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Title:      The Girl from Glengarry (1933)
Author:     Ralph Connor (1860-1937)
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Edition:    1
Language:   English
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Date first posted:          December 2004
Date most recently updated: December 2004

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Title:      The Girl from Glengarry (1933)
Author:     Ralph Connor (1860-1937)





CHAPTER I


The Ottawa, tawny and turbulent with spring freshets, rolled
majestic, full bank to bank, and flooding the flats, marooning the
great elms which stood guard over a little old solidly built log
cabin.  From across the river upon a curving line of hills the
sunset fell in a glow of purple and gold.  High upon a cut bank,
jutting over the backwater of the overflow, a girl stood outlined
against the purple of the hills, slender, lithe, exquisitely formed
with soft girlish curves, yet firmly erect upon shapely legs, whose
beautiful contours the playful wind clearly revealed.  The sunlight
turned the little curls of bobbed hair into a tangle of red gold, a
striking foil to the transparent clarity of her skin.  The face
beautifully modelled into lines of strength and tenderness was
gloriously lit up by eyes that seemed to catch the flying color
from the bunch of blue wood violets at her breast, the same blue,
with darker iris rims.  A picture of rare loveliness she stood,
strength, high courage in her pose, and in her eyes the lure and
witchery that is supposed to make men mad.

"Good boy, Paddy!  Stick to it old chap."  The voice rang out clear
and vibrant.

The girl was encouraging a yearling Irish setter pup in a struggle
to land a branch of a tree from the river.  Cheered on by his
mistress the pup pulled and hauled, growling savagely the while,
and finally landed the booty.

"Good old boy!  Not afraid of water, eh?  Fine!  Time for home
Paddy.  Come along."

Paddy frisked and gambolled in a state of high triumph, and ended
by leaping up at the girl with his paws on her frock.

"Down Paddy, you beast!" she cried, bringing her leash sharply down
upon his nose.  The answering howl brought swift penitence.

"Oh Paddy darling!  So sorry!"  Her arms went round Paddy now
wriggling ecstatically his forgiveness.  "You have made a mess of
me, Paddy, but no matter.  Come along!  Away you go.  I'll race you
to the fence."

Like the wind Paddy was away, and like the wind his mistress was
after him arriving at the fence in a dead heat.

The fence was an old-fashioned structure of cedar logs built end to
end with a cap rail on top.  A quick scramble and the girl was
over, leaving the puppy behind.

"Ha ha!  Fooled you there, Paddy.  Come on!  Find your own way out.
Oh, you great baby!" she cried, taunting him as he began to whine.
"Come along till you find a hole," she said setting off up the
muddy road, while Paddy whimpering kept leaping at the fence in
vain efforts to make exit from the field.

"Oh come on baby!" cried the girl, running along the road.  "There
are plenty of holes.  Don't be a whining quitter."  The square
little chin carried high was sufficient indication that its owner
was no quitter.  At length a hole was found and the pup came
dashing after his mistress.

Down the road meeting them came a flock of sheep in charge of a
supernaturally wise and patient collie.  Paddy dashed forward with
a joyous bark.

"Paddy! heel sir!"  The voice of the girl carried quite
unmistakable authority.

Paddy paused, looked back at his mistress and again at the sheep
now huddling and backing, held together only by the steady,
resolute shepherding of the collie.

Paddy came back slowly and reluctantly.

"Bad dog!  'ware sheep!" said the girl.  Catching him by the collar
she began cuffing his ears, repeating with emphasis at each cuff,
"No, No!  'ware sheep!"

Drawing him close to the fence she held the pup on the leash but
loosely, controlling him by word only.

Shivering with excitement, the pup stood trembling as the sheep,
with ears pricked forward, sidled past slowly and carefully at
first, then at last with a rush.  That rush proved altogether too
alluring for Paddy's self-control.  With a quick spring he dashed
for the sheep.  The leash was long in the line.  Two long jumps the
girl allowed him, but at the third and in mid air, with a sharp "No
no!  'ware sheep," the girl threw her weight on the line.  With a
yelp the pup came back in a complete somersault, lay sprawling,
then crawled to his mistress's feet.

"Bad dog!" she said sternly, "'ware sheep!"  Again she cuffed his
ears while he lay belly flat to the ground.

"Ay!  Miss Sylvia.  It may save him a hanging some day."

"Yes indeed.  Besides he must learn obedience.  I won't have a dog
that doesn't obey me."  Two red spots burned in her cheeks.

"It's a guid rule for dowgs, aye an' for men as weel, and indeed it
might be for lassies as weel.  Wha kens?"

The stern young face softened; the girl smiled a little strained
smile.

"You have me there, Mr. Brodie, I guess.  But all the same Paddy
must obey me," she said looking down at the pup, who was still
grovelling abjectly at her feet.  "Look at your Heather Bell there,
heeding us not a bit, but strictly attending to her duty."

"Aye, she's a canny lassie, but like all lassies she has her
times," said Mr. Brodie, gravely shaking his head, "she needs
patience."

"Lassies patience?  What about the laddies?"

"Aye, they require patience as well, but with a difference.  They
are slower to learn but surer to bide."

"Surer to bide?  You mean they are more dependable?"

"Na na--hardly that--na na not that exactly.  Dependable?  Na na
the lassies are dependable.  Yon collie now ye can trust till the
deith.  But in her there is a wee something incomprehensible.  She
has her moods and requires patience and understanding."

"Are we all like that?  All girls?"

"Ye are as God made ye.  An' na mere man can get tae the secret
hairt o' ye.  Na na, ye need patience and understanding."

"How did you train Heather Bell then?  Didn't you have to punish
her at times?"

"Aye, I did and sorely, till I maist ruined her entirely.  I cam'
near to breakin' her, the puir lassie.  And a broken dowg is a
useless dowg for the sheep."

"And how then did you train her?"

"I made her prood to serve me."

"And now she never fails to obey?"

"Hoots lassie!  She has her moods, but less and less."

"And when in her moods?"

"I jist leave her be.  I feed her a' the dainty bits, but I give
her neither word nor look till she's like tae grieve the very hairt
oot o' her."

"Oh Mr. Brodie!  But what a terrible thing to do."

"Aye it is.  And it's hardest on masel', but we both learn oor
lesson by it."

"Did I jerk Paddy too hard?"

"It's no the jerk."

"What then?"

"It's the way ye dae it.  It's the same wi' all admeenistration o'
justice, human and divine."

"You are too deep for me, Mr. Brodie.  I'm only an ignorant girl."

"No that ignorant, lassie, not you.  But ye'll heed an auld man
that has learnt his lesson by long and sair experience.  Will ye
forgive me?  Justice is a terrible thing, a cold and terrible thing
without passion--but maist terrible when administered by love.
That's where our law makers and oor law administrators fail us.
They rage at criminals.  There is nae rage in justice, human or
divine.  It is inevitable as the march o' the seasons, but like the
seasons it is administered by love."

"Poor Paddy," said the girl, stooping to pat the pup still
crouching at her feet.

"Na na!" interrupted Mr. Brodie quickly.  "Now ye've spoiled it 'a,
let him dree his weird."

"What do you mean?"

"Let him suffer oot his punishment.  He was wrong.  But he would
learn better if his punishment came with terrible coldness."

"Oh dear!  I shall have to send him to you Mr. Brodie," said the
girl in a voice of despair.

"Na na lassie.  He's your dowg and your responsibility.  An'
dootless he'll teach ye as muckle as ye teach him.  Guid nicht.
It's a lang lang task, but it's worth while."  He took off his hat,
and with the bow of a great gentleman went his way.

The shadows were lengthening over the fields.  The light was still
clear in the west, but along the fences it had faded into a soft
purple.  The girl unsnapped the leash from her pup.

"Paddy dear," she said putting her arms suddenly round his neck,
"I'm afraid I shall never be able to train you.  It is indeed a
terrible business.  I love you too much--and yet--and yet--well not
just now Paddy darlin'.  We will just skip home."

The pup released from her embrace dashed madly about her, now
grovelling at her feet, then leaping upon her in the ecstasy of his
return to favor.

"Now for a race, Paddy," cried the girl and together they dashed up
the road to meet the main Montreal-Ottawa highway, along which the
flaming lights of racing motors could be seen.

"Now Paddy, we take no chances here boy.  Come back Paddy!"

At that instant from a fence corner under Paddy's very nose jumped
a tall Leghorn rooster, and dashed for the highway.  The challenge
was too direct to be borne.  Away went Paddy hot foot on the
Leghorn's trail, pointing fair across the highway.

"Paddy come back!" screamed the girl as she saw a north bound car
bearing down upon the fleeing rooster.  But both bird and dog
unconscious of anything but escape and pursuit dashed out upon the
road fair in the motor's track with Sylvia in frantic chase.

There was a wild cry, a screeching of brakes as the car came to a
halt.  A south bound car at high speed, however, suddenly appeared
from nowhere.  Again there was a wild cry, a screeching of brakes
and an agonized yelp.  The south bound car swervingly, swiftly went
crashing through the paling on to a level sward and came to rest.

From this car a young man hurled himself headlong, scrambled to his
feet and rushed on to the road toward the girl sitting there in the
dust, dazed and shaken.

"Oh, my God! are you hurt?" cried the young man, lifting her bodily
out of the dust and setting her on the grass.

"Oh no, no!" she cried brokenly.  "My dog! my puppy!"

"Dog," said the boy.  "Thank the good Lord, I thought I had got
you!"

The girl staggered to her feet, gazed about her, then ran back up
the road where in the dust lay a squirming, shuddering mass that
once was her Paddy.  Down in the bloody dust she flung herself with
a moaning cry.

"Oh Paddy!  Darling Paddy.  Has he killed you?  Oh my dear, my
dear!"

The wounded pup lifted its head and turned to lick the girl's hand,
whining the while, but not with pain.

"Let me look at him," said the young man.  "I know about dogs."

He ran his hands over the limbs, up and down the spine and lifted
the legs.

"Say, let me get him to a drug store," he said.  He ran to his car
and returned with a rug, beautiful and costly.  Carefully he rolled
the pup in the rug, carried him to the car, and laid him gently on
the back seat.

"Get in!" he ordered.

Dazed and shattered in nerve she obeyed.  In a few minutes he drew
up at the red lamp of a drug store.  Into the store he bore the
moaning whimpering dog, and carried him straight through to the
back shop.

"Hey, what's the game?" said the clerk.

"Here, get me chloroform, and keep the girl out.  Get a move on!"

He had a way of getting his orders obeyed.

In a few minutes he called the clerk into the back room.

"Get something for the young lady--something to tone her up, two
glasses.  And say!  Don't fuss--and get a move on.  Your chief
knows me.  Bring the stuff here."

The clerk carried out his orders with swift efficiency.

The young man came out into the front shop carrying two glasses.

"Drink this," he ordered.  "We both need it."

Without hesitation the girl obeyed, then turned her blue eyes upon
him.

"Paddy?" she whispered.

"No more pain for Paddy," said the young man taking her hand in
both of his.

"He is--"

"His back was broken, poor chap.  He suffered not at all.  Just
slept off.  Shall I--do you want me to--"

"I want him taken home," she said quietly.

"Right oh.  Will you get in please."  He took her arm, led her to
the car and placed her in the front seat.  "Steady there now," he
said.  "Back in a minute or two."

"Some water, a towel and basin, and move lively."

The clerk impressed by his manner, his dress and by the
magnificence of his car lost no time in question or remark.

With capable, swift moving hands the young man cleansed the
beautiful golden hair of the setter from mud and blood, handed the
clerk a five dollar bill, rolled the body in the rug and carried it
out to the car.

"Which way?" he asked.

The girl without a word waved her hand to the right, and the car
moved on in the direction indicated.

The driver glanced at her face.  A little color was showing in the
transparent cheeks.  The blue eyes had lost their dazed stare.

"Say!  You're a brick!" said the young man.  "No use making excuses
and lamentations just now.  I feel pretty rotten of course about
your puppy.  Hope you give that full weight."

"Yes!" she whispered.  "Oh yes!  You didn't see!  It was my fault.
Should have had him on the leash.  I was right after him, when he
saw the bird--and--oh I couldn't get him!"

"My soul!  I thought I had got you!  Lord! what a moment!  I shall
see that whole business in my dreams!  Thank the good Lord!  If I
had hurt you I should never have got over it!  Never!"

"Up the hill to the right, the house among the trees there."

"Say, who is at home?  Any man?"

"No.  Only my aunt!"

"That's bad.  Is she--I mean--How will she take it?  Say!  Let's
drive round and talk about it.  I mean, what shall I do with Paddy--
that's his name, eh?"

They drove on past the gate, round a block and again on to the
highway.  Soon they approached the entrance to the side road.

"Let us go down here," said the girl.

Promptly the young man swung the car into the narrow mud road and
without a word they rolled smoothly down the slight incline toward
the river.  By this time the afterglow only was left in the western
sky.  Over the rolling river a faint haze of purple lay like a
shimmering mantle, against the sky stood the elm trees and maples
with their tender young leaves, and in stiff serried ranks the dark
tall pines and the straight cone-shaped cedars.

As they neared the out-jutting cut bank the girl touched his arm.

"It was here we were--an hour ago," she said.

The car came to a stand.  The young man sat looking quietly at the
scene before him.

"Mighty fine, eh?  You love this spot?"

"Yes, we come here in the summer.  Can you see the cabin out there
in the water under the elms?  Father built that forty years ago."

"Forty years ago!"

"He was just a boy.  He lumbered all these hills."

"Lumbered?"

"Yes, he brought mother here from Glengarry when I was a wee girl,
so I am a Glengarry girl and very proud of it.  Later he cleared
the pine forest off--built the old mill--and later the factory."

"By Jove!  How splendid!  How magnificently splendid!  And this was
all forest?"

"Yes, all those hills across there--and on this side too.  They
floated the smaller logs down the river to the mill in booms."

"Booms?  I'm a poor ignorant city bum!"

"Yes, the smaller logs they just enclosed in logs bound together
with chains and floated them to the old mill.  But the great logs
were made into square lumber and there were built into great rafts
and floated down to Quebec for the European market.  Britain used
to get her ship's timber from here."

"My soul and body, what a life!  What a game!  And they just let
them go off down the river."

"No, no!  They lived on the rafts for weeks.  Sometimes built a
little cabin on them."

"What a life!  And you come here in summer?"

"Yes, we camp in that cabin there.  It is quite comfortable."

"Comfortable?  I should say!  What a glorious camp!  By Jove--I
say!  I mean what a time you must have!  What do you do?"

"Oh, we are very lazy.  Canoe, swim, the boys fish a bit--and play
tennis!"

"The boys?"

"Yes, our working boys--and--and their friends."

"Lucky beggars!"

For some moments they sat silent, their eyes upon the darkening
hills across the river.

Then the young man said quietly:

"Say!  About Paddy?"

"Yes, we must--"

"I was thinking.  Is this your place?  This point I mean?"

"Yes all down to the river."

"Well--wouldn't this be a great place for Paddy?"

"I--I was thinking of the garden."

"The garden?  Well--but--out here--under the trees--no digging and
fussing with planting things--all by himself out here?"

The girl sat for a few minutes thinking.

"Yes, you are right," she said slowly.  "I think this is the very
spot.  We can get the--a spade from Sandy Brodie.  He lives just a
mile down the road.  Yes this is the very spot!  And Paddy just
adored coming here!"  The tears were dropping quietly down her
cheeks, but she made no sound of weeping.

On the side hill, in clean yellow sand, in the midst of the scents
and sounds that once used to drive him frantic with delight, Sandy
and the young man laid Paddy away.

"Ay, it's a couthie corner for a huntin' dowg with the wild things
a' aboot him."

They took Sandy home and drove slowly up the road again along the
river.  As they reached the turn at the cut bank the girl caught
the young man's arm with a quick little gasp.

"Look!"

Across the river and resting on the blue line of hills the moon,
full orbed and golden, was appearing.

"I say!  What a moon!  Can't we wait a bit?  I'm not strong on
moons--but a moon like that on a mountain?  Eh what?"

"Lovely, oh lovely," breathed the girl.  "Yes it is very lovely.

"Never saw anything like this in my life," said the young man
looking at her.  "But we really can't see it in the car.  Let's get
out where we can--can see--I mean--all round you know--everything.
Eh what?"

"But we can't stay, my aunt will--"

"Do you never stay out in the moonlight?"

"Oh yes often, I love it."

"Huh!  Well, why not now?"

"But--why?  I don't even know your name."

"That's easy.  How would Jack do?"

"You look like Jack," she said with a little smile, her first that
evening.

"Oh you are a brick--and you?"

"Sylvia is my name."

"Just right.  Jove!  Sylvia!  Perfect--'Who is Sylvia?'  Of course
Sylvia it must be.  And in the moonlight too."

"But we must go now--Jack--" she said gently.

"Do you want to go--Sylvia?  I mean--just right away?"

"I think we must go.  Yes--we must go."

"Right you are."  He threw in the clutch.  "Whatever you say is
right.  Will always be right."  The car began to move slowly.  "And
that's the very place for Paddy too.  What did the old boy--Sandy
say?  About a hunting dog, I mean?"

"'A couthie corner for a huntin' dowg with the wild things a' aboot
him,'" quoted Sylvia softly.

"Say, isn't that perfect?"

"Yes--oh Paddy darling, I hate to leave you but it is just the
place for you," the girl's voice broke.

"For me, Sylvia, I only say with all my heart and soul, thank the
good God," said Jack, his voice husky with emotion.

"Why? what do you?--what are you saying?"

"Oh Sylvia!  It might have been you.  I just had a gleam of you.
Just a fraction of a second!  Oh, my God!  What would have come to
me?"

They drove on in silence.

"Yes!  The angels sure were there!" said Jack as if to himself.

Ten minutes later they drew up at the house.

"I can't ask you in to meet my aunt, she is out to-night."

"I don't want to come in, not to-night.  You don't want me--not to-
night--perhaps to-morrow eh?  What?"

"Yes--oh yes, to-morrow--Jack."

Soundlessly the car moved off round the drive and out of the gate.
The girl stood watching.  A hand waved at her.  An answering wave
and he was gone.

"Oh!  I don't even know his name!  Well, I needn't tell Auntie to-
night, poor dear, she would be full of questions."



CHAPTER II


Breakfast was over at Hilltop House.  Miss Elizabeth was digesting
slowly and with a disturbed face Sylvia's account of the passing of
Paddy.  The registration of grief was sufficient, but no more.
There was, however, an understratum of keen interest and inquiry.

"And what was he like?  I mean did he seem a gentleman?"

"A gentleman?  He was very kind, and very capable.  He knew just
what to do.  And he was very quick--and--he seemed very nice."  Her
niece finished rather lamely.

"Good looking?"

"Oh, I don't know.  Of course I was thinking of Paddy--at first.
Yes he was rather good looking--I think--I mean--His eyes were kind
of twinkling--you know--and dark--and he had a strong face--a kind
of hard face."

"Hard?"

"Yes, but kind too.  He was awfully sorry for Paddy, and--of course
it got kind of dark you know.  He might be pretty stern--but his
voice was kind."

"What did you say his name was?"

"Jack--I--I really was so excited and worried--"

"But my dear--you don't mean--you surely didn't call him Jack."

"Why of course I did."

"You know his last name, I hope."

"Well, I wasn't thinking about names.  I was thinking about Paddy--
and--"

"And I suppose he was so occupied with Paddy that he called you
Sylvia?"

"Why--of course--I told him--"

"You told him to call you by your first name?  Well I must say--"

"No no!  We never thought anything about names--we just--I mean--oh
you know what I mean."

"Can't say I do exactly.  Well--it is over and done with.  Of
course in these days young people are so very daring and--well,
well--never mind.  It is over.  And he was very kind.  Of course he
might well be.  He nearly killed you."  Miss Elizabeth's lips were
shut in a firm line.

"He took a chance of killing himself.  He just skinned a tree, and
he crashed through a fence."

"No need for any heat my dear.  I am very very thankful.  My dear I
am thankful to God for your escape.  When I think--"  Miss
Elizabeth's voice came to an abrupt stop.  "We ought to thank God,
my dear."

"I do--I do--and I thank Mr.--Jack too.  He really was splendid
about Paddy, I mean, and very, very sympathetic."

"Um!  No doubt!  If he had been driving a little more carefully.
These young men race along through towns at a most reckless
breakneck speed.  I really think they ought to be punished.  I
would jail every one of them.  Horribly selfish I call it."

"But Aunt Elizabeth you don't know if he was driving at a breakneck
speed.  It was my fault.  I lost my head.  I just dashed after poor
Paddy past one motor and there I was in front of Jack's.  I just
had strength and sense enough to fling myself headlong to one side.
I think his guard caught my skirt."

"Well, well my dear.  Let's not talk about it.  When I think--What
is it Annette?"

"A gentleman in a motor asking for Miss Sylvia, miss!"

Sylvia leaped to her feet.

"Oh I wonder--I believe it's--"

"Sylvia!  Sit down Sylvia.  Annette will--"  But Sylvia was gone.

"Oh hello!  Are you--"  It was a man's voice clear, strong,
vibrant, suddenly subdued into softer tones.

"It is that man.  Annette never mind the dishes.  Show him into the
morning room.  Not in here."

Meantime Sylvia had run out to the front door.  Had she known the
lively eagerness in her face, she might have waited for Annette.

"Oh Jack--come in here."  She ushered him quickly into the morning
room.  "And for Heaven's sake what is your name?"

"Name?  Jack of course."

"No, no, your last name.  Quick, she's coming."

"Didn't I tell you?"

"No, no, oh do hurry.  Here she is."

Jack turned swiftly to Miss Elizabeth.

"Awfully sorry to disturb you so early.  I'm Jack Tempest of
Montreal.  Last night--I had--"

"Oh Mr. Tempest, I've heard all about your kindness to my niece."

"My kindness!  Great Scott, Miss Murray!  I was awake half the
night thinking--well, no matter what--but--"

"We are all very thankful, Mr. Tempest--very thankful."  Miss
Elizabeth's voice was very grave and very gentle.  "Those motors
are very dangerous, and go at such a pace!"

"They do, but as a matter of fact I was going quite slowly--
otherwise--"  He stopped suddenly, turned away and looked out of
the window.  "But I came to show you something, Miss Sylvia.  May I
run and get it?"

He dashed out of the house, and returning in a few moments carrying
in his arms a six months' old puppy, set him on the floor.

"He's an Airedale," he said with a note of pride in his voice.

A silence fell on the room.

Miss Elizabeth gazed with eyes of disapproval upon the dog.  She
loathed all dogs.  "You can't say he is beautiful anyway, Sylvia,"
she said.

The girl was looking with pale face and trembling lips at the
puppy.  Suddenly her hands went to her face:  "Oh please forgive
me," she sobbed.  "I can't--I just can't!"

"What?  Oh, I see!  Great heavens!  What an--an!  What an infernal
ass!" muttered Jack.  "Please forgive me and forget all about it,
Miss Sylvia."  He caught up the puppy, ran out to his car, chucked
it into the back seat, slipped to his wheel and drove away.

"Well, my dear!  At least it was a very kind intention.  I can't
say I regret his taking the little creature away--but after all--"

"Oh Auntie, I could not bear any dog in Paddy's place.  You don't
understand!"  The girl turned hurriedly away and then walked up
slowly to her room.

"You are not going to the office this morning, my dear," called
Aunt Elizabeth after her.

But in a few minutes Sylvia was down stairs again and dressed for
the street.

"I am sorry dear," she said to her aunt.  "It was stupid of me.  I
shall not be home for lunch."

"Oh, I wish you would just stay at home this morning after your
shock and--and all."

"Oh, no, no, I would rather go down to the office.  They are really
very busy you know.  Don't look at me like that.  I am quite fit--
though I was a fool this morning."

"A fool?  Well I wouldn't just say that, but he seems a very
pleasant young man and--"

"Oh never mind him.  He can take care of himself.  And for that
matter so can I."

"I'm not so sure," said her aunt as the door closed behind the
girl.  "I'm sure I don't know what the girls are coming to these
days.  'Jack' and 'Sylvia' indeed!  With half-an-hour's
acquaintance.  Well, well, it is beyond me."  On this despairing
note Aunt Elizabeth took up the daily burden of her household
duties.  Her dead sister's child was to her as the light of her
eyes, and a dear and loving niece, obedient and careful in all
things.  But she was of the modern world.  For instance, after
graduating from a perfectly trustworthy Ladies' College in Ottawa,
with a year in Edinburgh added, she had insisted upon a Business
College training, and six months ago had gone into the office of
what had been her father's business.  Vainly her Aunt had insisted
that this was quite unnecessary.  If she really wanted something to
occupy her she might take a select number of pupils in music.

