern improvements of any kind. When a man quits smoking and goes to chewing he is not much of ahe. Atchison Gloe