"I'm sure your father would prefer this for you.  He certainly
spent enough money on your musical education, and your diploma
sufficiently attests your ability as a teacher--either vocal or
instrumental."

"Music teacher!  I love music too well to make money out of it.
Not that I don't love business.  James is quite pleased with my
office work too.  He often says I could manage the whole works."

"But it is so--well--common--not to say vulgar.  I mean for a young
lady, that is of your family.  Not that I have any foolish snobbery
of course."

But Sylvia with all her sweet gentleness had a core of steel in her
make-up, and an office girl she became and loved it.  So that was
that.

It was not that her aunt had any foolish notions that there was
anything degrading in office work.  Nothing of the sort.  But one
must be reasonable in these matters.  Whom for instance, would she
ever meet in the office of the Riverside Mills.  Working men,
commercial travellers, managers of other mills occasionally.  But
Sylvia only laughed at her aunt's notions.

"After two or three years I will take a big holiday, do the grand
tour and find me a man."

This was her Aunt's supreme anxiety.  The modern girl was so very
difficult.

"Find a man indeed!  What kind of man, with the world full of so
many undesirables."

"Now I quite liked that young man this morning," said Miss Murray
to herself.  "And there she--well, she has just flung him out of
the door."

Sylvia meanwhile was on her way to the office, weighted with a
sense of depression and failure.  The depression, she explained to
herself was the natural result of the loss of her beloved companion
in many a delightful ramble along the river side, and through the
woods, which everywhere still fringed the back lots of the farms
along the highway.  The sense of failure, however, was something
rather different.

"He will think me terribly ungrateful," she said to herself.  "And
really it was thoughtful of him to bring that puppy.  And last
night he was splendid.  He must be rather fine in his mind for it
was his idea that Paddy should be buried in the cut bank among all
the wild things.  Of course he will think me a silly little mutt."

Haunted by these musings she made her way down the street.
Everyone that met her halted her to offer sympathy for her loss
with congratulations for her escape and laudations of the heroic
conduct of the mysterious young man who had befriended her in need.
She knew his name and that he was very nice and kind, but that was
not much on which to build the romance which all her friends were
so set upon weaving round the incident.  Her way led her past the
drug store where the young man had so very effectually proved his
resourcefulness.  She felt she ought to run in and thank the clerk
who had so very promptly dealt with an emergency.  As she neared
the store she was startled by a sharp and very insistent barking.
A glance at a car standing in front of the store revealed the
Airedale puppy standing with his paws upon the sash of the open
window, indignantly demanding attention and release.  A swift
glance revealed no owner in sight.

"Oh you darling," she cried, running to the window.  "You are all
alone, what a shame!"

The puppy accepted her endearments, at first with sober reserve,
but very soon with frantic demonstrations of delight.

"He's an impatient little beggar, rather.  Hungry I guess."

She swiftly turned, a warm color lighting her face.

"Hungry?  What a shame!"

"You see we left Montreal rather early."

"Montreal?  Must be hours ago!"

"Well he broke his fast about eight, I guess."

"And that's three hours ago.  And he has had all that long ride.
Oh, I am so sorry.  It is all my fault."

She ran round to the other side and sprang into the seat.

"What?  Where are--I mean--what's the game?" asked Jack,
astonished.

"Breakfast, of course.  Come along.  Please don't wait.  The poor
little chap is just starving.  It's a shame to treat a puppy so.
They ought to be fed every two hours.  How would you like to miss a
meal like that?"  Her indignation rather abashed the young man.

"Well--of course--I rather expected--I mean--"

"Oh! certainly!  Rub it in.  It is my fault of course.  What are
you waiting for?  Get in."

"Sure thing.  Whatever you say of course.  Any way in particular?
I thought you were on your way to the office."

"Office?  What do you know about the office?  Who told you about
the office?  You have been discussing me with the general public, I
suppose.  Spreading the rumor of my silly inhospitality, if there
is such a word!  What are you waiting for?  Why don't you move?"

"Move?  Of course.  Let's move.  Certainly.  Ottawa?  Montreal?
The highway to Toronto is still open."  The car was moving swiftly
through the traffic.

"Right!" ordered Sylvia.

"Yes, my lady!"

"Up the hill!"

"Yes, my lady!  May I ask where your ladyship--"

"Breakfast of course.  Do you want the puppy's digestion ruined.
Regular feeding is absolutely necessary.  All the books and vets
say so.  He is just frantic with hunger.  Poor little darling.  Was
he just starved to death?"  Her arm was round the wriggling
Airedale.  "Everybody breakfast but you, fat lazy things."

"Fat!  Fat?  Say, where do you get that?  I resent the suggestion
of avoirdupois tissue in connection with you.  On the contrary I
have been most carefully observing the lithe sinuosity of your
adorable form."

"Sinuosity?  You think I'm an Amazon.  Well, you are wrong.  I
weigh just--"

"I know.  I am a judge of weights.  I remember estimating you, if I
remember rightly, at--"

"Stop it!  I won't have you estimating my weight."  Her face was a
rosy flame.  "Anyway I don't think it is exactly a nice thing to
take a mean advantage of me when I couldn't help myself.  But oh,
Jack it was very dear of you.  And I have been a perfect brute this
morning.  But you understand.  I just couldn't let any dog take
Paddy's place."

"Tut, tut my dear.  I was an ass.  A stupid confounded and
unmitigated ass."

"You were not.  You were just--I mean."

"Oh, go on, why did you stop?"

"Oh, I can't say it.  I can't tell you--last night I kept thinking
how awfully understanding you were.  Thinking of everything.
Especially that dear spot for Paddy to lie.  Oh, that was so lovely
of you!"  The blue eyes were slightly misty.

"Please don't.  You know--I mean go right on.  I love to hear you.
But--well last night.  I spent hours laying you out carefully in
your coffin--flowers--mourners--and everything!"

"Stop it!  You are quite silly.  And besides, here we are.  What
will Aunt Elizabeth say?  I don't care, the pup must have his
breakfast."

"May I say just a word?" said Jack with anxious gravity as they
stopped at the door.

"Well it's just this.  I've come to the conclusion that you are a
perfect darling, and I want--"

"Hush!" she hissed, her face in a soft glow.  "Here's Aunt
Elizabeth.  I think she rather approves of you."

"And her niece?" said Jack in a low anxious tone.

"Held in retentis?"

"Where?  Who?"

"So Mr. Matheson our minister says.  Here we are Aunt Elizabeth.
Do you know this poor little pup has had no breakfast?  And he is
just perishing."

The girl gathered up the frantic puppy in her arms murmuring sweet
endearments, and ran off to relieve his famine.

"Some dogs have all the luck," grumbled Jack looking after her.



CHAPTER III


"Sy-y-l-via!"

"Yes, Aunt Elizabeth."

"Can you wait to take a letter?"

"Ten minutes--only--you know I can't be late."

"Give me five."

"By the way, Auntie, did you write Jack about dinner to-morrow
night.  You were to let him know, you remember."

"Of course, don't disturb me.  I am writing the closing sentences,
and they are important."

"All right dear."

The letter which was being concluded was as follows:


Hilltop House,
Riverside,
May 17th, 1928.

My dear Arabella,

This letter you must answer at once.  I am in a swither.  I told
you about Sylvia's accident--Paddy and the young man.  Well this is
about the young man.  John Tempest is his name.  He is hanging
about Sylvia--nice enough--indeed fascinating and all that--has a
wonderful car, abundance of time and money--and is now devoting
himself to my little girl.  She is a sharp, clever girl in some
ways--in some ways a silly child.  No sense about young men.  She
treats them like chums, as if she were one of themselves.  She has
no sense of sex.  Don't be shocked.  You know what I mean, if any
one does.  Nothing crude or vulgar, but just plain human.  She
plays about with young men, or old men, as I say, as if she were
one of themselves.  All very fine, and wholesome and innocent, but
well--you know--Then she has no sense of social values.  You know I
am no snob, but all this stuff about the equality of men I consider
nonsense.  And so do you.

What I want you to do is to find out all about this John Tempest--
his family--his character--his prospects.  I have only one girl,
not of my flesh, though she might have been, as you know, if I
hadn't been a stubborn fool.  And she is not going to throw herself
away on any man who has a handsome face and a clever tongue, but
nothing else--not if her Aunt Elizabeth can help it.

Sylvia has no sense as to breeding and social standing.  You ought
to hear her with the butcher boy--a red-faced creature.  She smiles
at him and chatters away to him till the boy doesn't know whether
he is standing on his heels or his head.  Then she comes in
perfectly radiant and says:  "Isn't he just sweet!"  I lose
patience with her.  She treats my washerwoman as if she were the
banker's wife, indeed very much better.  She doesn't hesitate to
throw her arms round Maggie's neck and kiss her.  Of course Maggie
is a very nice woman, quite respectable and very clean and all
that, but after all one doesn't kiss one's washwoman.  You know
what I mean.  Of course they all adore her.  The butcher boy gets
the best cuts for her, and Maggie must spend hours over her frocks.
She would gladly give her fingers, one by one, if she thought
Sylvia would be the better for them.

I can see she is attracted by this young man.  I don't want any
heart-break for my little girl.  I think he is getting quite mad
about her, if I am any judge of signs.  I used to be anyway.  And
after all, the years don't change the hearts of humans.

She is very young for her years.  Thank God they keep young longer
than we did.  She is just twenty-one.  Fancy when her mother was
her age she had a baby a year old, and you had two of them.  I
wonder at the cheek of you and the courage.

But young as she is she is very much on her feet, awfully efficient
in her work.  James MacDonald, our foreman, a Glengarry MacDonald,
(the Bhan not the Dhu MacDonalds, we are Glengarry folk you
remember), said the other day:  "She has the best business head in
the bunch of us.  She ought to be manager."  And sweet as she is
she has her father's disposition.  He was a stubborn man; and her
mother's too--the Murrays--were not much better, if any--as indeed
I know to my cost.  Ah me!  If I had only been a little less
stubborn, and he too--well, it is not Sylvia's aunt I would be to-
day.  Twenty-two years ago!  Well I have paid my price, and drop by
drop!  Though no one but you knows it.

But I want my little girl to make no mistake.  So write as I tell
you.  I am trusting you.  Indeed I have no one else to advise me,
unless indeed the new minister, Mr. Matheson from Glasgow, a
learned man, and a fine preacher too and obviously a gentleman.
But I can hardly discuss my niece's love affairs with him.  He is
about my own age, and a bachelor.  Now be quiet!  I can hear you
giggle.  All the old maids and widows in the congregation are
getting quite fidgetty about him--silly old things!

Now write me, my dear, by to-morrow's post.  I am depending on you.

Your old friend,

LIZZIE MURRAY

P.S.  Montreal, with its mountain and river must be grand these
days, but you ought to see our River, with its hill sides just
beginning to burst with the glory of spring.

P.S.S.  What a long letter, you know me.

L.M.


Miss Arabella Foster did not fail her friend.  Her answering letter
caught the very next post.  After various reminiscent excursions
and sage advices, especially in reference to the new minister, the
letter proceeded to deal with the main issue.


Now as to Jack Tempest, let me say right away that I am not to be
trusted.  The young devil is a friend of mine, and indeed of the
whole family, especially the girls.  In fact, he is my Tom's best
friend--which may not be much to his credit, for Tom is a thorough
scamp.

Jack graduated in engineering, and would have got his medal but for
his pranks.  Do you remember that terrible Convocation night when
the whole business was broken up in confusion by the weird electric
signs that would flash on and off during the speeches:

     'Time's up.'

     'Silly old ass.'

     'Speak up, don't mutter.'

These were some of them.  What a row!  Well, it was Jack Tempest
who was largely responsible.  Do you remember his indignant
protests against this disreputable conduct, standing up there in
the audience looking like a grave senator.  It was hugely funny.
But yet I like Jack.  He is no saint.  But he is honest and
straight--a wee thocht wild.  He is an engineer, can take his car
apart and put it together.  Has an uncanny gift for machinery.  The
General Electric offered him a big job, but his father wanted him
in his office.  The old man is in bonds and stocks, making heaps of
money, organizing companies and floating all sorts of concerns.  An
old pirate.  They are all afraid of him in "The market."  So Jack
is a bond seller and loathes it.  But as he says he operates
chiefly on the golf course, and in the clubs.  Now don't get
panicky about him.  If he wanted one of my girls to-morrow I would
let him have her.  But then I would see to it that he would quit
fooling.

So there you are, my dear.  Your Sylvia has her head screwed on the
right way.  Let the children play their own game.  What's God for
anyway?

How is the minister?  It would be a shame if Miss Euphemia Straith
would pick the plum right under your nose.

Yours affectionately,

ARABELLA F.

P.S.  I'm coming out to see you and may take Sylvia back with me
for a week-end.


It can hardly be said that Miss Foster's letter brought much
comfort to Miss Elizabeth's heart.  She glanced at the letter.
"He's wild--'making heaps of money--bonds and stocks'--not much
good ever came from that.  Well, Mr. Jack Tempest, you can't have
my little girl, if you're going to be wild.  You'd break her dear,
honest, sweet little heart.  No.  You'll have to kill me first, or
make me kill you."

Her face looked old and grey.

"'Let the children play their own game'--But it's no game.  It's
life--and death--and hell may be.  Oh God--'What's God for anyway?'
Yes, she's right enough there."  She fell on her knees, put her
hands up high:  "God, do you hear me?  God, do anything you like to
me, but my little girl!  God!  God!  Don't let him hurt her."
Again and again she moaned out her cry, till she heard Sylvia's
voice downstairs calling her.

"Where are you, Auntie?  We're here, and hungry as hawks."

"Oh hello! dearie!  Just run into the kitchen and see if Annette is
quite right.  I shall be down in five minutes."  She dashed to the
bath-room, dabbed her eyes, rubbed her face gently.

"What a wreck I am!"

A little touch of color--of powder--a quick brush to her hair--and
with a gallant lift to her head she came down to meet Jack.

"I must be nice to him," she said to herself resolutely.

It was a small dinner party, and very select for Miss Elizabeth was
in no mood to preside at any party calling for any undue exercise
of her wonted dignity and grace.  She had in her mind a very
definite purpose.  She would find out for herself just what sort of
a young man this was.  Hence she had enlisted the aid of her
minister, not for any advice he might give her, but because she
knew his quite remarkable gift of meaningless, but quite
entertaining conversation.

"Mr. Matheson, will you take my niece, please.  Mr. Tempest, you
will perhaps, put up with me," said Miss Elizabeth.

"I am greatly honored," said Jack, with his very best bow.

The dinner was very simple, but such as might delight the heart and
satisfy the desires of hungry men, and withal was served in perfect
style by Annette, looking very smart in her uniform of black and
white.

Mr. Matheson more than justified the hopes of his hostess.  He was
evidently a man of wide reading, he was thoroughly en rapport with
the topics of the day, and he had besides the rare gift of
instinctively discerning the special theme most congenial to each
of the guests in turn, and of leading the conversation to that
topic.  Beginning with her music, he soon discovered that Sylvia
had no desire to discuss her newest songs.  She had so little time
for practice that she was thoroughly disgusted with her singing.
She had forgotten all her teacher's instruction in voice production
and playing, she had really quite given up her exercises.

"Yes, indeed she is very naughty," said her Aunt, "she really has
quite a good voice, but she will not give the time she should to
her practice.  The radio is killing our real love of music."

"It really does take time and energy as well," said Mr. Matheson.
"One does not keep up the voice to form without work, hard work.
And Miss Sylvia's days are quite filled with all her varied
activities."

"Such as they are," murmured Sylvia, with an apologetic grin, at
Jack.

"Oh indeed she is no idler," said Miss Murray.  "She is one of the
busiest young ladies in this town."

"Ah!  Indeed!" ejaculated Jack.

"Yes, indeed, what with her office, from which she practically
administers the Riverside Mills Company," said the minister.

"Oh, Mr. Matheson!"  Sylvia's blushes made violent protest.

"The Riverside Mills Company," repeated the minister with emphasis,
"and her reading club, and her dramatics among the employees, not
to speak of her Church activities."

"Ha ha!  Church activities!" laughed Jack as if the minister had
uttered a pleasantry.

"Church activities, my dear sir," repeated Mr. Matheson very
gravely.  "Why, my dear sir--"

"Oh Mr. Matheson, you make me ashamed.  I often think I ought to
give up my classes and clubs."

"Miss Sylvia--not another word," implored Mr. Matheson, "when you
give up I shall at once resign.  She has a quite remarkable Boys'
Club you know Mr. Tempest--"

"Please Mr. Matheson!  They are really a lot of the darlingest kids--
and they do all the work--I only just show--"

"Yes, that's all you do--just show them how to stop being young
devils, and be young gentlemen.  You ought to see that club Mr.
Tempest!"

"I must indeed!  Will you?" Jack began eagerly.

"No," said Sylvia, with abrupt decision.

"You really should, Mr. Tempest.  You are interested in boys'
work?" asked Miss Elizabeth.

"Oh--ah--sure!  Tremendously!"

"Fine," said Miss Elizabeth.  "Do you have a club or anything--"

"Ah--well--a club?  Yes--That is, not exactly a Boys' Club--you
know."

"Oh, I see," said Mr. Matheson, genially coming to his aid.  "You
probably run to athletics and that sort of thing."

"Exactly--athletics--of course--" said Jack gratefully accepting
the minister's aid.

"The Montreal Athletic Association and, you know, the sort of
thing," he continued.  "Awfully interesting.  Clean sport you know--
manly exercises--and--and--"  Jack faltered a bit as to details.

"Exactly!  Most important.  Indeed I do think that it is one of the
most hopeful indications of the general ethical trend of to-day."

"Tremendous thing you know, sir.  Really the interest in clean
sport in the city is--a--quite keen--and all that."

"Quite indeed," agreed Mr. Matheson.  "And in these days when
business life is carried on at such high tension, you know, young
men require--"

"Exactly!" said Jack warmly.  "You see, the competition is
something fierce--really--the market is well--you have no idea--I
assure you!"

"I hear only rumors, of course," smiled Mr. Matheson.  "But I can
imagine."

"You are an engineer, Mr. Tempest, I understand," said Miss
Elizabeth.

"Engineer!  Not on your--" exclaimed Jack, "I mean--not at all--
nothing so relaxing, I assure you."

"Oh, I understood you had taken a degree in engineering," Miss
Elizabeth's blush indicated a sudden confusion.

"A degree--oh--who?  I mean--Yes I did--at McGill."

"Did I mention that to you Miss Elizabeth?" said Mr. Matheson
gallantly hastening to her relief.

"Mr. Tempest is in bonds and stocks, Auntie," said Sylvia quietly.
"Tempest, Boyle, Price & Company, you know."

"Ah--of course--so many young fellows now-a-days switch courses,
especially in this new and amazing trend toward the economic
activities of life," said Mr. Matheson, obviously seeking to be
helpful.  "Your father's firm?"

"Yes.  Matter of fact, my Dad was quite keen on my going into the
business.  I can't say I liked the idea."

"You prefer engines, eh?" said Mr. Matheson.  "I don't wonder.  Not
that bonds and stocks haven't their place in the modern economic
world, indeed in these days apparently a very large place."

"Why Mr. Matheson do you understand stocks and that sort of thing?"
asked Jack.  "I confess I know nothing whatever about the Stock
Market!  Well you know--I mean a great many people seem to think
that--what I mean is--don't you know?"

"Exactly so," said Mr. Matheson brightly, "stock gambling and that
sort of thing.  Wall Street--eh--old Vanderbilt, Fisk, Field, Gould
that lot!  Ha ha!  Great old pirates those old boys--good deal like
Captain Kidd and Morgan of the Spanish Main days.  Fascinating
stories--remember reading about them.  But those days are gone, I
suppose."

"Gone?  My dear sir, don't you believe it.  The present Wall Street
operators would make old Commodore Vanderbilt, Drew, Field, Fisk
and that lot look like kids playing marbles on Sunday for keeps."
And for some minutes Jack enlarged, with a varied wealth of detail
upon the lurid characteristics and eccentricities of the modern
stock broker, with illustrations from real life, till Miss
Elizabeth's eyes grew wide with horror.

"But the Montreal market Mr. Tempest is quite different, I
suppose," said Mr. Matheson.

"Don't you believe it, sir.  If our boys had the command of the
little iron men--"

"Iron men?" gasped Miss Elizabeth, a dazed look in her eyes.

"Jack--Mr. Tempest is just being funny, Auntie," said Sylvia.  "St.
James Street is not at all like Wall Street."

"St. James Street?  Well now!  Let me tell you there are just as
many--"

"But Mr. Tempest," said Mr. Matheson, pleasantly cheerful, but
speaking with impressive deliberation, "there is a legitimate and
perfectly honest and honorable business carried on in St. James
Street.  I mean--you know--by quite honest and honorable people."

"Honest and honorable?  Oh--yes--oh most certainly!" replied Jack,
hurriedly, casting a swift glance at Sylvia's face.  "Stock broking
is a straight enough business and--"

"And an absolutely necessary business, I mean necessary to our
modern methods of industrial development," suggested Mr. Matheson.

"Why, of course!  Most certainly!" said Jack.

"I am very ignorant Miss Elizabeth of the modern methods in stock
broking--that is no practical knowledge, and to me it appears
something like this."  And for the next fifteen minutes Mr.
Matheson proceeded to give in lucid simple and convincing
terminology, a most complete, if somewhat rosy picture of the
operations of the Stock Market, which made bond and stock selling
take on the aspect of a truly noble and patriotic enterprise and
one entirely necessary to the industrial development of the
country.

As the minister proceeded with his lucid smiling discourse the
faces of his audience gradually cleared.  Miss Elizabeth's face
lost its disturbed appearance, Sylvia's look of distressed anxiety
gave place to one of pleased, but puzzled amazement, and Jack
gradually recovered his air of debonair complacency.  Mr. Matheson
had rendered the company a fine bit of service.  They were all
correspondingly grateful.

"Mr. Matheson, may I ask where did you operate chiefly?" enquired
Jack.

"Operate?"

"Yes, where did you play the market?  In the old country?  London,
I guess.  They tell me that's where they get the really high
polish.  Those old country birds are the real eagles."

"Have you the very slightest idea what the young man is referring
to?" enquired Mr. Matheson of his partner.

"He wants to know where you learned about stock broking, and that
sort of thing," said Sylvia, giving him a dazzling smile.

"Stock broking?  I?  My dear boy, I would not recognize a stock if
I saw it on the street.  Not I--But the rather painful experience
of some of my friends in 1924-25 set me studying the whole economic
basis of stock operations in England, on the continent and to a
less degree of stock operations in America.  I came to the
conclusion then that the whole business of Stock manipulation is
one of the very important businesses in the world, and in the hands
of honorable and capable men can be of the very highest service to
humanity."

Jack gasped at him.

"You really mean it?"

"Most certainly.  Of course I am using the term 'stock manipulation'
in a very wide and somewhat academic sense to include the general
financing of the industrial and commercial operations of the world.
For instance, had it not been for the magnificent services of the
great American and British financiers and their courageous and wise
handling of the various markets in Europe, as witness for instance
the Dawes plan in 1924, the whole world would have been in complete
and chaotic financial collapse.  Of course, the whole matter was
largely political, but the salvation of Europe was secured when the
financiers took the whole business over from the politicians.

"Mr. Matheson," said Jack in solemn amazement.  "I am a babe in
arms playing with my bottle.  I haven't a ghost of an idea of what
you are talking about."

"But surely you remember that when under the burden of Reparations,
that hideous legacy of hate handed to Germany by Versailles, the
whole scheme of payment had broken down, the United States
Secretary of State, Hughes, made the proposal to lift the whole
business out of politics and make it a business proposition, you
remember that?"

"Not a thing!" confessed Jack.

"Oh yes Jack, you remember the Dawes Committee."

"Well, I've heard of the Dawes Committee of course, and that they
did something to get Germany out of the hole--but what they did--I
haven't an earthly."

"And you a bonds and stocks broker!" exclaimed Mr. Matheson.

The minister's bland smile took the steel out of his thrust.

"Not that kind I'm afraid.  I just push the stuff at the boys and
indicate the dotted line, you know."

"You are young yet, my dear boy--but yours is a noble calling and--"

"Really?  A calling Mr. Matheson?  Like the ministry?"  Miss
Elizabeth was plainly startled, if not shocked.

"'Calling'--Miss Murray, a noble calling indeed.  What is nobler
than the organizing of a whole people for cooperative service in
the building up of a nation's industry?  That is what they did for
Germany.  Organized all the German railways into one great stock
company--twenty-six billion gold marks.  I remember the figures
well, eleven billions mortgage bonds, two billions preferred stock,
thirteen billions common stock.  The figures stuck in my mind
because of the thirteens--unlucky number, eh?  Oh, it was a
wonderful achievement.  It was the Americans mainly who did that
for the world."

"And the British," said Sylvia, her blue eyes shining.

"And the British," replied the minister.  "Yes, the British did
their part for the rehabilitation of Germany.  But the job is not
yet finished."

"Things seem to be humming just now all right," said Jack
cheerfully.

"SEEM to be?  Yes SEEM to be!"  Mr. Matheson shook his head
dubiously.

"But business is booming--at least in the United States and Canada
too," Jack insisted.

"BOOMING?  Yes but--Well, I know nothing about this country or
America either."

"I wouldn't say that, sir," said Jack with obvious respect.  "I
believe you know a whole lot more than most of the hot air artists
on the radio these days.  You are like my Dad.  He has no use for
this boom.  But the boys at the tape side are all for it.  And
believe me, they are making money."

"Everybody is making money," said Sylvia, with a little laugh.
"Even the Riverside Mills girls.  But James MacDonald is shaking
his head, like Mr. Matheson."

"And a great many others are shaking their heads, Miss Sylvia.  A
great many wise folks in the old country.  But of course they are
rather old-fashioned."

"But everyone says Germany too is booming," said Jack, "I heard Mr.
Black say so no later than yesterday."

"Yes," said Mr. Matheson, "but my weekly TIMES is calling attention
to the fact that Germany is living on borrowed gold.  About
£750,000,000 imported during the last four years, largely from
America."

"Say, you'd better come in and talk to my Dad.  He would agree with
you.  But the younger chaps are all against him."  Jack appeared to
be lost in admiration for the minister.

"I assure you I know nothing about the finances of this country or
America.  We old country folk may be old-fashioned--'but I hae my
doots.'"

"They are all certainly out for big business.  I can't get the
papers out fast enough for the new companies, new mergers, new
combines," said Jack.

"Yes, I know.  They even want to merge poor little us," said
Sylvia, smiling at Jack.

"What Riverside Mills?  What merger is that?  Don't let 'em.  You
just let me merge you, if you are going to merge.  I'll see that
you get the best possible terms.  Don't look at 'em."

"I'm not," said Sylvia cheerfully.

"Hurray!" cried Jack.

"Sound lassie," said Mr. Matheson.  "But Miss Elizabeth, I must
awa' tae ma kirk session.  Please don't rise."

"But we are all finished, Mr. Matheson.  So sorry you must go.
Can't you come in later?  These young folk need some sound advice."

"I'll say so," said Jack heartily.  "Some of us, anyway."  But the
minister could not promise.

"Oh do!"  Sylvia's blue eyes made him hesitate.

"Now lassie, nane o' that wi' yon glintin e'en.  Ye're takin' a
mean advantage of an auld haverin' buddie.  But perhaps--for a cup
o' coffee and a pipe, if the session prove unco' dreich--guid
nicht!"



CHAPTER IV


After the minister had gone and they had adjourned to the drawing-
room, Jack burst out with emphatic gestures.

"That man is a walking fraud."

"Fraud?" Sylvia exclaimed.  "Why Jack?"

"A fraud?  Mr. Tempest," cried Miss Elizabeth plainly shocked.

"Fraud!  The most complete--Look at that sweet innocent cherubic
face.  It simply invites you to pour forth all the bombastic and
bally-ass ignorance you are capable of, with the sure conviction
that you can get away with it.  And then, with a smile he proceeds
to disgorge his expert stuff that makes one feel the bally ass he
is."

"Mr. Matheson is an excellent man," said Miss Elizabeth.

"Excellent!  I should say!  Why he told me more about stocks and
bonds in fifteen minutes than I have learned in St. James Street in
the last two years.  And all behind that baby face of his!"

"I was glad, very glad indeed Mr. Tempest, to hear him speak of
stock gambling as a noble calling," said Aunt Elizabeth.

"He? ah--not exactly--I mean you know not exactly stock gambling,
Miss Murray."

"But he did say a noble calling, Sylvia, did he not?"

"Yes, Auntie, stock buying and selling--not stock gambling."

"Oh well, I shall certainly ask him about that," said Miss
Elizabeth.

"But Auntie, he will be tired talking about stocks and bonds and
things like that."

"Will he, then?  We'll see," said Aunt Elizabeth.

"By Jove," muttered Jack, who with Sylvia was turning over a book
of prints.  I'm seeing ghosts and things!  Say, that cherub had me
scared cold."

"Oh, he is just a dear.  Wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Fly?  Perhaps not--but what about a mosquito or a cockroach, as
some of us bonds and stocks men are."

"So bad?"

"Worse!  I want to tell you there are stocks being pushed to-day
and sold up into the thousands that are three parts wind."

"You don't sell those, Jack?"  Sylvia's blue eyes were searching
his face.

"Say, what about a little vocal exercise?" said Jack.  "I hate to
think of the dollars and dollars invested in your vocal chords
bringing no return.  It's a sinful waste!"

"Sing a little, Sylvia dear," said her Aunt.

Sylvia sang after much protestation some old songs, with Jack
turning her music and making selection of his favorites.  Sylvia's
was no great voice, but her instructors had obviously been sound in
taste and in technique, so that in her choice of songs, and in her
style of singing, the result was altogether charming.

"Oh, here we are!" cried Jack.  "This is a perfect gem.  Will you
do this?"

"Which one is that, Mr. Tempest?" enquired Miss Elizabeth, looking
up from her solitaire.

"Oh this lovely old canzonet of Haydn's:  'My Mother Bids me Bind
my Hair.'--A really perfect song and just written for you."

"But I don't do the accompaniment," said Sylvia.  "My teacher
always played that for me."

"Couldn't I do it for you?" said Aunt Elizabeth, coming to the
piano.

"Not without practice, darling," said Sylvia.  "The accompaniment
means so much and the voice and piano must go together quite
perfectly."

"Quite right," said Jack with emphasis, "but I happen to know this--
used to play for a friend of mine.  Try me out.  You hum it while
I run it over."

"I don't believe I could.  You see it must be done exactly right, I
mean--I--would likely spoil the rhythm and--"

But Jack was already at the piano, humming the air while from his
fingers the exquisitely delicate accompaniment flowed like a
rippling sunlit rivulet.

"Oh how lovely!" said Sylvia, humming with him.

"There, I'll try not to ruin it," said Jack.

"Oh, but you won't, I just feel we can do it," cried Sylvia, her
lovely face eager with delight.

Not often is this exquisite, dainty creation of Haydn's rendered
with the simplicity, the restraint, the perfect regard for rhythm
which it demands.  But such was the perfection of sympathetic
harmony in expression, in rhythm between voice and piano, that when
the song ended on its exquisitely delicate final notes "a-way,"
with the two pianissimo staccato concluding notes, Jack seized her
hands in his and cried:

"Oh my dear! my dear!  How lovely!  How perfect!"  And sat silent
bending over the keys.

"And yet not quite perfect," he added.  "I spoiled it a bit."

"No no, I never sang it so well!" insisted Sylvia.

"No!  I really believe you can do it better.  You know I dominated
you.  I was leading you.  You see I didn't trust you utterly.  I am
afraid to ask you to do it again.  And yet--and yet--I should love
to try it.  And let me suggest a touch or two, will you?  See just
here, on the words 'or creep' you must c-r-e-e-p a little more.
But in the next verse, on the words, 'or dead', first time, a very
short hold, second time longer--like this--" and he hummed over the
phrases, "And those last broken, breathless words 'is--a-way--is
a-way--' you understand.  What do you think?"

"You are right, exactly right," cried Sylvia with enthusiasm.  "Let
me try--"  She hummed the words.

"Perfect, oh just perfect!" said Jack.  "Now listen to what I tell
you," he added solemnly.  "You forget all about me and my
accompaniment.  Put your heart into the girl's heart.  Perhaps you
don't want to try?"

"But I do!  I want to!" cried the girl, her face pale, her eyes
aglow.

"Well look at the words again.  Think of, see, hear that lovely,
lonely girl and her misunderstanding mother.  And when you are
ready let me know."

Sylvia took up the music and read slowly the quaint old-fashioned
words, set the music quietly back upon the piano and stood waiting.

"Now for heaven's sake, forget the piano," Jack urged in a low
voice.

"Go on," she said quietly, and from under his fingers the soft
ripple of notes began to flow.

Jack's suggestions produced their full effect.  The voice assumed
command and held it throughout, the accompaniment sustaining,
stressing, echoing but never dominating or intruding.  The effect
was altogether delightful.  The gentle pathos, the poignantly
sweet, heart-breaking appeal breathed, sobbed, whispered through
the steady flowing stream of the girl's pure, clear tones, straight
to the hearts of her hearers.

"Sylvia dear!" cried her Aunt coming to her.  "What is it?"

The girl's eyes were full of unshed tears.  She turned and looked
at her aunt in dumb wonder.

"I--was--thinking--of the poor little girl," she said.  Then after
a moment of silence, "Oh I am just silly," she cried and turned
away from the piano.

"Silly!" muttered Jack.  "By Jove what art!  Or is it art?  And a
voice too!  What a voice!  You'd draw blood from a stone!  Oh, if
they could only have heard you!"

"Who Jack?" asked the girl in surprise.

"Oh that gang of music butchers in the city, with their airs and
their arts and graces.  But could you do it again?"

"Perhaps, if you were playing, Jack," she replied simply.  "And if
I could see the poor little girl again."

"By Jove, I'd like to try it!" said Jack, as if to himself.  "And
yet I don't know.  But I'll never forget this night.  And now I'm
away home."

"You will wait for coffee, Mr. Tempest," urged Aunt Elizabeth.
"Mr. Matheson will be sure to be in very soon now."

"And more stocks and bonds.  No, no, not for me--not to-night--
thank you, Miss Murray.  Do please ask me again.  I want to come."

"Oh, do come again," cried Sylvia in a quick warm voice.

Her Aunt cast a sharp glance at her niece's face and her lips drew
close in a firm line.

"We are very simple people here, Mr. Tempest," she said with quiet
dignity, "but we shall always be glad to see you.  Of course, it is
a long drive, and you must be--very fully occupied."

"Ask me," pleaded Jack.  "Just ask me.  But why could not Miss
Sylvia--you and Miss Sylvia come to town some evening--say
Saturday, and stay the week-end with us?"  The young man's voice
was seriously eager.

"What, Sunday?" exclaimed Miss Elizabeth.

"Not Sunday, Jack," said Sylvia.  "You see I have my class."

"Your class?"

"Yes, my boys you know."

"Oh--oh yes--ah of course--they would certainly hate it I guess--
Well some other night."

"I'd love to," said Sylvia simply.

"Thank you Mr. Tempest.  Some time--Yes--we--will see--later," said
Miss Elizabeth, but only with careful enthusiasm.

Her niece looked at her in quick surprise.  Something of the eager
light died in her eyes, but she said no word.  They accompanied
their guest to the door and stood in the radiant glory of the May
moon while he got his car going.

"And you won't forget that 'creep,' Miss Sylvia," he said leaning
out through the window.

"Oh no no! never!" she cried, running out close to the car.

"Good night again," said Jack offering his hand.  The girl took his
hand in a warm firm grasp.

"Good-night, Jack!" she said softly.

"What a night!" he said looking up at the moon.  "What a night!" he
said again, looking into the lovely face so near him.  "I shall
never forget this night, Sylvia.  Oh Sylvia, will you?"

Her hands went swiftly to her breast.  "No--oh, no, no, Jack, I
shall never forget," she whispered.



CHAPTER V


The office of the Riverside Mills, an old, log farm house, stood
back from the main Montreal-Ottawa highway in what had once been an
orchard.  Only two or three old apple trees, now just breaking into
bloom, remained flanking each side of the door.  The approach had
been laid out in a broad cement drive, with a border of flowers now
peeping up through the black soil.  The office stood on a slight
rising ground which at the back sloped sharply down toward the
noble, swiftly flowing Ottawa, at present tawny with the spring
rains.

Up to the office door swept a quite impressive Cadillac from which
stepped a big man, grandly arrayed in a spring suit of grey tweed,
with a flower in his buttonhole, soft grey hat, tilted at quite a
"Prince of Wales" angle over the left ear.  A very fine gentleman
indeed, and obviously conscious of his impressive appearance.  His
attire, the massive ring on his little finger and the very fragrant
Corona in the corner of his mouth proclaimed a gentleman of
luxurious, if not refined taste, and no common drummer.

Opening the door he was surprised, but not at all disconcerted, to
find himself in an office that for all its smart and efficient
equipment in desks, filing cabinets, safe, etc., still carried
somehow in its furnishing a suggestion of almost feminine
refinement.  It was spotlessly free of dust, there were flowers
about the room, in the windows, half-a-dozen prints on the cedar
lined walls, curtains on the windows.

Sitting behind a desk at his right was a young lady, with quiet
pale face, and with extraordinarily bright black eyes.  Immediately
she rose.

"Good morning," she said in a very calm voice.

"Oh, good morning, GOOD morning!  Well, well!  This IS a sweet
little office, and a sweet little officer, too.  Ha, ha!  Rather
neat that, eh?"

"You were wanting something?"  The black eyes were very steady and
very cold.

"Oh, a whole lot of things.  Some of 'em right here, but not just
at the present.  Meantime, my dear, could you lead me to the
secretary of this outfit?" he glanced at the card.  "Mr. S.
Rivers."  He was leaning confidentially over the desk.

"Will you sit down, please?" said the girl, pointing to an armchair
tinted blue and white.

"Oh, I'm all right here.  And say little black eyes, I didn't quite
catch your name, eh?"

"Will you please sit down?"  The tone was imperiously polite.

"Well, little one, as I was saying, will you please tell your
Secretary, Mr. S.--Sam is it, or Solomon?  Anyway, Mr. S. Rivers
that I should like a few minutes with him."

"May I ask the nature of your business, and your name, please?"

"U-u-g-g-h!"  The gentleman shivered.  "Chilly weather!  Eh?  Ah,
here you are."  He handed his card to the young lady.  "And if you
would be so kind, would you please suggest to your chief that
speed, despatch, time in short is of the essence of this interview.
In fact, I am catching a director's meeting, eh?"

The young lady with quite unmoved countenance took the card, tapped
at the door and passed into the inner office.

"Guess that'll hold Miss Icicle, eh?  Ain't she chilly though?
Say, you wouldn't be like that, not by the colour of your eyes.
I prefer 'em blonde myself."

"Oh, I beg your pardon?  You were saying."  The blonde was
excessively bright and cheery and spoke with a slight drawl.

"Oh, nothing at all, my dear.  But I could say a whole lot.  If
you'd only give me a chance, what?  Oh, hello!  Here she is--"

"The Secretary is very sorry, Mr. Brady, your appointment was for
one-thirty, I believe.  Perhaps you would call then at one-thirty?"

"At one-thirty?  My dear, does Mr. Rivers realize that my time is
important.  At one-thirty I am due at a director's meeting in
Montreal.  And I must have my report on these Riverside Mills ready
for that meeting.  You got my letter?"

"Yes, we have it here, Mr. Brady," said the young lady, pulling out
a file.  "You set the hour at one-thirty."

"Oh, come, you know!  Say! let me see him just a minute."

Mr. Brady moved toward the inner office door.  But black eyes was
in his path with an OVER-MY-DEAD-BODY look on her face.

"Please sit down, Mr. Brady," she said pointing a very straight
finger to the blue and white chair, "and I shall enquire."  She
passed through the door.

"Say, where am I?  What's all the pressure?  What's all the big
celebration?  Orders from Government for a refurnishing of the
Parliament Buildings?"

"Oh, no sir.  We haven't quite got round to that yet," said the
blonde in a very brisk manner and with a most disarming smile.

"Say, sweetheart, you breathe a different atmosphere.  You're human--
you give me--real--real--palps, you know."

"Yes, cardiac reactions," suggested blondie brightly.

"Car--what?  Come again, cutie."

The office door opened suddenly and "black eyes" appeared.

"Will you please step in, Mr. Brady?" she said.

"Sure thing.  Good bye."  He winked at blondie, passed into the
office and stood gaping.  His hat came quickly from his head, his
cigar fell from his fingers.

"I--I--beg your pardon, Miss--are you--?"  Mr. Brady for once lost
his perfect equipoise, which was his characteristic with ladies.

"Good morning, Mr. Brady," said Sylvia, in her sweetest voice.
"Won't you please sit down?"

"But I--Holy Mike!  You're not the secretary?"  He pulled a card
from his pocket and read, "S. Rivers, Secretary, Riverside Mills."
"Say, they never told me.  I want to apologize for buttin' in like
this on a lady.  Fact is I thought you was some stubborn old grey
headed guy.  I do hope--"

"Please don't mind.  It is my own fault.  But really, 'Sylvia
Rivers, Secretary' looked rather silly.  It is a charming day."

"Lovely.  And you've got a lovely office--and them blossoms now--"

"Yes, aren't they lovely?  This was my father's first home, an old
log house, so I made it into an office.  I am very fond of it,"
said the girl with sweet seriousness.  "You want to speak of a--a--
kind of merger, I understand, a kind of--"

"Yes, Miss Rivers--a big thing--an amalgamation of all the
principal lumber and furniture concerns in Central Canada, Ontario
and Quebec, not including, of course, the big fellows in Hull.
They are bucking this.  The very kind of thing a young lady like
you ought to be glad to get into.  Here are the figures."

He laid his papers on the desk and in clear and lucid terms set
before her the main outlines of the scheme.  In fifteen minutes'
talk the main structural outlines of the proposed Central Canada
Lumber and Furniture Corporation stood clear before the eyes of the
Secretary of the Riverside Mills.

"It's a big thing, Miss Rivers.  This is the day of Big Business in
Canada, you know."

"And the poor little things, Mr. Brady?  Is there no place for them
in Canada any longer?"

"Nary a place!  They're gone phut!  Can't stand up against the
competition, mass production, high power salesmanship, low relative
overhead and mechanization--that word in big caps, Miss Rivers.
Now take your plant--by the way what is your capitalization, Miss
Rivers?"

The Secretary had her figures ready.

"My father put over $75,000 into mill, factory and tannery.  The
tannery is of course idle.  In those days materials were cheap,
indeed, he made his own right here, you see, out of our own timber
along the river.  To-day it would cost a great deal more to replace
the plant."

"But of course the plant is out of date now," suggested Mr. Brady.

"Not the factory.  The tannery is not modern, though the vats,
etc., are all there, but we won't count the tannery.  The sawmill
is fairly modern, and the factory not too bad."

"And what do you carry your whole plant at in your books?"

The girl hesitated.

"Should I tell you that?  Well yes, I will.  We have cut our
capitalization to between $25,000 and $35,000."

Mr. Brady paused abruptly.  This was a new experience for him.  In
preliminary negotiations, his first business was to get rid of the
padding.  This young girl in her simplicity had saved him all that
trouble.  "Say $30,000, Miss Rivers," he suggested and felt mean
about it.

"Now, I'm prepared to make you a very attractive offer, Miss
Rivers.  The Corporation will take over your whole plant at say
$50,000, $20,000 cash and $30,000 seven percent stock in the new
company."

"But it isn't worth $50,000, Mr. Brady," said the girl, her blue
eyes wide with surprise.

Mr. Brady gazed at her in amazement.  This again was a completely
new experience for him.

"Well, I mean, you see in the new Corporation each unit will become
more valuable, oh, immensely more valuable.  You see massed
production, modern machinery, low relative overhead, no competition
and all that."

"But how can you pay seven percent on $30,000 and also $20,000 in
cash.  That means a cash dividend of about $3,500.  You can't do
that, no business can."

"That's the Corporation's business.  Don't you worry.  This is Big
Business, see?"

"No, I'm afraid I can't."'

"But really you don't need to.  I can show you that others are
doing it right now.  Never fear, we are in a new world, with new
possibilities."  Mr. Brady was in his well-beaten trail and very
soon was making excellent time.

The Secretary was listening with puzzled and slightly anxious face.

"And you would really advise us to accept your offer, Mr. Brady?"

Once more Mr. Brady was conscious of a quite unusual qualm of
uncertainty, which he at once ejected from his system.

"Well, see here.  You have your $20,000 cash--nice little nest egg--
and you have your $30,000 stock in the big Corporation, a chance
to make big money there, and you get rid of all this worry--no more
work--"

"No more work!"  Dismay appeared in the blue eyes.

"No more work!" said Brady firmly.  "Aren't you dead sick of the
grind?"

"I love it!"  The blue eyes were shining.

"Love it?  Say, you don't mean it?"  Mr. Brady had another shock.

"Besides, what about my people?"

"Your people?"

"The workers here.  We run from fifty to sixty.  What would happen
to them?  You might close down this little plant."

"Eh?"  Another shock for Mr. Brady.  As a matter of fact the
possibility suggested was more than probable.  "Oh, they'd be
absorbed, find jobs somewhere."

"But their homes are here.  They were born here."

An idea suddenly came to Miss Sylvia.

"By the way, would you like to look through the factory?"

Mr. Brady, with never a glance at his watch made eager reply.
"Would you, could you spare the time?"

"Why yes, Mr. Brady, I'd like to."

"Come on!" he said.

Miss Sylvia sprang to her feet.  "Splendid!  Just a moment,
please."  She rang a bell and black eyes appeared.  "I am showing
Mr. Brady through the factory, Frances.  You might put these
through, please.  They are a bit fussy, but perhaps--"

"Yes Miss Sylvia!" said Frances.  "It won't be the least trouble."

"Thank you.  Now Mr. Brady, we won't bother with the sawmill.  It
is pretty ordinary.  We will just glance in at the engine room."

The engine room was like the front office for order and neatness.
Everything that could shine was shining.

"Good morning, Mack.  How is she running to-day?"

"Aweel, not that bad," said Mack with some hesitation.

"What's that hissing?" enquired Miss Sylvia.

"Ay, I micht hae kent ye'd catch that," replied Mack in disgust.
"Yon's a leaky valve, Miss Sylvia."

"Oh," said Miss Sylvia lightly.  "Nothing serious, I hope.  I mean
nothing wrong, Mack?"

"Na, na, Miss Sylvia, there's naething seriously wrang."  Mack's
tone was slightly reproachful.  "Naething like that."

"Of course not, Mack, I might have known."

"I'll set her richt the nicht.  She'll be singin' like a mavis the
morn's morn.  I canna bide that valve.  I'll sort it, mind ye."

"Never fear, but what you will, Mack.  How is the baby?"

"Improvin'.  She'll mak' oot, I doot."  Mack was constitutionally a
pessimist.

"But you are not anxious about her, Mack?"  Miss Sylvia's tone was
troubled.

"Hoots, never fash yersel, Miss Sylvia.  A wee pech an' a bit
hoast.  But she'll mak' through."

"You've had the doctor?  I told you, Mack."

"Oh, doctor?  Not him.  The wife canna bide a doctor.  A wee drap
o' ile and a guid rub o' goose grease and she'll win through."

"I must run in and see her, the darling.  You're not nearly careful
enough, Mack."

"Ay, but ye're the lassie," said Mack as the door closed behind
her.  Then he turned and shook his fist savagely at the engine.
"Dod blast ye!  An' ye wad select this verra day for yer capers, ye
hissin' deevil.  I'll sort ye the nicht ere I sleep."

From the engine room Miss Sylvia led the way to a room a little
apart.  "Would you like to see our Agricultural Implement
Department?"

"Agricultural Department?"

"Yes, we make fanning mills.  My father was very proud of The
Riverside Grain Purifier.  The patents are all his.  Are you
interested in fanning mills, Mr. Brady?"

"Am I interested in fanning mills?  You certainly said it.  Why
fanning mills is the two middle names of me.  Made and sold 'em for
years."  Mr. Brady fairly threw himself upon the fanning mills,
brushing aside Miss Sylvia's explanations.

"Hi!  What's this?"

"Oh, that's something quite new.  My very own pet device."  She
called a workman to her.

"Tom, show Mr. Brady how this works."

Mr. Brady was instantly absorbed.  "Say, this patented?  What, not
yet?  Look here Miss Rivers, before I leave this plant I'll dictate
letters to Ottawa and Washington applying for patents."

Miss Sylvia's voice rang out in delighted laughter.

"But Mr. Brady, your meeting?" she said, with demure shyness.

"Meeting?  What meeting?  Oh, meeting be--I mean--I'll make that
meeting all right.  Now, what next?"

"Well, I really must not keep you from your meeting."

"Forget that meeting.  I want to see this outfit."

From one department to another they made their way.  Mr. Brady full
of sympathetic and intelligent interrogatives, Miss Sylvia eager to
show off her pet machines, and their attendants.

As they arrived at the third and top flat Miss Sylvia paused at a
closed door and said:

"This room you will despise, but I am rather proud of it myself."

"Listen.  Wait a bit!" said Mr. Brady staying her hand as she
reached for the door knob.  "Be the powers I know that one, 'The
Rose of Tralee.'  Twenty years ago I last heard it in Ballymena.  A
lovely girl she was too.  My dear, she was a singin' bird.  Wait,
wait--"  The coarse fat face of the Irishman seemed to grow finer
as they stood listening.

"They always sing another along with that.  Can you wait?"

"Can I wait, is it?"

Following "The Rose of Tralee" came the "Old Londonderry Air," with
weird and it must be confessed rather "barber pole" harmonies.

"Hivens above, it's 'Danny Boy'!" said Mr. Brady.  Softly, to the
accompaniment of tapping hammers and the whirring of sewing
machines, came the music.  Mr. Brady waited till the very last
harmony sighed into silence.

Miss Sylvia opened the door and disclosed a large, airy room,
beautifully lighted, with flower-decked curtained windows, prints
on the walls, and in one corner a small upright piano.  Some twenty
girls were busy at a variety of jobs, sewing and leather stamping
machines, hand decorating kitchen and nursery furniture, window
curtains, lamp shades, knitting and quilting frames, children's
sleds and a host of other things for the home.

"The girls are on piece work with a minimum and maximum of stent
and wage," explained the secretary.

A tall, pale girl with large dark eyes came up to Miss Sylvia.

"We are just looking round, Nell.  Don't let us disturb you.  Carry
right on."  Not a girl lifted her head from her work.

"This is our Club room too," said Miss Sylvia, in a voice of
unmistakable pride.  "We spend three nights a week here.  One for
fun, dancing, singing and two for dramatics, reading and debating.
Oh, we have a grand time, I assure you, Mr. Brady."

Mr. Brady made no reply.  Indeed after they returned to the office
he was strangely silent, and so remained for some minutes while
Miss Rivers told him about the varied activities carried on by the
Riverside Girls' Club.

Suddenly he burst forth.

"See here, Miss Rivers.  You've got me stalled sure enough.  I've
got a flat tire and I'm clear out of juice.  Say!  Tell me what
you're going to do?"  He was almost rough in his speech.

"About the Corporation, Mr. Brady?" said Miss Sylvia in her gentle
voice.

"Listen!  I offered you $50,000, $20,000 cash, the rest stock.
I've got authority to make that $60,000, $25,000 and $35,000."

"And if I refuse?"

"They'll close you up dead.  They're a bunch of soulless blood-
sucking brutes.  Individually, meet 'em at dinner, they are most
chawming, I assuah yah.  But as a Corporation, their innards are
brass and iron.  They'll close you up.  Funny agent, I am eh?"

"And my people?" said Miss Sylvia, very gently.

"Them singin' birds, eh?  'The Rose of Tralee,' an' 'Danny Boy' and
all an' all, eh?"

"You see, Mr. Brady, their fathers worked for my father.  He built
most of their houses, and they own them now.  And they are all
friends of one another and my friends."

"Stop it," said Mr. Brady savagely.

"What would you advise?" said Miss Sylvia with quiet insistence.
"I really don't--"

"Stop it, I tell ye!" said Mr. Brady, slapping his hand on the
desk.  "If it's the Closing Agent of the Central Canada Lumber and
Furniture Corporation ye're askin', my answer is 'Close the deal
and pull out.'"  Mr. Brady leaned over the desk and regarded the
secretary with his blue Irish eyes, shining like points of light.
"But if it's Tim Brady yer askin', that's got a home and wife and
childer av his own, my answer is, tell them to go to hell, and
shure the good Lord that loves angels and looks after fools and
little childer will be good to ye.  And it's a fool's advice I'm
givin' ye, so it is."

Miss Sylvia rose from her chair, came slowly round the desk and
offered her hand shyly.

"Mr. Brady, I am glad you came to see me to-day," she said, her
face radiant with the smile of a child.  "And thank you, oh, thank
you!"  Her voice grew slightly husky.  "And I am sure Mr. Timothy
Brady must be a good man."  Mr. Brady laughed loudly.

"A good man?  God bless yer lovely blue eyes!  And what would the
bhoys say to that from Kincardine to Quebec?"

"It would make no difference what they said, Mr. Brady," said Miss
Sylvia in a firm voice.  "I know."  The blue eyes were soft and
kind that looked into his.

Mr. Brady seized his hat suddenly, glanced at his watch, closed his
brief case with a snap, but still lingered.

"If ye were only of the true faith now, I would send ye to your
priest," he said earnestly.  "But listen, I am not taking yer
answer to-day, nor am I givin' ye advice to-day.  Ye've put a witch
on me.  Look at the way ye've got me back to me ould mother's
tongue.  But my offer stands.  $60,000, $25,000 cash and $35,000
stock.  Take time, take time--and think of yourself."

"Really, Mr. Brady?  Of myself only?"  She smiled brightly into his
face.

"The Saints save ye.  It's the quare Closing Agent I am--"

He did not offer his hand, but with a low almost reverential bow he
backed out of the door.

"My dear," he said to Frances at the outer desk in a confidential
but very respectful tone, "you were right--quite right.  Don't let
every roughneck barge into your young lady in there."

"I won't," said the girl firmly.

"Say!  She's--well, I guess you know the kind she is, all right."

"We do sir.  Thank you, sir," said Frances throwing him a smile for
the first time, so charming that Mr. Brady was startled.

"Hello!  Not so frosty after all, eh?"

"Oh, no sir, not always," said Frances smiling again.

"Not when Sunny Jim comes round," said the typist at the other desk
in her soft drawl.

"Eh?  Not Jim this time--Tim.  And say, when next I blow in here
I'd like to blow you both to the best dinner the Royal can afford.
Straight goods."

"Thank you, Mr. Brady," said Frances.

"Sure thing, Tim!" said blondie.

"Good-bye," said Mr. Brady winking slowly at her.  He cocked his
hat over his left ear, threw out his chest and marched gravely out
to new fields of battle.



CHAPTER VI


Arabella Foster never appeared to better advantage than when
dispensing hospitality in her own drawing-room.  She was there at
her grandest.

"A very grande dame indeed," murmured Jack in Sylvia's ear.  "She
terrifies me, or would if she hadn't cuffed me so often as a
youngster for stealing her cookies."

"She really is splendid," said Sylvia.  "And how beautifully
dressed!"

"I'm all for a white frock tricked out with baby blue.  It is baby
blue?" said Jack, his eyes appraising the lovely lines of the
girl's figure.

"Yes, but it's an old thing--done over--of course.  I don't think
Aunt Elizabeth knew we were to be so very grand.  'A little
dinner,' she said."

"Well, this is a little dinner, only a dozen or so.  And bound to
be dull."

"Dull?  In this room, and with that view and these charming
people!"

"Dull as a directors' meeting and worse.  You draw a fee at a
directors' meeting."

"I know I'm going to have a lovely time," said Sylvia, her face and
eyes aglow.

"That's just it.  Of course, one can't kick too hard, but really
you know.  Old Tom is a good chap.  He's your partner.  Of course
quite proper--eldest son and the guest of honour--stupid idea.  I
hinted delicately that I should like to take you in--old friends
and all that, but--"

"Why I've known Tom for years.  I mean, I knew him ten years ago.
We used to play in the sand at Beauharnois.  I don't think he liked
me at all then--"

"But that was ten years ago.  Now he will fall heavily for you, and
the mater will smile on him.  She's got you picked out for him
already.  Disgusting!  He'll talk an elbow off you--golf and stocks--
possibly art--depends on his condition."

"But I'm awfully keen on golf, and I want to learn about stocks."

"That's right!  I'm going to have a wonderful time!"  Jack's face
was a picture of gloom.  "Well, here comes cheer.  Antoine has a
light touch on cocktails."

"Who is the young man with the long keen face?"

"That's Reggie Hale.  Not so terribly young.  A weird and wild
Radical Economics professor in an American College--Cornell I
think.  But now he is doing research work here.  He's a Bolshie and
of course the darling of the 'gold bugs' here.  They have already
been reaching for that tawny scalp, but have just missed it so far.
The McGill President befriended him, indeed said some strong words
suited to their understanding, so they eased off a bit.  They will
probably get him yet."

"He looks awfully interesting," said Sylvia.

"Yes!  Now that would have been the proper thing," grumbled Jack.
"The distinguished guest should have been assigned to the most
interesting and cultured man present.  Besides Reggie never knows
what a girl has on or hasn't.  But he has CULTUAH in large gobs.
Awfully interesting and entirely unamorous.  Safe man, Reggie."

Sylvia's eyes followed Antoine's progress.

"Oh, but he's had one already!" she said to herself, noting Tom's
second cocktail.

"I told you.  Tom is working up brilliance.  You will have a
charming time.  He'll talk art to you.  Oh well!  Will you look at
me now and then?"

"Of course I will.  You do look--fine--so--well--so all right.  You
know--as if you belonged with all this."

"I am most unhappy, and shall be worse.  Reggie will jump on
Cameron Ogilvie."

"Who is he?  I have heard of him."

"Banker.  President of the Empire Bank--big shot.  Tells Canada
where she gets off and on.  The biggest of the big six.  Learned
his banking in Scotland--Aberdeen likely--straight as a steel rail
and as pliable.  Look at him!  No cocktail for him.  He's like my
Dad--despises the poison.  Antoine will bring them each a Scotch in
a minute."

"I think your Dad is the handsomest man here!" said Sylvia.

"Yes, isn't he?  So thoroughbred eh?"  Jack's eyes lingered on his
father's face, caught his eye, waved at him.

"Come let's go and see him."

"Jack, I'm shy," whispered Sylvia, a quick little colour in her
cheeks.  "He is so distinguished looking--strong--fine."

"He is all that and a lot more--runs in the family.  Come, he wants
to meet you."

"Oh Jack!"

"Come along--no stops--come right through.  They'll all want to
block you."

Under Jack's resolute piloting Sylvia found herself almost
immediately being introduced to Mr. Roger Tempest who was indeed
all his son had said.

"Dad, this is Sylvia," said Jack, in a tone of proud proprietorship.

"Oh, this is Sylvia!  My dear, I knew both your father and your
mother well.  They were from Glengarry, and so you are a Glengarry
girl."

"Oh, I am glad.  I always like people who say that," said Sylvia
giving him her hand and obviously her heart at once.

"And where have you been these years that we have never seen you?
Our fault I fear."

"Away at school a good deal.  Edinburgh for three years.  And at
home for the last year and a half."

"Running the Riverside Mills," said Jack.

"Splendid!  At work eh?  It is what a Glengarry girl and your
father's daughter would do.  Nothing like something to do."

"But Dad she's a lot more than a business young woman.  You wait
till she sings Scottish songs for you.  Dad is mad about them."

"Better and better.  Sorry I haven't known you before, my dear.
But we live very quietly, Jack and I--since--"

"But she is coming to see us, Dad."

Sylvia threw him a quick look of surprise.

"Oh, when Jack?"

"To-morrow, of course.  You are coming to see Dad's pictures--and--"

"Ah, you know pictures?" said Mr. Tempest eagerly.

"No.  Alas, I am very ignorant of all that--but I love them.  I
know the National Gallery and the Academy in Edinburgh, of course."

"Ah, some excellent pictures there.  Raeburn and Noel Paton--very
old fashioned now-a-days, but none the less worthwhile, my dear!"

"I know one great Raeburn," cried Sylvia, a quick eager light in
her blue eyes.  "In the Royal Archer's Hall."

"What!  You know 'The Archer'?  A gorgeous thing.  I have never met
a Canadian who knew that great picture."

"Yes, I knew the Chief Archer's wife, and used to spend Saturday
afternoon often at that wonderful old Archer's Hall."

"My dear.  I can see you are the right sort.  Jack, we shall lunch
at home to-morrow, and if Miss Sylvia will do us the honour, eh?"

"I don't know.  Oh, I hope Aunt Arabella hasn't anything else on,"
cried Sylvia.

"I shall speak to Mrs. Foster," said Mr. Tempest.

"Oh, isn't he a dear?" whispered Sylvia as Jack carried her off.
"Jack, you are a lucky boy!"

"I don't know yet," said Jack looking straight into her eyes.  "As
far as the pater is concerned, yes.  But," Jack's face clouded
over.  "Ah, I can see that Aunt Arabella is opening out a campaign,
and she is a great Field Marshal."

"What are you talking about?"

"Tom Foster," said Jack savagely.  "Millions of money--and a good
sort.  Yes a good sort, Tom.  A wizard in stocks--a coming man
among the gold bugs and all that.  But he isn't fit to be a door
mat for your little feet."  Jack wore a gloomy face.

"But Jack you are talking nonsense.  Oh, what a view!"  They were
standing now in the doorway of the Conservatory, which from its
lofty site on the mountain side overlooked the city and the noble
sweep of the mighty St. Lawrence.

"Yes, it is a great view," grudgingly admitted Jack.  "Dash it
they've got everything.  Home--this is an awfully fine house really--
magnificent lay-out--and view--and they are really fine people.
Look at Julia there, the pose of an empress, and a fine girl too--
and social position with millions for upkeep.  Oh dash it to
blazes!  And here is Tom coming to take you in.  I'd like to kill
him in some quiet, painless but effective way."

"But Jack why?  Poor Tom!"

"Why?  He wants you!  Can't you see it?  I can.  He wants you, but
he won't get you if I have to kill him!"

The girl turned a startled face toward him and looked steadily into
his eyes.

"Oh Jack!"

"Yes.  He wants you.  And--oh Sylvia darling, can't you see?"

The girl's face flushed hot and then went pale and very still,
while the blue eyes held his steadily.

"Can't you see, Sylvia?" said Jack very quietly.  "I want you,
Sylvia.  More than anything else in the world, I want you.  Oh,
this is no place and time.  What a fool I am!  Here's the brute."

"Well young lady!  Fine view eh?  But views are not considered
filling.  So since I am to have the distinguished honour, perhaps
you will run away Jack and do your duty.  And, young fella, you
needn't hurry back.  This young lady is under my charge for the
evening."

"Sylvia, I am really sorry for you.  He is a predatory beast.  But
he is heading for bitter disappointment.  Cheer up!"

"Beat it, boy.  My little kid sister Peggy's eyes are like large
saucers looking for you, poor kid."

Without a word Sylvia took Tom's arm and moved away as in a dream,
heeding not at all Tom's stream of small talk.

Jack made his way to the waiting Peggy, the sixteen year old
daughter of the home.

"Oh Jack, I was just awfully terrified you weren't coming for me,
and that--that horrid foxy-faced Mr. Jessop--he is just like a fox--
sharp nose and sharp little eyes and red hair--would get me.  And
you looked as if you wanted to go with Sylvia.  And she is lovely
isn't she?  But Tom wanted her and of course the eldest son of the
family, so mamma said, must take the young lady visitor.  And I am
awfully glad you didn't.  For now I shall have all I want to eat.
I needn't be polite with you, Jack.  And besides you are good fun,
you know."

Peggy was a half-formed youngster at the awkward age when hands and
feet are always in the wrong place, and the body has not yet got
itself into its alluring curves.  Dark-skinned, not yet cleared up,
dark brown bobbed hair, fine dark brown eyes that looked straight
at one, firm chin, a good straight nose, and a heart full of warm
red blood and romantic passions.  She was desperately in love with
Jack as her adoring eyes kept telling him every moment.

"Well Peggy, my dear, I shall see that you are properly fed, but
you must promise me good manners.  I can't stand a piggy lady, and
no wine--no, not a drop--well a little sherry with your soup, but
no more, on honour.  And of course no silly cocktail!"

"Cross my heart!" said Peggy earnestly.  "Anyway I don't like wine.
Only it is rather mean of mamma to let everyone else swig away and
treat me like a baby.  Come along, Jack, I know our places.  You're
next Julia.  She would have that.  She can't bear Cameron Ogilvie.
Of course he wants to marry her, but she won't take him so long as
she--"

"He's a very decent fellow, Peggy, and money!" said Jack.

"I know, and such a lovely Rolls-Royce," said Peggy.  "He takes me
out now and then when Julia is away, and he always treats me to
something."

"Pig," said Jack in disgust.

"Well, I know, but--he knows exactly what I like.  Of course I much
prefer your racer, Jack."

"But I don't treat you to a banana sundae every time."

"As if I cared.  And I do love your racer.  Isn't Professor Hale
exactly like a terrier, except for his long hair?" said the girl.

"Exactly, and a terrier he is.  He will be at the bull dog in a
minute or two."

"You mean Mr. Cameron Ogilvie?  Yes.  He wants Julia, but--" sadly
added the child, "she won't have him.  She wants you."

"Nonsense, you little devil.  You mustn't talk like that."

"It's true!" she sighed deeply.  "I can see it quite well in her
eyes."

"Shut up, you little idiot!" said Jack in a savage undertone.

"There he goes--the terrier," said the girl in delight.  "I love to
hear him, a bark, a snarl and then a leap at the other fellow's
throat."

"Reggie dearly loves a scrap.  What is he at now?" said Jack,
leaning forward to get a better look at Mr. Cameron Ogilvie, who
sat on Aunt Arabella's left.

"You are congratulating us on the prosperity of the country, Mr.
Ogilvie," Professor Hale was saying.  "You think this prosperity
well founded?" he enquired in a voice of utmost respect.

"Yes, I do.  I base it first upon the marked improvement in trade
and commerce.  Second, upon the magnificent harvest in the west,
and upon the higher rates on our call loans in New York."

"Rare combination!  Mr. Ogilvie!"  The Professor's shrill voice
hushed all the conversation to silence.

"Rare combination?  I do not quite get you."  Mr. Ogilvie's voice
was calmly respectful.  This was not his first experience of Reggie
Hale.

"The Western farmer, the trader, the New York Stock market, the
benevolent banker and Almighty God.  All except the last mentioned,
however, not entirely trustworthy."

Mrs. Foster turned a shocked and startled face toward Professor
Hale.

"Really, Professor Hale!"

"I sympathize with you, Mrs. Foster," said Professor Hale.  "These
bankers really they do shock one at times.  They are so very
certain of the partnership of the Almighty."

At this point Dr. Strang, sitting at the Professor's left hand,
broke in.  "But Professor Hale, surely in all honest work we may
expect the co-operation of Providence."

"Sure thing padre, but I was talking of the combination suggested
by our friend Mr. Cameron Ogilvie here.  You are speaking of honest
work."  The silence grew very thick.  "What I mean is, so as to be
offensive to no one present, you would hardly associate in co-
operative work the Almighty and the New York stock boomer whose
call loans swell the profits of Montreal bankers."

"You do not approve of the operations of the stock market, I take
it Professor Hale," said Mr. Tempest.

"Ah, Mr. Tempest, you know me better than that.  But I will say,
and I shall wait for your applause, that the stock boomer who sells
the innocent public stock at a price which he is convinced does not
represent reality in value, present or prospective, is a swindler
and a scoundrel and should be put in a safe place."

"Yes, Mr. Hale.  I most heartily applaud that statement.  But why
single out the stock broker?  Surely there are others, merchants,
traders, manufacturers."

"Yes, the stock broker distinguishes himself above others in two
particulars, the magnitude of his operations, and his utterly
unscrupulous manipulation of the greed and ignorance of his
clients.  He is a vampire, a pest."

"Who has been doing you, Reggie?" enquired Tom.

"No, I am immune by reason of my poverty."

"But Professor Hale, you don't object to stock trading," said Aunt
Arabella in amazement.

"Save only for the highly ethical.  Myself I shouldn't dare go into
the game.  I'd become a buccaneer, a bloody, brutal, walk-the-plank
pirate, like the rest.  A friend of mine, a dear sweet soul bought
International Copper a month or so ago, made twenty points.  She
prays every night for the blessing of God upon the stockbrokers and
their noble work."

"Good buying still, Reggie," said Tom.

"Why should anyone buy International Copper today?" enquired
Professor Hale wrathfully.  "Has it productive reality value at the
present price?"

"It's a good buy to-day and it will certainly go higher," said Tom.
"And besides who can estimate production reality in any industrial
stock?  Can you Reggie?"

"Not always.  But any stockbroker who has any right to be in the
business ought to be able to indicate the line beyond which
production reality vanishes.  And at that point he declines to
promote such stock."

"My dear sir," said Mr. Jessop, a stockbroker of the wealthy firm
of Chamberlain, Jessop and Foster, in which Tom was the junior
partner.  "Your theory is entirely unpractical.  It is outside the
range of business trends.  The ancient law of caveat emptor must
govern here as in any and every business transaction.  The man who
proposes to deal in stocks must know that he is in a dangerous
game.  Hence he must have a broker whom he can trust, and upon
whose expert advice he must rely."

"I don't like him.  He looks like a fox," said Peggy nudging Jack.

"Hush, you little beggar, they'll hear you.  Behave yourself."

"Look at the terrier!" said Peggy in glee.

Professor Hale was indeed on him like a terrier.  "Very well Mr.
Jessop.  Now I am not an EMPTOR, I am a VENDOR.  The market has
responded to the usual manipulation influences, and has gone in
International Copper say from 100 to let us say, 400 at which point
his broker knows that the stock crosses the very ultimate of
reality in value.  It will never, can never earn any dividend at
that price, but he also knows that under the madness of the market
it will go to 500.  What will my honest broker advise me, the
vendor, to do?  Sell, or wait till some sucker offers 500.  That
is, sell wind to the unwary fool to the extent of 100 or more on
every share he buys?"

"Isn't he lovely?  Regular snapper," said Peggy enjoying the
professor hugely.

"Mr. Jessop, we shall at this point abandon the stock market," said
Mrs. Foster.  "Sylvia, I can see, is keen to go on, but it is a
question in regard to which there will always be room for
difference of opinion.  So Professor Hale we shall talk about--
anything else you like."

"Banks," suggested Professor Hale.  "I'm all for a complete
reconstruction of our Banking system, which the whole world is
patting on the back, but which--"

"Regular little devil," whispered Peggy.  "I wish I could jump down
his throat.  Here's Sylvia at him."

"But Professor Hale surely the Canadian Banking system is one of
the finest in the world?" Sylvia said earnestly.

"Much better than that of the United States I grant you, but--"

"Professor Hale, you are incorrigible," said Aunt Arabella.  "You
do love a fight.  Now can't we find something upon which we agree?"

"But that is so dull," burst out Sylvia suddenly.  "Oh, I'm sorry,"
she apologized.

"Of course you're quite right," said Tom.  "It surely is intolerably
dull to agree with every one."

"Perhaps Professor Hale will discuss another basic ground of
prosperity, say the Western harvests," said Mr. Cameron Ogilvie,
who had already made something of a reputation in wheat, and upon
whose advice the government at Ottawa was supposed to be relying.

"Certainly!" exclaimed Hale leaping at the proposition.  "About the
wheat market I--"  He paused abruptly arrested by Sylvia's shining
eyes.

Peggy clapped her hands.  "Oh, do go on!"

"Peggy!  Tut, tut, child, you forget yourself," said her mother.

"But do let us hear about the wheat, Professor Hale," said Mr.
Cameron Ogilvie, evidently sure of his ground.  "The car loadings
last year were three million.  You can't juggle with that.  This
year the prospects are even better."

The Professor smiled at him.  "Providence is certainly doing its
part with the wheat.  And the market is holding up owing to the
Wheat Pool, backing it up with a purchase of eight million bushels.
But can any living man say where the price of wheat will go during
the next six months?  Absolutely not.  To-day's quotations are
ominous."

"Wheat is all right.  Absolutely all right.  It may vary a few
cents, but it is basically steady," said Mr. Price, speaking with
the air of an expert.

Mr. Tempest shook his head.

Professor Hale noticed him.

"Mr. Tempest, you agree?" he cried.

"I wish I could," said Mr. Tempest, "but the whole European
situation is extremely critical.  But why get gloomy?  Mrs. Foster
will be for sending us all home."

"No, but we shall leave you now to yourselves," said that lady,
rising from the table.  "Only, Professor Hale, I am going to ban
every kind of argument."

"Dear Mrs. Foster, let me come with you.  We shall be awfully dull
here."

"No, stay and be good," said Aunt Arabella shaking her finger at
him.

"Reggie Hale, you are a very stimulating person," said Julia as she
passed his chair.  "Don't be long in joining us."

"You may be quite sure not," said Professor Hale, smiling up at her
eagerly.

"Can I stay with you?" Peggy implored.

"Certainly not," said Jack.  "Be off with you."

"Oh Jack, I hate women.  They'll talk about clothes.  I'm a nudist,
like the Germans I was reading--"

"See here young lady, I'll take you outside and give you a
demonstration--"

"Oh, do Jack!  Good-bye darling."

"I say, Reggie, be human rather than pedagogical," said Tom, "and
tell us what you really think of the situation in regard to this
boom."

"What's the use?  All the big financial kings, princes and barons
in America are against me.  See articles this month in various
magazines.  Mitchell, Mullen, even old Coolidge, all praising God
and acclaiming the New Era.  Frankly I am pessimistic."

"Mr. Hale," said Mr. Tempest earnestly, "not for argument's sake,
but man to man, do you mind saying quietly, why?"

Professor Hale looked round upon the faces at the table.  Roger
Tempest, an old trusted Conservative stock broker; Ogilvie, the
biggest banker in Canada and one of the biggest on the continent;
Jessop, a stock broker of the newer school, with Tom Foster, his
under study; Dr. Strang, Montreal's leading surgeon, a man with an
immense capacity for silence; Jack Tempest, perhaps the keenest
brain in the company, camouflaged under the exterior of a devotee
of sport.

"Mr. Tempest, when you speak like that I remember I am only a young
man and have little right to express a serious opinion to serious
men.  Of course when I was out merely for scalps--"

"To get a rise out of an old-fashioned banker," said Mr. Cameron
Ogilvie, with a smile.  "But seriously I also would like to hear
your opinion."

"Go to it, Reggie, we likely won't believe you," said Tom easily.

"I am going to say only one thing.  Take it for what it's worth.  I
am anxiously asking myself this one thing.  I have been keeping
close tab on old country opinion.  Tell me, when almost every
economist of any note in England or Scotland is agreed that things
on the Continent are extremely critical, and when they all agree
that the present prosperity in the United States is resting upon a
very questionable basis, why should not Canadian leaders and makers
of opinion seek to advise caution?  I am not arguing, I am asking
two or three of the most trusted men in Montreal for guidance."

It was the complete change in his tone and manner that brought a
new look into the faces of the men about him.  He was no longer the
pugnacious little terrier, spoiling for a scrap.  He was an earnest
student of economics, asking advice.  They all looked at Roger
Tempest.

"Hale, I am asking myself every day that identical question," he
said gravely.  "What do you say, Ogilvie?"

"Quite privately I may tell you," said Ogilvie quietly, "we had a
private meeting to-day, half-a-dozen of us bankers.  We have agreed
that we shall gradually, but firmly reduce our loans and raise our
rates for all stock operations.  And I may add that the Federal
Reserve is going to do its utmost in the same direction.  This is
not for publication, but solely for useful action."

"At the same time, gentlemen, we must not ignore the fact," said
Jessop, "that there is a very real and very sound advance in all
prices, and a very remarkable expansion in all industrial lines."

"True enough," replied Hale politely, "but you know also that as
stocks are soaring the prices of commodities are steadily falling.
And if wheat should fail us where would we be in Canada, and in the
United States as well?"

At this Roger Tempest seemed to command the thinking of the little
company.

"Gentlemen, there seems to be only one thing before us.  Remember
what happened in pulp and paper.  There is recovery there, but it
cannot be permanent.  We must at all costs check this mad boom in
stocks.  Shall we rejoin the ladies.  There is music I understand
waiting us as well."

"We are with you, Tempest," said Ogilvie.  "You may depend upon the
bankers."

As they moved toward the music room Jack fell into step with
Jessop.

"What's your idea, Mr. Jessop?" he asked.

"This is no time for the leadership of old men," said Jessop with a
cynical grin.  "Me, I'm all for backing my luck."

"Right you are, old boy," said Tom, but a glance at his flushed
face did not increase Jack's confidence in the leadership of the
younger generation.

Jack walked for some moments at his father's side.

"About that stock booming business, sir," he said.  "I believe you
are dead right.  All the same Jessop will try to make a killing and
of course Tom Foster is with him."

"Thank you, boy.  And I'm afraid you are right about Jessop.  He is
difficult to control.  This continent has gone mad.  We are going
to see strange things.  And the worst of it is we shall all willy
nilly be dragged into it."

"You think so?  Can't we keep out?"

"Not if we keep in business."

"What about Reggie Hale's buccaneer talk?"

"More truth than poetry, I fear.  But honest men need not join the
pirate crew."

"What then?  Walk the plank?"  His father looked at him quietly for
a single instant.

"Very gallant men have walked the plank, my boy."

Jack held his eyes steady for an answering instant.

"And pirates often swing, sir," he said with a gay little laugh.



CHAPTER VII


Mrs. Foster's late husband had been recognized in the city as a
patron of music.  The music room in his new house was considered
one of the best adapted to its purpose in the city.  A Casavant
pipe organ and a magnificent Steinway grand piano, were indications
of his love for the art, and of his desire to promote its
development.  But though much money and labour had been spent on
their musical education, it was a disappointment to their father
that none of his children showed any more than a moderate aptitude
in either vocal or instrumental performance.  They could all play
both organ and piano with considerable mechanical exactitude, but
there it ended.  Any indication of true artistic taste or feeling
was not to be found in any member of the family.

Mrs. Foster, however, after her husband's death, conceived it to be
her duty to assume all the obligations of a patron of the art, both
for its own sake, and out of loyalty to the memory of her late
husband, who had taken a leading part in developing the musical
taste of the citizens of Montreal.  Hence, during the season it was
her practice to offer her house to certain musical organizations
for the production of severely artistic programs of an educative
character for the benefit of a carefully selected company of
patrons of the art, at the nominal subscription of five dollars,
with a concession of ten dollars for a family group of three.  The
invitation programs to these musicales made it quite clear that
while the presentations would be mainly educative in their purpose,
they would not fail to be artistically delightful as well.

But while anxious to promote the musical culture of those citizens
of Montreal who might be expected to aspire to be classed among the
patrons of music, Mrs. Foster was not unmindful of a large circle
of her friends and acquaintances, who while not aspiring to be
patrons, were enthusiastic devotees of the art.  These were invited
from time to time to spend the evening at her home, where an
informal program of vocal and instrumental music would be
presented.  The program was usually a pleasing combination of
professional and amateur performances, to which latter class
members of her own family, to their own disgust more or less, and
her friends, were expected to make their modest contributions.

Her son Tom possessed a voice of a deep sonorous quality, which he
rather enjoyed displaying in jolly rollicking sea ballads and war
songs, as well as in the better known operatic numbers.

Nothing, however, but her sense of duty and an unwillingness to
hurt her mother's feelings kept her daughter, Julia, from utterly
declining to take any part whatever in the program, either vocally--
she really had a fine contralto voice, though not invariably
certain in its pitch--or with a piano number which she could render
with very considerable technical skill.  Peggy, the youngest member
of the family was still laboriously struggling with the technical
intricacies of the pipe organ, and not without success.  Her "foot
work" however, she was rather proud of, and was never unwilling to
give an exhibition of her skill in this direction.

To Jack Tempest these "informal" musicales were rather an ordeal,
not so much because he himself was expected to contribute "an
exhibition of potent painless piano punching," as Peggy put it, but
because as a rule, he loathed amateur performances.  It was
therefore with a vast relief that on entering Mrs. Foster's music
room, he saw lined up behind the piano a quintet of men apparently
preparing to open the program.

"Let's go and sit beside Sylvia," suggested Peggy.  "See, she wants
us."

"Noble thought, Peggy," said Jack.  "Let's slide."

He placed himself between Sylvia and Peggy.

"Ah!  The Laval Quintet," he whispered to Sylvia.  "Now you will
hear something worth while."

"Oh, they are perfectly divine!" breathed Peggy, ecstatically.
"French Canadian songs, every kind.  And so easy to look at too!
Aren't they?"

"Huh!  Lovely things!" said Jack, for which Peggy made a face at
him.

Suddenly he sprang to his feet, ran across the room to Mrs. Foster.

"Aunt Arabella," he begged.  "Can you give me just five minutes
till I run over to get Nickie, I promised him, and he is just mad
crazy about these Laval boys?  Awfully sorry!"

"Why certainly," exclaimed Mrs. Foster.  "Glad you thought of it,
Jack.  The dear little chap.  He will enjoy it."

"I'm going too, Nickie will love it," cried Peggy darting after
Jack.  "Let Tom sing, Mummy, till we come back," she shouted over
her shoulder.  A suppressed smile rippled over the faces of the
company.

"Peggy!  Come back!" commanded her mother.  But Peggy was out of
reach, if not of earshot.  "What a child!  She is quite mad about
Nickie, poor boy.  Tom, perhaps you would sing something in the
meantime."

"Oh certainly, I'm the 'am in the sandwich.  Come along, Julia,
we'll do our bit."

Before Tom had graciously acceded to the demands for an encore
Jack, with Peggy in triumphal attendance, had appeared with his
young brother at the door, and in the slight confusion of the
applause accorded Tom's encore, had assisted him to a chair,
relieved him of his crutches, handed him his violin, and had gone
to the place vacated by Tom at Sylvia's side.

"What a lovely boy!  Oh wonderful!" breathed Sylvia.

"Better not say 'lovely' to him," said Jack.  "The young devil
would probably brain you with one of his crutches."

"Nonsense!  I want to sit beside him.  Can't you arrange it?"

"Impossible.  First he would object, and second I would object."

"Why?" asked Sylvia simply.

"He hates attention, loathes petting, actual or metaphorical."

"Do you think I would?  How little you know me!"  Sylvia was gently
indignant.

"And then, I haven't had a dozen words with you this whole ghastly
evening," continued Jack.  "Are you aware what that means to me?"

"Let us be sensible, Jack," said Sylvia.

"Sensible?  Good heavens!  Don't you realize I am half through a
proposal to you?  And that the agony of uncertainty is as a fire
within my veins?  Don't you?"

"Now Jack, don't be silly.  Especially here with all these people
about.  Oh, the Quintet is going to sing.  Tell me about them."

But Jack had slipped over to his young brother's side and was
talking eagerly to him, obviously explaining what the coming number
was to be.  The boy's very pale face, with its deep, dark, lustrous
eyes was all aglow with eager expectation.  Suddenly he turned to
his big brother with an imperious demand.  Jack shook his head.
The boy's long thin fingers appeared to bite into Jack's forearm,
his face suddenly seemed to be alight with a pale flame of passion,
as he repeated his demand.  Finally Jack appeared to surrender, and
hurried over to Sylvia.

"Come and sit beside the little devil.  He wants you quick."

In an instant Sylvia was beside the boy just as the Quintet began
their first number.

"Hush!" said the boy very softly, his fingers resting upon Sylvia's
arm.

It was an ancient chorale of the seventeenth century, marvellously
harmonized by their leader, and rendered with fine reverential
restraint.  The number was received in perfect silence, a tribute
equally to the good taste of the audience and the artistic
perfection of the rendering.

"How lovely!  How perfectly lovely!" said Sylvia to the boy beside
her.

"Wait.  They are going on again," he said, his dark eyes luminous
with a deep inner light.  He was right.  The Quintet almost
immediately gave a second number.  This time a simple old French
Canadian chanson, but exquisitely harmonized, and exquisitely
rendered.  During the applause which followed, the boy caught her
arm.

"Go and tell Monsieur Franck, the leader, I want 'A la claire
Fontaine.'  Quick please.  They know me."

Immediately, forgetting to be shy, Sylvia moved to the piano to the
leader and made her request, pointing to the boy.

"Ah!  Le petit Nickie?" he replied, with a delighted smile and wave
of his hand to the boy.  "Tell him, with great pleasure."  Once
more the Laval Quintet charmed the audience with that best known
and best loved of all the old chansons of the French-Canadian
people, "A la claire Fontaine."  During the interlude of
conversation people began to move about.

"You are Sylvia," said the boy, his eyes searching her face with a
grave, curiously ardent gaze.

"Yes," said Sylvia, "do you like me?"

"Jack told me about Paddy.  He said you were lovely.  And you are
too.  You are like a flower--a sweet pea."

"Oh Nickie, what a lovely thing to say."

"Yes, you are.  I like you."

"Do you, Nickie," said Sylvia, a little flush on her cheek.  "I'm
glad you do.  I think we are going to be good friends."

"Jack told me how you sing 'My Mother bids me,'" continued Nickie.
"Are you going to sing that to-night?"

"Oh, no no!  Nickie!  Not to-night.  Some time when you come to see
me."

"Jack said you would sing it to-night."  His grave voice expressed
disappointment.

"But I am not a great artist--like the people here," said Sylvia.

"The people here!"  Nickie's voice was full of scorn.  "I can play
that song, I play it with Jack.  I was going to play it with you to-
night."

"Were you, Nickie?  Well--perhaps--Yes, since you want it, if they
ask me--I'll try--with you."

The boy's face flushed with a quick glow.

"I knew it!  You are a sport."

"I'm not much of a sport.  But--since you are going to play it--you
see."

"Yes, you are a sport.  Oh, we will do it well."

"I am not so sure.  You have your violin here?"

"Yes!  I always take it wherever I go.  They like to hear me.  And
I like to play to people that like to hear me play.  The Laval boys
always like to hear me.  My violin is just out there."

"Let me get it," said Sylvia.

"You understand, don't you?  You are quick to understand."

He opened the case, took out his violin, ran his hands lovingly
over it, touched the strings, frowned a little.

"It's out a bit."

"Shall I get the A for you?"

"No no!  I don't need it.  I carry the A in my head.  There that's
it!  The piano is not quite in tune--but it is as good as most of
them.  They're always out of tune.  A piano is always like that.
You always sing in tune.  I can tell."

"Oh, Nickie.  I'm no great singer."

"No, you're not a great singer, but you are a lovely singer.  And
you would never sing off pitch."

"How do you know, Nickie?  You've never heard me sing.  Did Jack
tell--?"

"No, no!" said the boy impatiently.  "I can tell by your face and
by your voice.  You could sing 'Young love lies sleeping.'  Do you
know it?  Sommerville's you know.  He is modern but quite good, in
that song anyway."

"Yes, I sing that--at least I used to but--"

"You will sing that to-night--" Nickie announced.

"But Nickie, I'm afraid, I'm shy!"

"Shy?  No, I don't think so.  If you love music you won't be shy.
Shy people are silly.  They are thinking of themselves.  If they
were thinking of their music they wouldn't be shy, they couldn't.
I'm going to do a little Brahms tonight.  Do you like Brahms?  And
a little Mozart.  Ah, he is the boy!  There is no one like Mozart!
Shy?"  Nickie's voice was full of contempt.  "Think how silly to be
shy when you are doing Mozart."

"But I am shy, Nickie.  I am silly, I suppose, but I am."

"If you would do Mozart with me, you won't be shy.  I wouldn't let
you.  I wouldn't let you."  The masterful tone of the boy was
amazing.  "It would be worse than silly.  It would be terrible.  A
shame!  Think Mozart!"

At this Jack came over to them.

"When do we come on Jack?  She's going to sing 'Young love'--you
know--Sommerville."

"Oh Nickie, I'm afraid," cried Sylvia in a panic.  "I--Jack, how
can I?  I've never even tried it over with you.  I don't know your
tricks, Nickie, or anything."

"Oh pshaw!  Don't be silly.  We will go over it twice--Jack and I
and then you will get it."

"Hold up, old chap!  None of that!  I know you.  You'll want Sylvia
to play second to you.  And that won't do.  You're a great
conductor.  Oh, I know him.  He makes us all play second to him.
He is a perfect bully.  And I'm not going to have Sylvia bullied."

Nickie's face grew dark.

"Besides, it would be terribly bad art," said Jack.

"Come out here!" ordered the boy.  "Take my violin!" he picked up
his crutches and flung himself out into the next room.

"He is a frightfully spoiled little bully.  Better come along."

"Now, will you hum it over.  This is the key," said the boy.

He ran over a few bars.  It never occurred to Sylvia to demur, not
even to hesitate.  The boy was heart and soul intent on the music.
Personalities were nothing to him.

He played the few bars of introduction, gave her a note and she was
away, the violin following pianissimo, but yet with full suggestion
of stress and shading.

"Good! good!" said the boy.  "But you must let yourself go here
when you sing this phrase--right up, all your heart.  No shouting,
but all your heart.  Listen!"  In sweet, soft, tenuous whispering
notes the violin sang the air.

"Now here!"  In full throbbing tones the song swelled up in a
magnificent crescendo.  "Let your heart into it--and here--linger a
bit--a lovely phrase--here--linger a bit--no dragging--but just a
suggestion that you hate to let it go.  See!"  Again he ran over
the phrase.

"Oh lovely," said Sylvia.  "Yes I see--Oh, that is so right!  Let
me do it again."

Once more they ran over the song, both of them so completely wrapt
up in their work as to be entirely oblivious of their environment.

"Say boy, that's great!" said Jack, "but don't bully her!"

"Bully her!" echoed the boy in scorn.  "If she sings like that--
lets her heart into it, they'll never hear me or you either, if you
do your stuff right.  There's only one thing can beat the violin--
only one--the voice, oh!  If I could only make it speak, sing like
the voice!  Now let's do, 'My Mother bids me.'  This is quite
different--very, very smooth--no bulges--no mountain tops."

The boy ran over the air--gave a nod and Sylvia began.  A dozen
bars and Nickie stopped dead, disgust in his face.

"Say!  What are you thinking about?" he asked wrathfully.
"Yourself?  That crowd out there?"

Sylvia looked at him in surprise.

"Did you think once of Lubin?  Lubin!  He's the only one that
matters.  Lubin!  And he's away.  Your heart is broken."

Once more he played the introduction and again Sylvia sang, the
violin sighing, throbbing its heart-breaking accompaniment.

"Oh Jack!  She is lovely!" cried Nickie when she had finished, his
dark eyes shining.

"Poor thing, poor thing.  Lubin gone for ever--" said Jack.  "Yes
yes, sing like that, Sylvia, and you'll pulverize that crowd."

"The crowd!  The crowd!  Rot!  Forget them!  Only Lubin matters,"
said Nickie angrily.  "Jack, you make me sick!  Mind you don't
spoil this."

Jack grinned at Sylvia.

"But Jack, he is right.  If only I can think of Lubin, I won't be a
bit shy.  Oh Nickie, I wish you would come out to Riverside to my
girls' club, and show my girls how to sing."

"Girls' club?  Girls?  Not me!  I despise them, and I am
terrified."

"What Nickie?  Terrified.  What about Handel and Mozart and Brahms
and all the rest?"

"I don't like girls," he said gloomily.

"Well, let's slide in," said Jack.

"Jack, we'll come in after the Laval boys.  You fix that--they make
me feel like it.  Eh?"

"All right, boy.  I guess you're a good deal like the rest of us,
eh?"

The musical evening moved along smoothly, pleasantly, under Mrs.
Foster's kindly direction, the amateurs being made to feel that
they were really conferring a distinct honour and pleasure upon the
company in venturing to appear side by side with the professionals,
the latter being delighted to be received for the time into the
genial circle of family friendship and privilege.

The most distinguished among this class was the famous pianist
Monsieur Armand La Marche, who had just returned from Paris where
he had had the rare privilege of studying under the personal
supervision of the great Satre himself, of whose work he was par
excellence the expositeur on this continent.  He usually presented
only the great master's work, but to-night, as a special concession
to the more professional character of the program, and as a favour
to the friends of his dear friend and patroness, Mrs. Foster, he
would render selections from Poulenc, and indeed he might even
present something from Debussy.

When the great Armand, whose bushy hair and pointed beard
sufficiently proclaimed his Parisian breeding--his home, by the way
was in the neighbouring hamlet of St. Eustache--made his
appearance, silence subdued the audience into a fixed rigidity of
attention.  The ecstatic and prolonged applause that followed the
Satre number, attested at once the perfection of the performance
technical and interpretative, the highly artistic nature of the
composer's work, and very especially the discriminating taste of
the audience.

Nickie alone sat with unmoved, puzzled, almost sullen face.

"What are you clapping for?" he asked Sylvia crossly.

"Well--I think he is wonderfully clever.  He has wonderful
fingers."

"Fingers!  Not half so clever as an electric piano!"

"Besides, he did his best, you know," added Sylvia.

"What's eating you, boy?" asked Jack.

"Jack, tell me, is that music?  I don't know what he is trying to
do."

"Nor me," said Jack cheerfully, still applauding, "but he was
trying something and apparently he got it.  Must give him credit
for that."

But Nickie was only enraged chiefly, it must be acknowledged, at
his own inability to get even an inkling of what the great Satre
was after.

With the Poulenc number it was the same.  The Debussy presentation
however, stirred the boy to enthusiasm.  "Wonderful finger work!"
he said "but--after all--for music, for real music--"  He shook his
head.

"Cut it out, Nickie, you are a frightful snob!" said Jack laughing
at him.  "They can't all be like Mozart, you know."

"Mozart!  No! not one of them.  For music that gets you here,"
touching his head, "and especially here," touching his breast, "you
must get Mozart.  Jack I'm going home.  I'm tired!  I'm sick of
this!  I hate it!"

"But Nickie, what about Sylvia's songs?" said Jack in dismay.

"I don't care.  I hate it!  That Frenchman makes me sick!  I can't!
I won't play."

His face was convulsed with rage and disgust, his voice rose, high
and shrill.

"Shut up!" said Jack sharply.

"Don't Jack!" said Sylvia.  "I know just how he feels.  I am
exactly the same way.  I couldn't begin to sing Haydn to-night."

The boy turned to her, caught her hand and held it to his cheek,
the tears welling up in his eyes.

"Yes, you know!  Of course you would understand," he said brokenly.

"Oh very well.  Let's get out of this," said Jack handing the boy
his crutches, and carrying out his violin into the next room.  "We
will have some refreshment anyway."

Having seen Nickie comfortably settled down before some cool
drinks, flanked by ice cream and cake, with Sylvia to look after
him, Jack made his way back to the music room and got into touch
with the leader of the Laval Quintet.  To him he explained the
situation.

"He's a temperamental little beggar.  Those Satre numbers he
couldn't get on to--And so he is all out of key."

"Certainement!  Who can be anything but out of key?  No?  I am
flappergast!"

"Go and talk to him and tell him that, and by the way, have you
anything of Mozart that you can do?"

"Mozart?  Ah--no--But yes!  The very thing--Ah!  Sublime, a petite
pastorale.  I will tell heem--Yes!  He must not desert me.  C'est
impossible!  Leave it with me, m'sieu Jacques."

The intermission for refreshments the leader of the Laval Quintet
spent with Nickie and Sylvia.  He knew exactly how to handle the
lad.  He loathed Satre, he adored Mozart.  Especially that little
sonatina that Nickie played sometimes.  "You will play that to-
night.  And we are singing a lovely old Mozart canticle.  Ah!  You
will love it.  And Mademoiselle is to sing for us a little Haydn,
not?  With the violin obbligato--Ah!"  Monsieur Franck rolled his
eyes.  "So delicate!  So parfait!  Yes, you will sing them
Mademoiselle--wit' the violin obbligato--then the Satre nombre--but
we will skeep out like--like--dat beas'--what you call?--he's dere--
you put your finger dere--he's not dere."

"Flea," cried Nickie in great spirits.

"Oui!  Flea," said M. Franck.  "So we are not here!  N'est ce pas?"

It all turned out as Monsieur Franck had arranged.  There was no
more word of going home with Nickie.  The Laval Quintet did their
Mozart canticle with beautiful expression, following which Nickie
came with his Mozart sonatina.

Then came Sylvia's songs, first the Sommerville and then the Haydn,
with Jack at the piano and Nickie with his violin supporting,
sustaining, suggesting like one inspired.  The startling loveliness
of the girl, the utter absence of all self-consciousness, the
exquisite purity of her voice, the unspoiled charming simplicity of
her style, all this with the haunting vibrant obbligato from
Nickie's violin, swept the audience into a perfect rapture of
applause.  Again and yet again the encore was demanded, the great
Monsieur Armand La Marche leading.  Jack was for a repetition,
Sylvia was not unwilling, but with the instinct of the true artist,
Nickie refused.  M. Franck supported him.

"No no!  You mus' do better to do as well," he said.  "And you
can't do better.  No."

"I am going home," said Nickie.

"By Jove, you are right boy," said Jack.  "Come along."

"I shall be back in a few minutes, Sylvia.  Wait for me."

"Good-night, Nickie.  And thank you for the obbligato.  But I am
afraid we tired you to death."

"Sylvia," replied the boy, his dark eyes warm with adoring
gratitude.  "It was a great night.  That Sommerville was right,
just right.  Sylvia, I'm coming to play for your club."

"Nickie, you are a dear.  That is just splendid."

"Kiss him good-night, Sylvia," suggested Jack wickedly.

The boy's face went red, a furious red.

"Aw, get out!  I--I--don't kiss girls," he stammered.

"Quite right too!" agreed Jack heartily.

"Oh you!  Huh, I've seen--"  But Jack clapped his hand over his
mouth.

"Now then young fellow.  You look out--Remember!  There are things
I could tell."

"Aw!  Go on--" muttered Nickie.  But no more revelations were made.

"Come along," said Peggy.  "I have your violin.  We'll be right
back, Julia.  Hush, not a word to mother.  Quick, here she comes."
And Peggy dashed out toward the hall.

"It's quite all right, Julia.  Tell your mother we'll be right
back," said Jack.

"Good-night," said Julia in a doubtful tone.  "You're a wild lot of
kids.  Thanks, Nickie, dear," she stooped down and kissed the pale
cheek.

"Ah Nickie!" cried Sylvia, reproach in her voice.

"Pshaw!  It's just Julia!" said Nickie with cool nonchalance.

"And Julia doesn't count," said Julia in exaggerated grief.

"You do!  You know you do," protested the boy angrily.

"Oh, all right, Nickie, dear.  We understand," said Julia kindly
patting the boy's cheek.

"Huh, huh of course," he said smiling swiftly at her.

"We'll be back in twenty minutes, Julia.  I've got to see him to
bed you know," said Jack.

"All right Jack, old chap.  Don't rush Nickie through his prayers,"
replied Julia.

"Isn't he a dear?" exclaimed Sylvia.

"Yes, Jack's a fine chap!" replied Julia.

"Oh!  I meant Nickie," replied Sylvia hurriedly.

"Ah?  Yes, he is a darling.  Poor little chap!  He hates going to
bed alone--especially these last two years.  His father or Jack
always puts him to bed."

"Oh Julia!" quick tears rushed to Sylvia's eyes.  "Poor little
soul!"

"Yes, a queer, difficult, lonely, little soul."  Julia's voice was
deep and tender with the mother note in it.  "It is a lonely house
since the mother died.  Come dear.  Perhaps you will help with the
refreshments."  She put her arms about the girl and drew her close.

"Oh Julia!" whispered the girl, clinging to her for a moment.  "You
are a dear."

"And so are you, darling," replied Julia kissing her.

The heart knoweth its own bitterness.



CHAPTER VIII


After the guests had departed Tom proposed a turn for Sylvia at the
Ritz supper dance.  His mother demurred.

"But Sylvia has never been at a supper dance in her life, she
says," pleaded Tom.

"And none the worse for that, Tom.  Besides she is tired out.  Look
at her, Julia."

"She looks very gay, if you ask me, and fit for anything," replied
Julia.  "Better let her go.  She can sleep late to-morrow."

Her mother critically considered her son.  Tom's face was flushed
and his manner unduly expansive.

"Why, let the child have a little fling.  Let her see the Ritz in
all its glory.  It is rather special to-night.  I happen to know.
Max Moreau's orchestra and--and that kind of thing."

His mother relented.  "Oh, very well.  But remember, Tom, take good
care of her.  No nonsense, and not too late."

"Sure thing, my dear mother.  You can trust me," replied her son
solemnly.

"Run along then, Sylvia, get your wrap," said Aunt Arabella
doubtfully.

They had not been gone more than half an hour when Jack Tempest and
Peggy made their appearance.

"Awfully sorry, Aunt Arabella.  Nickie was rather more difficult
than usual.  He was all worked up over the show.  La Marche seems
to have stirred up something quite devilish in him.  He was awfully
worked up.  And over Sylvia too.  By the way where is Sylvia?" he
asked, glancing about the room.  "Off to bed?  Tired I guess.  Say,
that girl was great to-night.  Nickie certainly released some
unsuspected powers in her.  She never sang like that before.  How
is she?  Used up?"

"Used up?  Not at all, the monkey.  She's off to the Ritz."

"The Ritz?"  Jack looked at his watch.  "Oh, well, it's early yet.
Eleven-thirty."

"Yes, Tom insisted and--"

"Oh, Tom took her?"  Jack flashed a look at Julia.  She shook her
head slightly.

"Well, I'll take a run round myself.  What about it Peggy, eh?"

"Oh Mother!" said Peggy.

"Peggy, not a foot of you.  Off to bed!"

"But to-morrow is Saturday, Mother.  And I've never seen the Ritz
at night.  Just for an hour, Mother."

"Let her go, Mother.  Jack will look after her."

"What about you, Julia?" asked Jack.

"You can go, Julia," said her mother.

"Not me, I loathe a supper dance, as you know.  But let the child
go."

Peggy stood looking at her mother in silence, but with imploring
eyes.

"Well!  Just a look in Jack and then bring them all home.  Remember
Jack, just an hour and bring the others with you."

"Thank you, Aunt Arabella.  Come along, Peggy," said Jack.

"Thank you, darling," cried Peggy, rushing at her mother.

The supper room at the Ritz was crowded to overflowing with late
comers from the movies and the theatres.  With some difficulty Jack
found a table in a corner remote from the dancing floor.  All the
tables were crowded with parties, large and small, all more or less
noisy, and some quite hilarious.

"Oh, Jack, isn't it great," said Peggy in an ecstatic undertone.
"Do you know all the people?"

"Not I, thank God.  Where did this gang come from?  What is the
Ritz coming to?  Oh yes!  It's the races of course.  I quite
forgot, or I shouldn't have brought you here, young lady."

"Are there really a lot of bad people?  I mean really?  To-night?"
asked Peggy hugely delighted.  "But Jack, their dresses are grand!
Look at that lady!  Look right there!"

"Well don't point, Peggy.  You will excite them quite too much.
That creation in the green and gold sheathing is carrying quite all
she can at the moment."

"And don't they dance wonderfully?"

"Very!"

"I don't see Sylvia, Jack.  I wonder how she dances."

"I wonder!  In this mob!" said Jack a grim look in his face.  "Do
you want to dance, Peggy?"

"Oh, Jack, do you think I could with all those grand dancers?"

"Grand dancers?  Like that, eh?  Or that?  Come on Peggy, you can't
be worse than the worst and you will be as good as the best."

"Jack, you won't be ashamed of my frock?" said Peggy shyly.

"Peggy, at least you are dressed--front and back.  You are
perfectly all right.  Lord save us!  Look at that kid!  Ought to be
spanked, or her fool mother?  Come on Peggy, and show them a good
time, eh?"

Peggy was a prize performer at school, and adored dancing.  She had
the poise, balance and sense of rhythm that go to make a girl a
delight to her partner.

"You are all right, Peggy.  No one on the floor can beat you, and
few can equal you," said Jack, himself one of the best dancers in
the city.

"Oh, Jack, you are just lovely," she breathed as they finished the
second encore to the fox-trot.  "You could make an elephant dance!"

"Peggy, you are a dandy dancer.  You are quick in your guessing.
What about an ice?"

"Oh, yummy, Jack!"

"What's your best bet.  Banana sundae, if I remember right."

"Jack, the very thing I want most.  But they are terribly
expensive."

"Oh, let's go the limit!" said Jack.  "What about a double one?"

"But not at once, Jack."

"Well all right.  One at a time.  Eh?" said the understanding Jack
giving the waiter an order.

"I wonder where Sylvia is?  I don't see her anywhere."

"Nor I," said Jack crossly.

"Oh, Jack, I hope Tom--Tom was pretty--I mean--"  Peggy paused
abruptly.

"Tut tut, child.  What are you talking about?"

"Oh, I know all right.  I could see quite well at dinner--"

"Shut up, child.  You don't know anything about it."

"He was--I know well enough--"  Peggy's face was full of shamed
anxiety.

At this moment a rather noisy party came in to the supper room.

"Jack!" said Peggy, gripping his arm.  "There they are now."

"Hush Peggy!  Don't look," said Jack.

With face stern and set his eyes followed the party as they made
their way toward a distant table.

After some considerable noisy confusion and protestation on Tom's
part, the party found their table and sat down.

"That's Harry Hillyard," whispered Peggy.  "He is horrid.  I don't
like him a bit.  Don't let him ask me, Jack."

"Don't you worry, Peggy.  He won't bother you," said Jack.  "Never
look at the little beast.  He has seen us, and so has Tom.  Here he
comes, confound the fool," he muttered angrily.

"Hello, you people!  Why Peggy, what's happened to you?"

Tom's voice boomed out above the noise.  "Come on over to our
table.  We'll make room for you."

"Tom, you're making too much noise.  And what the devil do you mean
by allowing Sylvia to get mixed up with that gang?"

"Why, what's the matter with--" began Tom.

"Tom, you listen to me," Jack's voice was deadly quiet.  "We are
not going to your table.  And you are going to get Sylvia right
away from that crowd.  Harry Hillyard!  And as usual half shot!
Haven't you any sense of decency.  Now Tom, you know me.  I simply
won't have Sylvia sit there.  You bring her right over here.  Tell
them she has a prior engagement with us, or anything you like.
Your sister is here and though I hate to have you too, I'll stand
that.  But you bring Sylvia right here or so help me, I'll walk
over there and take her from you, if I have to knock out every man
in your party, and you with them."

Jack's face was set and white, his voice low, trembling with
passion, his eyes spitting fire.

"Well, I'll be--"

"Tom, speak low and smile.  I would hate to have that girl mixed up
in any disgraceful scene in the Ritz before all this crowd.  But as
God lives, I will not have her stay with that gang.  Make up your
mind and quick.  You know me--"  Suddenly Jack rose to his feet.
"Great Heavens above!" he said in a terrible voice.  "I'll have to
kill that brute!"  He started from his chair.

"Wait Jack!  Don't go.  I'll do what you say.  Don't go.  Sit down
I'll get her--"

"No no, sit down here Tom.  Don't move!  I'll handle this myself by
gad.  Look at the beast!"

At the other table, Harry Hillyard was half dragging to her feet
Sylvia, who with pale and frightened face was trying to break from
his grasp.

With easy swift-moving steps Jack crossed the room and coming upon
Hillyard from behind, gripped his arm with fingers that reached the
bone.

"Here!  What the--" began the young man.

"Hello Harry!  Good evening ladies!  So here you are at last
Sylvia.  We've been waiting for you--"  With smiling face Jack
bowed to the company.  "Come along, Sylvia!  We are waiting for
you.  Good-night!"  Again and still with a smiling face he bowed
low to the company, gave Sylvia his arm, and chatting cheerily led
her over to his own table, gave her his chair and stood smiling
pleasantly at Tom.

"See here, Jack, you can't--" began Tom.

"Smile Tom, you big idiot!  Go over to your gang and tell them just
what you want to.  If you don't like it I'll tell you what you can
do.  You have three men there, ask them to go out into the next
room.  I'll meet you there, and I'll lick blazes out of you, one by
one.  You know I can do it, and you know I will.  Now smile
everybody."  He ended with a cheery hearty laugh, but his eyes were
deadly cold, cold as death.  With a mighty effort Tom responded
with a loud guffaw.  Peggy too, laughed bravely.  Sylvia turned
toward her late companion and threw him a dazzling smile.

"Well played, by Jove!  You two are the stuff I like.  Hurry up,
Tom.  Meantime Sylvia, what about a turn?"

Immediately though trembling so that she could hardly stand but
with a face radiantly smiling, she lifted her arms to Jack and
swung away into a fox-trot.

"Better sit down, Tom, and smile at me," said Peggy gaily.  "Be a
sport if you can."

With an oath, Tom sat down, his back toward his late companions.
While Peggy, still gaily laughing in his face kept up a patter of
bright talk.

"Oh, shut off your confounded chatter," he growled.  "I'd like to
smash his face.  Cursed bully that he is."

"Oh, but you couldn't, Tom.  You know you couldn't," laughed Peggy
as if she were having quite a jolly time.  "You remember quite well
he held Belanger himself for six rounds.  Me!  I would love to see
him hand that horrid little Hillyard one, just one would be enough.
And one apiece would do for the rest.  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!"  Peggy's
laugh rang out so pleasantly as she glanced over in the direction
of the other table that she set them all laughing in response.

"Jolly kid, eh?" said Harry Hillyard.  "Tom's kid sister, eh?
Don't understand what--I'll just go over and see."  He made his way
across the room.

"Good evening," he said.  "What's all the joke?  Can't you spare us
a bit?"

"Oh, I have been telling Tom something funny I just remembered.
You tell him Tom."  Her hands were trembling, her lips were dry,
but her laugh rang out like a peal of bells.

"You're a crazy nit," growled Tom.

"What about a little fox-trot, eh?"  Hillyard meant his smile to be
full of lure.

"Oh, I'm engaged to Tom for the next, and besides--there, it's over
and here's Jack."

"Come on out of this," said Tom sullenly, rising and turning to go
with Hillyard.

"We will be going in a few minutes now, Tom," said Jack, as he came
up.  "We won't wait for you.  I'll take Sylvia home."

"All right," grunted Tom.  "I'll stick round a bit."

"Good-night, ladies.  Good-night, Jack," said Harry Hillyard.  The
ladies bowed with their best grace.  Jack looked at him as if he
were one of the pillars about them.

"Have an ice, eh?" said Jack as they were alone.

"No, no--oh let us go away," said Sylvia.

"What about a banana sundae, Peggy?"

"Oh Jack, if Sylvia would only."

"Sure, we'll all have 'em."  He summoned the waiter.  "Two banana
sundaes, and for me a highball."  His face was still pale and set
like carved granite.

"Jack you'd better smile," said Peggy.  "They are all looking."

"Good girl.  What were you laughing at?"

Peggy told him.

"Peggy, you are one gay old sport," said Jack with a laugh that
rang out full of genuine humor.  "I'll remember you.  I'll give you
a real supper dance sometime soon."

As they took their refreshments they all kept up a steady flow of
light chatter, Peggy's wild laugh ringing out above all.

"Jack," said Sylvia, in low tones as she finished her sundae.
"Can't you get Tom to come home with us?"

"I have lost all interest in Tom," replied Jack coolly.

"But Jack, he came with me.  His mother would like him to come home
with me, and I would too."  Her voice was very quiet and very
earnest.

"You would?"

"Yes Jack.  Don't you see he must come with us.  You can see that."

"Can I?  You surprise me Sylvia."

"Jack, what will his mother say?  Besides--oh Jack, you must see
that he must come with us.  Do get him for my sake, Jack."  Her
voice was tremulous, her lips quivering.

"For your sake!" replied Jack speaking quietly.  "Then I'll get
him.  Excuse me."

He sauntered over to the other group who were just finishing their
drinks, accepted a chair and a drink, chatted gaily with them for a
few minutes.  Then putting his hand on Tom's shoulder said, "Well,
we must be going, I guess Tom.  My young lady should have been in
bed long ago.  I begged her off from her mother, and Sylvia has had
rather an exhausting evening.  She is dead tired.  She is waiting
for you, Tom.  Good-night all.  Time you were all in your nighties
or pygies, isn't it?"

Without demur Tom made his farewells and came away with him.

As they were putting on their wraps Sylvia said:  "Peggy dear, do
you mind if I ride home in Jack's car?"

"What?  Of course I do!"  She glanced at Sylvia's face.  "Oh well--
all right--but--oh darn it all!  I suppose I must give him up to
you anyway."  Peggy was frankly hostile.

"No.  It's not that Peggy, but I must speak to him.  I caused him--
all of you, a lot of trouble to-night--and I must--oh I must speak
to him, Peggy."  The look of distress in the lovely face, the pain
in the blue eyes swept away Peggy's feeling of hostility.

"Oh, you poor thing," she said with a quick rush of sympathy.  "Go
on home with him.  Anyway it was you that brought Tom home.  Mother
will love you for that.  Oh yes, she knows Tom.  We all know him."
Peggy's voice was very bitter.  "You did a fine bit of work there."

"But you won't say a word to your mother, Peggy!"

"Oh, won't I?"

"Promise me, Peggy.  That would spoil it all, don't you see."

"But--oh well--I suppose so.  Say, how is it you make me do things.
You make everybody do things."

"No.  It is your own good heart, Peggy.  You are a real brick.
Some day, perhaps, I can help you."

"No, no.  You can't do that," said the girl tragically.

"Some day, Peggy.  Come along, old girl."

As they came out under the porte-cochère Peggy ran to Tom's car and
climbed in.  "Good-bye, Jack," she cried.  "Thanks for a perfectly
splendiferous evening and the sundaes!"

"Here!" said Tom wrathfully.  "What do you mean coming in here?"

"Oh, drive on, Tom.  Do you think she wants to come with you?
After to-night?"

"What's the matter with you," snapped Tom.  "Who are you talking
to, kid?"

"Yes, that's it--that's just it.  I'm talking to my own brother."
Her voice broke suddenly.  Tom could feel her body shaking with her
sobbing.

"Oh darn it all, kiddy, don't cry," said Tom in sudden penitence.
"I did make a fool of myself.  I guess I had a cocktail or so too
many."

"Yes, and I was so ashamed.  Oh, I could have died.  Before that
rotten little drunken beast Harry Hillyard too, and--and all his
horrid gang.  You made me ashamed--the first time in my life I was
out with you!"  Her voice was broken now with agonized sobbing.
"And you made Sylvia ashamed--And mother!  I never knew what it was
that makes mother look like she does sometimes."

"Hush, hush up kiddy.  I'm awfully sorry."

"And now--I can--never go--out with you--when I--grow up."  Peggy's
sobs broke out with renewed violence.  "And that's why Julia
doesn't like to go with you.  I never could understand.  I do now--
oh--I do now!"  The girl was becoming hysterical.

"For God's sake, Peggy, stop!  I feel badly enough without all
that.  I guess I've lost to-night, the loveliest girl I ever met in
my life."  Tom's voice was full of bitterness.

Peggy's sobbing ceased at once.

"No Tom, you never had a chance with Sylvia.  That was settled
before you ever saw her."

"How do you know?"

"Shucks, any girl knows.  I could tell by her eyes.  When a girl
gets that look in her eyes it's all over except the orange
blossoms," said the worldly wise Peggy.

When Sylvia slipped in beside Jack he turned a stony face toward
her, and with dry sarcasm remarked:

"Coming to smooth down my heckles, eh?"

"No Jack," she said slipping her hand under his arm.  "Only to tell
you how proud I am of you, and to tell you--to tell you--oh Jack--
won't you--finish what you began in the conservatory?"

"Sylvia! oh Sylvia!" cried Jack in a sudden ecstasy.  "Oh dash it,
why does this come on when I have only one arm free?"

"Let them go on, Jack, and a little further on there is a lovely
view.  Oh, what a terrible bold girl I am.  You will just despise
me."

"Just wait three minutes," said Jack.  "I'll show you how much I
despise and loathe you.  I know an excellent spot."

"With a view, Jack?"

"Nary a view--darn all views--there's only one view I want."  For
five more minutes the car raced and twisted up the mountain side
and came to rest in a little shady angle.

"But Jack, isn't this dangerous?" whispered Sylvia.

"Sure!  Life is one long series of hazards.  I'm taking my life in
my hands now--oh Sylvia, darling!"

"Oh Jack, Jack! my Jack! my very own boy!" she whispered, clinging
to him, when her lips were free.  "Oh, I never thought it would be
like this.  Oh I am perfectly shameless.  Oh darling, you won't
ever let me go?"

"Not till I lose my mind, or till I'm dead!"

"Oh!" she laughed gaily.  "I was afraid for just a minute to-night.
But then I remembered--and I knew."

"Remembered?"

"Yes, Jack.  How you looked!  Poor Jack!  I knew--I knew and my
heart jumped up in my throat and choked me.  I was sorry for you!"

"Sorry for me?"

"Yes, sorry for you, that you loved me--a little girl like me--no
money--no style--no--anything--"

"No sense!  Not a darn shred of sense.  You poor little fool.  Do
you know there isn't a man in Montreal wouldn't think himself a
king if he could feel your arms round him, as I feel them, feel
your heart beat as I feel it, feel your lips as I feel them now?"



CHAPTER IX


"No, Miss Sylvia, I'm telling you the story right.  You go into
this merger and you're safe.  You'll have no responsibility.
You're in with a big concern with strong financial backing.  You've
got a free hand in management, your people are safe.  Stay out and
you're alone.  More than that you're up against a killing
competition.  And believe me they're out to kill.  They don't know
the meaning of mercy nor of justice either.  They'll squeeze your
life out just like that."  And Mr. Brady's big hand rolled up and
crushed into a misshapen bulk a sheet of paper and flung it into
the wastebasket.

"Mind you, they're offering you better terms than to any of the
others.  I put up a fight for you.  They want you in, and they sure
don't want you out--not your father's daughter.  Some of the big
ones knew him.  See here!  You have a firm agreement appointing you
secretary for two years--that will test out the thing--You have
practical control of all employees--hiring and firing.  That's a
wonderful concession.  I had to pull hair for that.  But I told
them how it was with you and your people, and you've got a good
price and a good interest in the Corporation, which may run up to
ten, fifteen, twenty per cent.  It may turn out a big thing, a
mighty big thing."

"And your advice, Mr. Brady, is that I close with the offer?"  The
girl's blue eyes rested trustfully on Mr. Brady's big broad face.
Mr. Brady gave her back look for look.

"Didn't ye hear me tellin' you?" he said lapsing in his excitement
into his native Doric.  "An' do you think I could be lookin' into
thim lovely blue eyes of yours and lie till ye?  I may be all wet,
but that's me best to you, an' so it is, Miss Sylvia."

"I believe you, Mr. Brady.  I believe you are a good man."  Mr.
Brady's loud and cynical laugh interrupted her.

"Good man is it?  Well, well.  Don't mention it outside the
office."

"But I do, and I'm going to trust you.  You are giving me till to-
morrow."

"It's the last minute, Miss Sylvia.  Be wise now.  It's my heart
will be broke for ye, if you give thim fellas a chance at your
lovely throat.  Good-bye thin.  An' the saints be good till ye."

Mr. Brady held her hand for a few minutes.  "My dear," he said
kindly, "it's a man of your own you need to guide you.  But the man
good enough for you is hard to find.  They're not hangin' on the
bushes, so they're not."

"Thank you again, Mr. Brady.  Good-bye," she said, a faint flush on
her cheek.

Mr. Brady paused in the outer office at Frances' desk and cocked
his hat over his left ear.

"Now then, young ladies," he said resuming his best business accent
and manner, "what about a nice little dinner at the Royal to-night.
And a little dance to follow?"

"Sorry, Mr. Brady," began Frances.

"Oh Mr. Brady, how sudden," drawled Sally.  "Of course she'll come.
She's young and shy.  I'll make her come."

"Shall I call for you in my car, say 6.30?  A little glide up the
river for an appetizer eh?  Cool breezes?  What?"

"Oh how lovely--But Mr. Brady, right out in the open?  In broad
daylight?"  Sally's blue eyes looked up at him through shrouding
lashes.

"Say, Miss Frances, you've simply got to come along," said Mr.
Brady anxiously.  "There's things I'm afraid of after dark.  All
right 6.30 then."  He took down Frances' number, lifted his hat,
winked at the typist, a long slow wink, threw out his chest and
sauntered out with a truly Napoleonic air.

Meantime Sylvia was on the phone.  "Jack, I want you for dinner to-
night."

"Yes Jack, it is important.  In fact, a matter of life and death.
Oh!  But this is a big deal, too.  What?  A hundred thousand?  No,
mine does not quite reach that amount, but it's all I have.  Oh,
can you?  That's very nice of you.  Yes, I'll get him too.  Yes,
indeed he is very nice.  Goodbye, Jack.  I'm busy--Good-bye.  Oh,
by the way, do get Professor Hale.  He's so very clever--what?  Oh
yes, he knows Mr. Matheson too.  They belong to the same club.
Yes, he's been out here once or twice.  What?  Well three times at
least.  No, no, nothing like that.  Just economics.  Yes sure!  All
right, you'll bring him.  Good-bye--what?  But Jack think of the
charges!  I must really ring off now--no!  Good-bye."

Again Sylvia was on the phone.

"Auntie darling, Jack and Professor Hale will be out for dinner.  I
know it is short notice, dear.  But I must decide to-night.  It is
really very important--what? nonsense!  Nothing like that--no, pure
business--Big Business--Capital B.  And Auntie, get Mr. Matheson
too--what?  But if you ask him he will--sure he will.  Yes, really
I want his advice.  He is very wise.  Huh huh--and so nice!"  The
telephone clicked sharply as Sylvia's laugh rang out.

As Sylvia turned from the telephone her face settled into an
expression of grave concern, if not of anxiety.  Within twenty-four
hours she would be called upon to make a decision that would
directly and indirectly affect the lives of two hundred and fifty
people, for whom she felt responsible, and her own life as well.
At present she was her own mistress.  She was secretary of her
little company, and also she controlled the stock.  Her decision
would determine whether the business associated for half a century
with her father's name would pass into the hands of a corporation
which would be governed by one sole consideration--that of profits.
The whole country had gone mad for mergers.  Big business both in
the United States and in Canada was in the saddle and pressing
hard.

That evening there gathered about the dinner table at Hilltop House
a group of men whose main bond of fellowship was their common
interest in the affairs of Sylvia Rivers.  The first to arrive was
Jack Tempest.  There had been no announcement of an engagement
between Sylvia and himself.  Jack was desperately anxious for an
immediate marriage.  He hated the agony of a long engagement.  With
Sylvia, however, there were the two very important questions, of
Aunt Elizabeth and the Riverside Mills.

"I want to be married, Jack, right away, of course, but I must
consider what will happen to Aunt Elizabeth."

"Sylvia, it will be the very devil for her," said Jack solemnly.
"But--then you will be quite near her, and--"

"Then too, there is the business here.  I can't just abandon all
these people of mine, with all their people--there must be at least
two hundred and fifty of them."

"Sell out!  You have your chance!" cried Jack.

"Jack, your advice I would value really very highly, but darling, I
am not really sure that it would be quite disinterested.  You know
you are biassed."

"Frightfully, more than you can imagine."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Jack.  I am fearfully biassed too.  But I
really want to do the right thing by them."

"Don't I know?  You are leaning over backwards, you are so
fearfully right.  But there's me.  Of course I'm not an Aunt or a
business, I am a mere man, whose days and nights are one long
consuming agony.  I found a grey hair to-day."

"Jack, we must not begin by thinking only of ourselves.  That would
be horrible."

"Well, dear, don't look like that.  Let's cerebrate on the problem
a little longer.  I shall try to-night at the conference to be
coldly, passionately, disinterested.  Self shall be wholly and
ruthlessly immolated upon the altar of altruism.  I shall think
only of your Aunt Elizabeth.  She is a perfect brick--and of the
two hundred and fifty family retainers.  You shall see!  But my
darling we may perhaps allow one little thought of self to
interject itself now and then?  You, I mean and me."

"That is why I asked Professor Hale," said Sylvia hurriedly.  "He
is very cool and clever and disinterested and--"

"Hold on just there--clever?  Yes, as the very old Harry.  Cool?
Yes, as an active volcano--and disinterested?  Well--"  Jack's face
became quite overcast, "if you really want from him an unbiassed
opinion, he is as unbiassed as a starving wolf in the presence of a
juicy lamb."

"Nonsense, Jack."

"Well, I give you this bit of data.  He used to be ready for a
discussion on economics any hour of the day or night.  Now,
whenever I meet him he becomes dreamy and asks when I last saw Miss
Rivers.  Frankly I don't like it."

"Do be sensible, Jack."

"That's it.  I am far too sensible of his danger.  First thing we
know that young man will go nutty and lose his job, and I shall
have to support him."

"You?  And why you?"

"Quite obvious.  While I refuse to acknowledge that I am the cause
of his MENTAL collapse, I am quite certain I am the OCCASION.  If
you will brush up your logic."

"The occasion?"

"The occasion," replied Jack firmly.  "With a positively wolfish
appetite he hungers after you.  His dewlaps fairly drip."

"Disgusting and silly, Jack."

"Exactly, but he can't see me.  In his path I stand a veritable
Verdun:  'He shall not pass.'  So there you are.  No, he is clever,
but unbiassed?  No!  Firmly no!  That young man is growing nutty
and I don't blame him."

"Well, there is Mr. Matheson."

"Well, I can hardly pass him.  He is a clever guy, but--unbiassed?
Of course we can hardly expect him to become lyric in his support
of the proposition that we deprive him of his leading soprano, his
head push in the various clubs, guilds, circles and groups that
have to do with the young life in his congregation.  His is the
disinterestedness of the O.C. who finds himself about to be
deprived of his adjutant and sergeant major in one fell swoop."

"Oh dear, it really is very difficult."

"Then, there is your aunt.  You would not suggest--"

"Oh, please don't Jack.  It is really impossible to think clearly
and--"

"Quite so.  The only possible thing, quite obviously, is that you
and I form a very definite two-power pact against all these
thoroughly and quite naturally selfish forces in order to preserve
anything like a decent equilibrium in the situation."

"You really don't help very much.  And I must decide to-night."

"Well, my dear, I have one immediate and pressing duty to perform.
I can not, in my own interest, allow my property to be threatened."

"Your property?"

"My property.  Upon your face I see what might become a disfiguring
frown.  I must immediately attend to it."

"Oh Jack, you are silly.  Do hurry, Aunt Elizabeth may be in any
minute."

"Exactly, I shall waste no time, but the thing is not to be
hurried.  It will take time."

It did.

The little company that gathered about the dinner table in the
Hilltop House reflected pretty fairly the financial atmosphere of
the city.

"Great days, eh Jack?" began Reggie Hale, after the soup plates had
been removed.

"Grand and glorious," replied Jack grinning at his friends.

"What are your winnings to-day, if one may ask?"

"One may ask, of course, but in the best circles one does not
answer, unless with a definite and distinct taurential purpose."

"Torrential purpose?  Why torrential purpose?"

"Ah, my dear sir, in deference to the limitations of your purely
economic education, and with apologies to the classicists among us,
may I be permitted to explain, that the word taurential is derived
from the word 'Taurus' and not from the word 'torrent,' which would
give a quite opposite meaning."

"Ah Taurus--eh--bullish in other words?"

"Exactly, with profound apologies to the ladies."

"Oh indeed, I know that quite well," exclaimed Aunt Elizabeth.  "I
remember the signs of the Zodiac--'Taurus a bull, Libra a pound,
Scorpio a scorpion--and the rest.'"

"Again my apologies, dear Miss Murray."

"Oh, don't give in to him, Miss Murray," said Professor Hale.  "He
is trying to dodge the question.  He is ashamed to let the extent
of his piracies be known."

"Thank God for every sign of grace," murmured Mr. Matheson.

"Come on Jack, we won't tell anybody," said the Professor.  "Out
with it."

"Well, the market was rather slow, showing a gain of only twelve
points in certain stocks," said Jack.

"Which on one hundred shares would be twelve hundred dollars
exactly, and on a thousand shares would be twelve thousand."

"Quite right."

"And on ten thousand shares, not an unusual operation these days,
that would mean one hundred and twenty thousand dollars.  How much
wind?"

"Wind?  No wind.  All wood and water."

"Wood and water?" enquired Sylvia in a puzzled voice.

"Yes 'pulp' you see," said Jack gravely.

"Pulp?  Oh yes, I see--wood and water."  Sylvia made a face at him.

"Don't mind him.  He is quite too cocky to-night.  No wonder with
all that boodle in his belt," said Reggie in high disdain.  "It is
only another indication of the depths to which he has fallen.
Truly facilis decensus Averno, if my classics may be pardoned."

"And what does that mean exactly?" enquired Aunt Elizabeth
innocently.

"Reggie ought to be ashamed," said Jack in a shocked voice.

"Nonsense, Auntie," cried Sylvia, "it means--"

"It means, Miss Murray," interrupted Jack, "I regret to say:
'Greased are the skids to hell.'  A somewhat free translation, I
admit."

"Now Jack, we are not going to allow you to hold the stage any
longer," said Sylvia.

"Me?  Hold the stage?  Why I have simply been answering questions
fired at me from every side.'

"Well, anyway, I want you all to solemnly consider my merger.  I
must give an answer to-morrow.  You all know the terms: twenty
thousand dollars cash, thirty thousand stock in the new concern.
Mr. Brady adds today a two years' contract for me as secretary, and
power of hiring and firing.  These are the main points."

There was silence for some time.  The gravity of the moment weighed
upon their minds.

Professor Hale was the first to respond.

"What is your inventory value of your plant as it stands?"

"It is so difficult to say.  We have had three separate estimates
and they vary from twenty thousand to fifty thousand dollars.  As a
going concern, I should say that twenty-five thousand would be a
fairly low figure, and thirty-five thousand would be a fairly good
figure.  Of course put up for sale it would not bring that."

"No no, we are not talking sale prices.  Twenty-five thousand to
thirty thousand would be a low price for the plant from a
production value point of view."

"I think so," said Sylvia.  "There is quite a marked improvement
during the last three months.  That of course may be temporary."

"The trouble is that we can't get at real value in this case," said
the Professor.  "The merger is already formed.  That organization
is out for all it can get.  But its main purpose at this juncture
is to get all these concerns into its grip, therefore, any concern
holding out has a certain 'nuisance' value."

"Nuisance value?" said Aunt Elizabeth indignantly.

"Exactly!  Horrible thought!" said Jack.  "The greater nuisance you
become the greater value you have."

"Unless you become too much of a nuisance, and then they wipe you
out," said Reggie.

"Regular poker game, you see, Miss Murray," suggested Jack.

"No, I do not see.  I know nothing about poker.  Never played poker
in my life.  Poker indeed!"

"Sorry, Miss Murray--awfully sorry--of course--I didn't mean to
suggest--"

"Now Jack, please be sensible and let us get on with this," said
Sylvia.  "You know I must settle it to-night."

Again there was silence.

Then Mr. Matheson gravely said:  "The main questions to be
considered appear to me to be two:  First, what will happen to Miss
Sylvia if she goes in, and the merger is a failure?  And second,
what will happen to her if she stays out, and the merger is a
success?"

"Excellently put, sir," said Professor Hale, "for if the merger is
a success and she is in, nothing very serious can come to her and--"

"That is, if they don't interfere with our people," said Sylvia.

"That possibility appears to be taken care of for two years at
least," said Reggie.  "While if you are out and the merger fails
you can't be injured very much.  First, then let us consider these
eventualities."

For two hours they sat in the drawing-room after dinner, discussing
the issues involved from every possible point of view.  "Except the
point of view of our two-power pact," Jack found opportunity to
whisper to Sylvia, who shook her head quite severely at him.

"If I could be quite sure they would let us carry on as we are,"
said Sylvia, in a distressed voice.  "Mr. Brady says they will not
interfere with the working of the plant.  But who can tell?"

Professor Hale suddenly sprang to his feet, pushed up his fingers
through his bushy, tangled locks, and exclaimed:

"Frankly, I am opposed to these mergers.  They involve every evil
in co-operative movements, and they eliminate every good feature.
They place the lives and fate of workers in the hands of a small
group of men, who are out to exploit everyone in their power.  They
are utterly irresponsible to any other authority than themselves,
they can choke off all smaller competitors.  They can exploit the
consuming public, they can deprive their workers of anything like
an equitable share of the profits from the business."

"But none of these things are necessarily concomitants of their
scheme.  And besides the question for us is, what is the
alternative?" said Mr. Matheson, with just a shade of impatience in
his pleasant and gentle voice.

His tone seemed to stir the Professor's wrath.

"That's just the curse of it all," he exclaimed.  "Under our
present system we are helpless."  He seemed to check himself with a
violent effort.  "After all, I am really off the rails a bit.  But
I can't help feeling that this country, this whole continent, is on
the eve of an appalling collapse.

"Of course, I am unpopular.  A Cassandra never is popular.  But
Jack, will you tell me why is it that commodities are beginning to
slide?  Why is it that the Federal Reserve is issuing grave
warnings against this stock booming?  Why is it that every British
economist of any standing is denouncing this whole speculative
movement as dangerous?"

"Well, Reggie, you know those old country boys are fearfully
conservative."

"Conservative?  Perhaps so--but they know the European situation as
no one on this continent knows it.  And after all, surely their
experience as world traders and financiers for the last hundred
years, is worth something.  No, no!  I am terribly anxious.  Jack,
if you are plunging heavily in stocks for Heaven's sake sell.  Sell
to-morrow!  Don't wait!  To-morrow!"  Reggie's voice rose almost to
the point of hysteria.

Jack laughed at him:  "I guess most stocks are good for ten points,
any way."

"Ten points?  Yes, twenty! a hundred!  But the higher, the farther
above the point of reality, the greater the fraud, the more
disastrous the fall.  But I've said my say."

"Then you are opposed to my merger?" said Sylvia in a distressed
voice.

"My dear Miss Sylvia, if you were a stock manipulator without heart
or conscience--"

"Like me," interposed Jack sotto voce.

"Yes, like Tempest, you could make a killing out of your merger.
But you won't sell, not even on a rising market.  You will hold on
and lose out."

"She can't lose her twenty-five thousand cash," said Jack.

"No," said Reggie.  "She won't lose that--but--well--that's all
from me."

"No, no, Mr. Hale," pleaded Sylvia.

"Mr. Hale, you are not quite on the point, if I may say so," Mr.
Matheson broke in.  "Miss Sylvia is not deciding the question of
the ethical implications of the present economic system.  Suppose
we grant, for the sake of argument that it is ethically
indefensible.  The main question with Miss Sylvia is how can she
best protect her people's interests in any case, success or
failure, by going in or by keeping out?"

"That is so," said Reggie gloomily.  "Rotten choice either way."

"To my mind the answer is very obvious.  Her vantage ground from
which to serve the interests of her people appears to be definitely
stronger within than without the merger."

"You are right," said Professor Hale, still gloomily.  "You are
unquestionably right."

The company decided for the merger, not without many misgivings on
the part of Sylvia, to whom it seemed only the less of two evils,
Jack however, laughed at her fears.  "The padre has the word.  It
is your only choice, and it suits me well."



CHAPTER X


The merger being duly consummated and Riverside Mills being firmly
established under its former management with James MacDonald as
superintendent and Miss Sylvia as secretary, with managerial
powers, things began to move at a rapid pace.

First of all the old sawmill was thoroughly overhauled, new saws
put in place, a new engine installed of much greater horse power;
for the Central Canada Company had planned that some old lumber
limits, chiefly hardwood, long forgotten, belonging to the
Riverside Mills should forthwith be converted into merchantable
lumber suitable for the manufacture of furniture, especially for
veneers.  Already throughout the summer months gangs of lumbermen
with modern equipment had been busy cutting roads, building camps,
preparatory to active work when the snow began to fly.

"I am not satisfied with the reports from the camps," said Sylvia.
"Indeed I am uneasy about the work up there, James."

"Why, I haven't noticed anything," said James MacDonald.

"No, perhaps not, but you don't see all the correspondence, James.
The reports are too vague, too indefinite.  Mr. Hample will not
give me the particulars I ask for.  You must go up yourself and
look into things."

"But how can I possibly get away with all this new machinery being
installed, and Headquarters insisting on daily reports?  Of course,
it is all a lot of nonsensical red-tape, but apparently that
General Secretary demands them.  I suppose he must show something
for his $10,000 salary."

Miss Sylvia sighed with deeply furrowed brow.

"Huh!  I'd like to step into his office some day and see them all
at work, that gang of clerks," growled James MacDonald.  "I can't
help wondering what the average golf score is for the gang."

"Well we are not responsible for that office, but I am for this.
And I am not happy about those camps up there.  And Mr. Hample is
so dreadfully vague.  I wish I could just see the thing going for
myself."

"Why not, Miss Sylvia?  You know you will never be quite satisfied
till you do."  James MacDonald caught Miss Sylvia glancing at him
suspiciously.  "No, I am really in earnest.  You know you are never
quite satisfied with second-hand information.  Too much Glengarry
blood in you."

"Well James, you know I have no knowledge of things that men are
working at in spite of my Glengarry blood.  I must see things
actually."

"Huh!" grunted James.

"I have no imagination."

"Huh!" grunted James again.  "Well then, make up a little party and
go up.  It is only about a hundred miles.  Motor for that first
seventy and ride the rest of the way.  You are good for that."

"Oh, I could do it.  But what could I do with that foreman.
Evidently the Corporation thinks him a wonder; certainly he carried
marvellous testimonials."

"A little too marvellous, 'The King that carries a trumpeter needs
one,' as my father used to say in the Gaelic."

"Well something must be done.  I am not satisfied in my own mind."

"I will order the horses to be ready for you at the end of the
motor road," said James MacDonald.

"Oh, James, I would be afraid of all those men," said Miss Sylvia,
her blue eyes wide with dismay at the bare prospect of facing some
sixty or seventy men in the heart of a great forest.

"Afraid?" said James.  "Not you!"

"About the new machinery, James, you should have help.  You can't
be everywhere at once.  I must see about that."

"Are you not satisfied with my work?" he asked sharply.

"I am not satisfied to see you overworking, James," replied Sylvia.
"It is not fair to you."

"Nor to the work," James was evidently on edge, scenting criticism.
"I am doing my utmost, whatever."

A shadow fell across the serenity of the lovely face turned toward
him.  "You need not tell me that, James.  But--well--if you will
arrange for four horses, I might manage the trip."

"Let me know a day ahead, Miss Sylvia.  And--and--Miss Sylvia, I
have a devil of a temper," said James as he flung out of the
office.

That evening Sylvia discussed the trip to the camps about the
dinner table, with her Aunt Elizabeth and Mr. Matheson, who had
dropped in, and Jack Tempest.

Aunt Elizabeth was horrified at the idea.

"A slip of a girl like you among a lot of ruffians."

"Ruffians?  I am quite sure they are as good as any other working
men--and better too.  James MacDonald got a lot of them from
Glengarry, grandsons of the old Glengarry lumbermen, my father's
friends."

"Yes, and how many Frenchmen from the Hull Lumber yards?"

"There wouldn't be any trouble from the men.  Sylvia would be as
safe with them as in this dining-room," said Jack.  "I'm thinking
of possible accidents en route.  Bad roads, half broken bronchos,
storms and that sort of thing.  No, I don't like it, not a little
bit.  I only wish I could go.  But three days!  And just now!
Utterly impossible."

"Jack, you should go.  You need a change.  You are looking ghastly.
Isn't he Mr. Matheson?" said Aunt Elizabeth.

"He is not looking his best, that is true," said Mr. Matheson, who
had developed a great liking for Jack.  "It would do him a great
good to escape from that Babylon even for three days."

Jack grinned at him.  "Babylon in the hey-day must have been
something to see, eh?  Hanging gardens, silks and gems, gold, not
to mention ivories and peacocks.  What?"

"But never so frantically mad as our modern Babylon.  I was in the
Stock Exchange this week.  I drop in now and then."

"For pointers?"

"To try and read signs of the times.  Bedlam!  If ever men were
mad, those men are mad."

"My dear man, you should see New York.  I spent a day there last
week."

"Terrible!"

"Terrible?  Not a bit.  Regular circus!  Great game!  Tossing
millions about hilariously like a volley ball.  Tremendous sport!
Everybody jolly, wildly jolly.  Jove!  I should like to go right
into that game.  If it were not for Dad."  The boy's eyes were
aflame, his face hard, thin, keen.

"A game for them, but what of the masses who are paying for their
fun?"

"Well!  Whose fault is it?  No one asks them in.  It is no game for
children or weaklings."

"No.  For bulls and bears.  For beasts with horns and claws.  The
old Roman Amphitheatre was a Kindergarten to this.  Vae victis!
Paganism!  Rank, stark paganism, very devils' game."

Jack laughed excitedly.  "I grant you it is no place for Boy
Scouts.  But by Jove, it is a great men's game."

"But Jack," said Sylvia.  "What of those who get trampled to
death?"

"Let them keep out."

"Paganism, vandalism, Jack," said Mr. Matheson.  "I am getting the
repercussions in my work.  A lot of my young men, yes and girls are
turning in the savings of years, buying on margin."

"And making money too!" said Jack.

"Many of them, more's the pity," said Mr. Matheson, sadly.  "If
they would only LOSE their money at first."

"Yes, look at young Frank Scovil," said Aunt Elizabeth.  "His
father is nearly crazy.  He had to leave the bank."

"Where is he now?" asked Jack.

"Oh doing fine!  Selling bonds with that firm Harrington, Meredith
and Sharp.  Drives a car!  One of the coming men!"  The smile in
the minister's round cheery face was not entirely joyous.  "I saw
him last week."

"Oh, did you?" asked Sylvia anxiously.

"Yes, he was very nice to me.  I could see he was full of pity for
me."

"A lot of my girls are buying on margin, Jack," said Sylvia.  "They
pity me too.  Some of them have already made in three months more
than their year's salary."

"Well, you can hardly expect them to put much heart into it.  It is
really rather dull."

"Your friend Tim Brady I see about a good deal, Miss Sylvia," said
the minister.  "He has a wonderful car."

"Yes, I know."

"And he gives wonderful parties."

"Yes, I like Mr. Brady--but--but I wish he would go away.  You see
he is terribly interested in our company.  He regards it as his own
pet child.  He is fearfully thrilled at our success.  But I wish he
would go away.  He is very kind to our girls."

"Kind?  He has opened an office here and has young Albert Bingle in
it as his head man.  Now we all know what a fine laddie Bertie
Bingle is.  He was one of my bright boys.  Brains and all that."

"He has a car too," said Sylvia.  "I wish they wouldn't all get
cars," she added mournfully.

Jack laughed at her.

"Well--you know a young man with a car--is a very real attraction."

"True! a terrible combination!" said Jack grinning at her.  "But
what about the camp expedition?"

"You couldn't come, Jack."

"Now then young lady turn those eyes away from me when you speak
like that.  Our office needs me most desperately.  And my own
investments these days--Why in a single hour anything might
happen!"

"Oh, Jack how terrible to be so involved!"

"Terrible is the word.  Aunt Elizabeth, why don't you go?  I have
it!  Magnificent scheme!  Why didn't I think of it before!  Why
didn't we all think of it?"

They all sat waiting.

"Sylvia, Aunt Elizabeth and the padre here!"

"Silly boy!" said Aunt Elizabeth smiling pleasantly at him.

"I am serious.  Quite serious.  Can you ride, Aunt Elizabeth?"

"Can she?  You ought to see her," cried Sylvia.

"And you padre?"

"Well, I have ridden at home--I mean--"

"Hurray," cried Jack.  "What a brain I have!"

"But," continued Mr. Matheson, "only very soberly and sedately upon
a farmer's cob."

"Hurray once more!" cried Jack.  "My only regret is I can not be
with you to see you."

"To see us?  Well! you won't see me, nor will any one else," Aunt
Elizabeth's tone was finality itself.

"But seriously, my dear Miss Murray, why not?  You all can ride.
September is the loveliest month for the woods.  No heat, no flies.
Sylvia needs the change.  Look at her!  Well--of course she is
flushed now with the excitement of this glorious little holiday.
Mr. Matheson would be the better for an outing.  What day will you
start?  The sooner the better.  I can run you up to the motor
road's end.  The horses can meet you there."

"James MacDonald will have the horses ready," said Sylvia
innocently.

Jack shouted.

"What a head!  Say, you ought to be in the Stock game.  You have
the gambler's gift--always one step ahead."

In spite of the joint protestations of Aunt Elizabeth and Mr.
Matheson, the details of the camp expedition were worked out by
Jack with masterly ability.

"Very well, I will agree, if you allow me to find a substitute in
case duty prevents me at the last moment," said Mr. Matheson, with
the air of a man making a supreme concession.

"A substitute?" cried all three.

"I was thinking of Professor Hale."

"Reggie Hale?" said Jack.  "Isn't he returning to his job almost
immediately?"

"No, as a matter of fact he was talking to me about a walking
tour," replied Mr. Matheson.  "But of course if he would not be
acceptable to any of you--?"

"Nonsense!  Acceptable?" exclaimed Miss Murray.  "I'm sure he is a
charming young man!"

"Can he ride?" asked Jack.  "Does he know which end of a horse goes
first?  I mean in an emergency would he--"

"I know he rides," Sylvia suggested.  "In fact he told me he has
ridden on the Western ranches."

"Oh, all right," Jack's tone somehow lacked enthusiasm.  "Why of
course, that would be splendid.  But why not four?  The very
thing!"  Jack's enthusiasm took fire.  "Four are much better than
three--three is an awkward number riding.  Sure thing!  I'll see
Reggie to-morrow."

"Well, if you think he will go," said Aunt Elizabeth.  "And if you
really mean this mad folly."

"Go?  Oh, he'll go all right," said Jack with conviction.

Sylvia's face showed a distinct flush as she began hurriedly to
discuss certain details with the minister.

"What day will you start?" asked Jack.  "This is Thursday.  Monday
is rather a bad day for me, a lot of mopping up and planning to do.
Tuesday, eh?  That gives the padre time to get back and prepare for
Sunday."

"What about Professor Hale?" asked Aunt Elizabeth.

"Reggie?  Don't worry about Reggie!  I'll guarantee him for any
hour of any day next week."  Jack's tone was emphatic.

Again a faint flush touched Sylvia's face.

"Then we shall say Tuesday," she hurried to say.  "Auntie can be
trusted to make up a hamper.  I shall look after the horses."

"And I'll look after Reggie," said Jack, privately making a face at
her.  "What about clothes?  All got riding breeches?"

"Breeches?  Young man you may attend to your own affairs and leave
us."

"I was thinking of the padre, Aunt Elizabeth," replied Jack
innocently.  "Of course, I could lend--"

"Thank you!" said the minister, while even Aunt Elizabeth joined in
the general giggle.  "But I am afraid--"

"Your father's, Jack," suggested Sylvia.

"As usual!  On the spot--one step ahead.  Now I must away.  A hard
day to-morrow.  What about a turn round the block, for all of us,
eh?  Lovely night!"  This had come to be a ritual with Jack.  Both
the minister and Miss Elizabeth declined the invitation.

"Don't be long, Sylvia," warned her Aunt.

"No darling, just a few minutes," cried Sylvia waving gaily at her.

"Poor things!  They have very little time with one another," sighed
Aunt Elizabeth.  "They are both so very busy.  I am sure I wonder
how Sylvia gets through her day."

"Don't I know?" said the minister.  "It is the talk, not only of
the plant, but of the whole town.  What with the new installation
at the sawmill, the reorganization of the furniture factory--they
are even making enquiries about the old tannery--I can't see how
she keeps up.  But she does.  Indeed as Jack says, she is always
one step ahead, and were it not for her anxiety about those girls
of hers,--you know they are really all going mad over this stock
gambling, but only for that she would be happy as a lark."

"Oh yes, she loves her work--and--and--oh yes, she is very, very
happy," said Miss Elizabeth, with a little sigh.

"Yes, it is a wonderful thing!  It is the great thing!  The
greatest thing!" said the minister with emphasis.  "He is the lucky
man!"

"Yes, and he is a good man.  She will be happy."  Again came the
little sigh.

"Yes, I know you will miss her," replied the minister answering her
sigh, "but--"

"Nonsense!  I am a foolish and selfish old woman!  I am really very
happy about it."

"Yes, yes of course!  Still--"

"Tut tut, Mr. Matheson, you are becoming sentimental.  It is the
moonlight!  But--"

"Well, why not?  I insist on being sentimental if I feel like it.
As to-night for instance.  Who could look out upon these trees
picked out by the moonlight, who could listen to the breathing of
the night--"

"My dear Mr. Matheson, you alarm me.  Besides you will surely get
cold, and be unfit for your work on the Sabbath day."

"In other words, 'ye're an auld dodderin' buddie who should be in
yer bed,'" said the minister with a gay laugh.  "I am away off to
my bed.  It is safer there."

"Don't be mean now, Mr. Matheson.  You know that you are neither
'auld' nor 'dodderin'.  And everybody knows it.  And your people
are all just--well--they are all crazy about you."

"I think I shall go now.  You are a great comfort to an old man.
Good night, my dear Miss Murray."

"Nonsense!  You are just fishing and I'm not biting, so good night.
And mind you be ready for Tuesday."

"If it is within my power you may rely upon me to be on hand."

"Good night, Mr. Matheson," said Miss Murray softly, "and pleasant
dreams."

"Dreams?" said the minister.  "Ah!  Good night."



CHAPTER XI


"And James," Miss Sylvia hesitated just a little, "there is no need
that any one should know just where I have gone.  I am away on
business."

"It is not my custom to discuss your affairs with anybody, Miss
Sylvia."  James' back was like a ramrod, his tone had the buzz of a
band-saw.

Miss Sylvia ignored his back and his tone.

"And I shall be back on Thursday night.  Good-bye, James."

"Good-bye."  James did not see the hand stretched out to him.

"Good-bye, James," repeated Miss Sylvia, still holding out her
hand.  "I'm going away for three days."

"Good-bye!" said James soberly, taking her hand.  Suddenly the girl
smiled at him, a smile so bewitchingly radiant that James' icy
gloom melted quite away.  "And a good journey to you and safe home,
and we will be all glad to see you."

"I know you will.  And be good to the girls, James."

"The girls!  Oh, I'll be good to the girls," James said with a
tightening of his lips.

"Now James be sure!" cried Sylvia waving and laughing at him.

"My God!" groaned James, and turned back into the office, a heavy
shadow upon his handsome dark face.

Long before the Riverside folk were awake and about their work the
Tempest Rolls-Royce slipped quietly out of town and along the
highway toward Ottawa, heavily laden with passengers and camping
gear.  It was one of those golden days that rejoices the hearts of
Canadians about mid-September.  Bright sun and air with a tang in
it quickened the heart beat, like champagne.  In the tonneau rode
the Professor, the minister and Aunt Elizabeth; in front Sylvia and
Jack, the latter exuding gloom, till Sylvia was fain to remonstrate.

"Why so blue, Jack, this glorious day and with me beside you here?"

"Only an hour's run," grumbled Jack.

"But we don't need to do it in an hour, Jack."

"Why certainly not!  I always drive this car at about sixty, but I
will creep along at thirty," said Jack slowing down to the desired
rate.

"I wish you were coming all the way, Jack.  We have so little time
together these days.  You seem so driven."

"I know.  There is a lot of work of the firm's which Dad likes me
to supervise, and then there is a lot of my own."

"Everybody says you are a plunger, Jack."  Sylvia's voice carried
anxiety.

"No one that knows," said Jack impatiently.

"But you are buying on margin, Jack."

"Not much.  I am sticking to the tradition of the firm.  Dad never
buys on margin--at least as a rule.  I am buying only certain
stocks on margin.  But one of these days I am going to astonish
some of those old boys who are trying to keep me out of their ring.
Give me three months more and I'll show them something."

"Jack, everybody says you are the keenest stock man on the
Exchange, and that you are making millions."  Pride and fear were
both in Sylvia's voice.

"Who is everybody?"

"Well Timothy Brady and--"

"Tim Brady!" exclaimed Jack.  "That is a confession, for Tim Brady
is a shrewd old wolf, and his people are after me a bit."

"But why should Cameron, Maclennan and Borland be after you?"

"Oh, they don't like Dad's attitude in some things, and two or
three times I made them take my dust recently.  Who else is talking
to you?"

"Oh, I hear the girls talking.  They think you are a young
Napoleon.  Naturally they admire you tremendously."

"Of course, dear things!"

"And James MacDonald, he disapproves.  He thinks you ought to stick
at engineering.  Ever since you showed that expert where he was
wrong in setting up the new engine, he thinks you are a wonder with
machines.  And you are, Jack.  I wish you were in that business,
Jack, and Reggie agrees--"

"Oh, does Reggie call me a plunger?"

"No, he does not.  He thinks you are the most dangerous man in
Montreal.  He says you know better than to plunge.  But oh Jack,
all this buying and selling unrealities.  I hate it.  It is really
robbery."

"Not the way I do it.  I don't deal with suckers.  I don't do like
Tim Brady and Bertie Bingle.  I go after the fellows who are in the
game to make a killing."

"I don't like to hear you talk like that, Jack.  Tom Foster talks
the same way."

"Oh Tom!  Tom's an ass, and they will get his ears some day.  And
his partner is worse, Jessop, I mean.  He is no ass but--well let
him go.  Oh, let us forget the whole rotten game.  Fascinating,
tremendously, but fundamentally, as Reggie says, rotten."

"I wish you were in engineering."

"Sometimes I wish I were; I'd like to specialize as an Engine
doctor.  I really think I have a gift that way.  You know I can
step into a factory and can tell by the sound if the thing is
running properly.  But what a glorious light on those hills!  I
wish I could go off with you, Sylvia, away into the woods for a
couple of weeks."

Sylvia squeezed his arm.

"Some day, Jackie, eh?" she said her voice all atremble.

"Just you and I, Sylvia, and a canoe.  Away from all this stuff.
Listen to Reggie booming economics behind there!  And the padre
backing him up!  I say, Aunt Elizabeth, don't let those two
Bolshies corrupt your sound and wholesome bourgeois economics."

"Oh, but they are not, and I quite agree with them.  I'm quite sure
that all these millionaires with their gambling and drinking and--
and all the rest of it are bad for the country.  They set such a
bad example."

"But not because they are millionaires.  But let us forget the
whole wretched business."

"Hear, hear!  For Heaven's sake," cried Reggie, "look at that noble
river, and that line of hills beyond and this glorious light upon
it all.  I hate to think that in another month I shall be away from
it all, and from you all."

They all protested their dismay.

"Yes, my leave of absence is over.  My work done, or at least as
well done as I can do it just now."

"We shall miss you dreadfully," said Aunt Elizabeth.

"Sure thing!  We shall all miss you!" cried Jack his arm pressing
hard on Sylvia's clinging hand.  "I fear I shall go quite off the
straight road, Reggie."

"Go off?  My dear chap.  But we said no economics.  Let us talk of
beauty."  And for the next ten miles the Professor talked
enchantingly of beauty in the world about them, in art and in the
soul of man, while Sylvia whispered to Jack.

"Isn't he wonderful?"

"Wonderful?  A whale!  A darned old animated encyclopedia and art
gallery.  But the sooner he is off to his own blessed university
chair the happier I shall be."

"Nonsense Jack, don't be silly," whispered Sylvia vehemently.

"He's positively dangerous!" insisted Jack with a scowl.

It was still early morning when the car turned off from the
Montreal-Ottawa highway, and indeed still early morning when the
car left the smooth country road, and for another mile followed
with infinite care the devious winding of a waggon track which
ended in a burnt over clearing, a brule, in the midst of which
stood a tumble down cabin.

"Where is Mr. Hambly, I wonder?" asked Sylvia, opening her bag and
drawing forth a letter from which she read aloud, "Shall meet you
at the cabin at seven A. M. Tuesday."

"Hello, here is something," called out Jack, who had gone to
explore the cabin, and had found a chit pinned to the door, "Listen
all."

"Very sorry.  Can't possibly arrive with the horses till 8 A. M.
etc. etc."

"Jack, we shall bring the stuff into the cabin and let you off.
You will be late," said Sylvia.

"Not till your man appears.  Suppose he doesn't turn up at all.
No, we will wait, confound him!"

"He may have some good reason," said Sylvia.  "Meantime what shall
we do?"

"A cup of coffee would be good," suggested Aunt Elizabeth.  "This
air is extraordinarily stimulating.  What do you think, Mr.
Matheson?"

"Miss Murray, you are a seer.  Does the cabin have a stove, Miss
Sylvia?"

"Stove?  In that dirty cabin?  We'll make our fire here.  I am a
great camper," said Sylvia.  "Besides, I'm a Glengarry girl."

"Allow me," said Jack, and within ten minutes he had a stone
fireplace built, and a fire of pine chips going, and the coffee pot
on to boil.

About the fire, for there was a nip in the air, they sat, the men
smoking.  There was little talk; the beauty of the morning held
them silent.  Their camping ground was on the edge of a ragged
clearing from which the larger trees had been cut long ago, leaving
stumps and the rough debris of a slashing.

"Shame to cut down a noble forest of clean pine trees and leave
this mess.  You lumber people are vandals," said Jack looking at
Sylvia.

"But it is becoming lovely again.  Look at the yellow of those
young poplars and the maples," said the girl, a soft and tender
light in her eyes.  "They are doing their best to cover up the
ugliness we make.  Look at that flame of bramble."

"Those gorgeous crimson trees, Miss Sylvia, what are they?" asked
Reggie.

"Those are maples, our glorious soft maples," replied Sylvia.
"Don't you know them?"

"I don't know trees.  I am a city bird.  Never lived in the
country, except one summer on the Western prairies.  To me this is
heavenly.  And you are right, Miss Sylvia.  Nature hates ugliness
and is eager to cover up the mess we make.  Look at those bushes
and those young trees.  Already they have covered from sight the
ugliness man has made.  Hello, padre, what do you think you are
doing?"

"I am playing myself.  It is an old Scottish bairns' game.  We
called it 'duck on the rock.'  See, on this rock I place a stone--
my duck.  You stand at a base, some fifteen feet away, and try to
knock off my duck, and retrieve your own duck before my duck is in
place again--you see--When my duck is in place on the rock you may
not touch yours.  Once my duck is knocked off, everyone may grab
his duck and make for the base.  If, however, I can replace my duck
and touch the runner he becomes the rock keeper in my place.  Oh,
it is a grand game."

"Come on, Auntie.  You used to be a great runner, I know."

"Oh no, I am much too old."

"I resent that, Miss Murray.  If you are too old, then I am too
old.  But I am not too old and therefore you are not too old.  Come
away.  We will show these children something.  I will be rock
keeper."

Fast and hard they played the ancient game till it was agreed that
the minister could beat them all, and they were glad to sit down
and rest.

"Well, padre, you are a regular top-notcher in that game," said
Jack.  "You put a tent over me all right."

"Yes indeed, Mr. Matheson, you are a marvel," said Aunt Elizabeth.

"Oh, there are certain tricks in the game.  I am getting slow."

"Another of the exploded myths, Mr. Matheson," said Professor Hale.
"Every science and every art has them.  But I fancy here comes our
man."

"A quarter to nine," said Sylvia looking at her watch.

A cavalcade of rather dejected looking horses made their way down
the winding path toward them, led by a heavily built man with a
heavy cheery face, a loud voice and a hearty manner.

"Hello folks," he cried, waving his hand in salutation.  "Arrived
all right, eh?  Lovely day for your picnic."

"Good morning, Mr. Hample," said Sylvia pleasantly.  "I am Miss
Rivers, the secretary."

"Oh, by jinks, say!  I thought you'd be about forty.  Awful glad to
meet you.  Going to start right away?"

"Just as soon as we can get going, Mr. Hample.  Perhaps you will be
good enough to get our stuff packed and loaded as soon as possible.
Have you any tump lines?"

"Tump lines?  What for?"

"They are easier to pack with.  Well, I brought them in case--and a
rope.  The stuff is in the cabin.  It is five miles to your first
camp, I understand, and ten to your second.  We will make the
second before noon, if the road is not too bad.  Good-bye, Jack,
awfully sorry we had to keep you."

"But I'll see you loaded up and away."

"No, no, Jack, we are all right now," said Sylvia, adding in a low
tone, "Get right off, I can handle this man better if you are not
here.  Please do get off."

"All right then," said Jack, "I shall be here on Thursday evening
at say, eight.  That will get you home in good time, won't it?"

"Quite all right.  Your third camp is about fifteen miles from
here, isn't it Mr. Hample?"

"Well, let's say about fourteen or fifteen, I guess.  But it's only
a pack trail, you understand."

"I understood it was a wagon road," said Sylvia, her blue eyes
holding Mr. Hample's steady.

"Well, of course, you can call it a wagon road," said Hample with a
cheery laugh, "depends on what you mean of course."

"You can make five or six miles an hour on it, I suppose," said
Sylvia.

"Oh well, see here, I haven't ever exactly timed myself on it.  But
don't expect too much and you won't be bitterly disappointed," said
Hample cheerfully.

"Jack, you will be here at half-past eight, and we will meet you
then.  Good-bye."

"Good-bye, and good luck to you all.  Wish I were staying with
you."

"Hold on a minute," said Hample, hurriedly.  "Could you run me down
to the Highway.  I've got to get some things."

"And bring you back here, Mr. Hample?" asked Sylvia.  "I'm afraid
you can't do that, Jack.  You are two hours and a half behind your
schedule now.  Good-bye, Jack," she said giving him a little nod.

"But hold on!  I got to get--" Hample began.

"Good-bye," said Jack, throwing in his clutch and slipping away.
"Thursday, eight-thirty."

"Eight-thirty, Thursday, Jack," said Sylvia.  "Now we'll get away
as soon as possible.  You understand packing, Mr. Hample.  Perhaps
you will be good enough to help me to get this stuff loaded up.
Mr. Matheson, will you and Aunt Elizabeth, as soon as your packs
are loaded, please move on.  I suppose the trail is quite easy to
follow, Mr. Hample."

"Oh, it's easy enough to follow," said Hample rather crossly.  "But
say, I got to get something at the village."

"What things, Mr. Hample?" asked Sylvia sweetly.

"Oh mail and stuff--private--"

"Well, the mail can wait for a day, I suppose, and perhaps the
other things too," said Sylvia smiling at him.  "You see we are now
nearly three hours behind our schedule.  I can't possibly spend
more time here.  There are such a lot of things to see.  Now Mr.
Matheson, you have your loads, you go.  We will catch up to you.
And," she added in a low voice, "make the best time you can.
Auntie is a good rider."

Mr. Matheson, followed by Aunt Elizabeth, with an understanding nod
set off at a good pace up the trail.

Reggie, who knew something about packing, had meantime got his pack
lashed to his saddle, leaving a biggish bundle for Hample and two
smaller packs for Sylvia.

In a few minutes Hample, who had not spoken a word since Jack's
hurried departure, got his bundle in place and mounted his pony,
his face reflecting bewilderment and wrath.

"Well, we are away at last, Mr. Hample.  It is a perfect day for
our trip.  I do hope the rain keeps off.  You haven't had much rain
for the last month, I understand."

"Not a drop," said Hample.

"Rain is such a bore in camp, I always think.  Gets your clothes
and things soaked.  I hate it."  Pressing her pony to a canter she
kept up a stream of pleasant chatter, flinging swift glances and
brilliant smiles at her glum escort, 'till the poor man between
rage and bewilderment was driven into a state of silence quite
unusual with him.

The leading horses, ridden by Mr. Matheson and Aunt Elizabeth, made
such excellent time that they were not overtaken till the first
camp was reached.  At this point Hample proposed a rest for the
midday meal.

"What is there to see here, Mr. Hample?" asked Miss Sylvia.

"Oh not much, we have only about fifteen men here, mainly clearing
up roads and that sort of thing.  Finishing up as it were."

"How many teams have you here?"

"About eight.  Ain't it, Paddy?" turning to the stable man.

"Four," said Paddy.

"I suppose they are all out on the roads, Paddy?"  Sylvia's smile
woke a responsive radiation in Paddy, a red-headed, thick-
shouldered squat son of Erin, with a rich brogue and a humorous
twinkle in his blue eyes.

"Not to-day, Miss.  They're kind of restin' up, so they are, the
crathers."

"Resting up, Paddy?"

"Ye see they were workin' yisterday."

"And why not to-day, Paddy?"

"Aw, they're kind o' ketchin up to their feed."

"We are a little short of feed at the present.  I didn't know till
to-day.  They didn't report the shortage," said Hample hurriedly.
"They'll be all right to-morrow.  We have a load coming in."

"When?  To-day?"

"No, to-morrow," said Hample.

"Let's take a look at them."

"There is really nothing to see, Miss Rivers."

"But I love horses.  Don't you, Reggie.  Come along, Paddy."

"Sure, I do.  I used to have a lot to do with them out west,"
replied Reggie.

The stable was banked up to the doors with manure, the stench was
almost unsupportable.  Inside, the place was almost dark.  The
horses were standing in filth over their hoofs.

"I would like to look at them.  Take them out, Paddy," said Sylvia.
"I just love horses you know, Mr. Hample."

"Oh, they are really not much to look at," protested Hample.
"These are really our culls.  You will see better horses at Camp
number three."

"Oh, never mind.  Take them out, Paddy."

"Indeed then they're better out than in," said Paddy untying his
horses and turning them loose.

Slowly the wretched creatures stumbled out into the light and stood
dazed, lifeless, blinking in the sunlight.

A heavy silence fell upon the group.  Shaggy haired, unkempt, ribs,
hip bones showing through their skins, one with galled back,
another with a horrid gash in the flanks, both wounds black with
flies, they stood in eloquent, silent condemnation of the callous
inhumanity of man.

For a few minutes Sylvia stood looking at the poor creatures with
white stricken face and horror filled eyes, then covering her face
with her hands she groaned miserably.

"Oh Paddy, take them all out! take them out please.  Take them
out," she cried vehemently.  "Wouldn't they be better outside, out
of the dirt?"

"They would that!" said Paddy.

In a white fury Hample turned on Paddy and cursed him for his
carelessness.  "What the devil do you mean, letting your horses get
like this?  You're fired!"

"An' phat about the man that sint me to hell when I besought him
for time to clean them, the poor bastes?" said Paddy in a low
desperate voice moving slowly upon the manager.  "What about him,
I'm askin' you?"

"Paddy!"  Sylvia's voice rang out sharply.  "I want you, please."

Paddy paused in his advance.  "Come here!"  He slowly came to her.
Pointing to the horses she cried.  "Can't you get something for
these poor wounds?"

"Shure I can, but I'm fired."

"Perhaps Mr. Hample will reconsider.  I do want these sores looked
after."

"But--but--" began Hample.

"Ye may, but--but if it wasn't for the young lady and the blue eyes
av her, I'd see ye slitherin' in hell before I'd sthay an hour in
this mess of a mudhole, an' I'm tellin' ye."

"I am very sorry and very shocked at the conditions of these
horses, Miss Rivers.  The truth is I haven't been down here for
three weeks."

"Except when ye be passin' through on yer way to the town," growled
Paddy, tying up the horses to a tree.  "I'll fix them up an' the
rest av them inside that's as bad or worse then thimselves.  But
I'm givin' ye warnin' as I did before," he added turning savagely
on Mr. Hample, "that I'll tind yer cookhouse and the crathers here,
but no more.  None of yer bunkhouse, nor yer grubshack for me, an'
I'm tellin' ye."

"Carry on, Paddy," said Hample.

The party visited the cook house, a Chinese cook in charge.  At the
back of the house a heap of rotting refuse furnished a convenient
and luxurious ground for millions of flies of all kinds, from the
infinitesimal gnat to the vicious deer fly and the voracious bull
dog.

"Let us go on!" said Sylvia.  "We must hurry."

Another hour and they were at the second camp.

"Sylvia, I can't go another foot, no matter what happens," wailed
Aunt Elizabeth.  "I am fainting with hunger, and I am sure these
poor men are too."

"Ravenous, Miss Elizabeth," said Mr. Matheson, "ready to slay any
living thing--except a horse perhaps--and devour it raw."

"We will camp here," said Sylvia alighting from her saddle.
"Though I can't bear the thought of food.  Think of those flies at
the last camp."

"I saw some lovely looking bread in there," said Aunt Elizabeth.
"And biscuits, and the coffee smells good."

"And there are no flies!" exclaimed Sylvia.

"I'm afraid we haven't much accommodation for ladies here, Miss
Rivers," apologized Mr. Hample.

"Oh, never mind, Mr. Hample.  My aunt and I will go down to this
lovely little stream, and have a rest.  And then perhaps we can get
a cup of coffee."

"You will have dinner in fifteen minutes, Miss Rivers," said Mr.
Hample.  "I may say that our Arsene here rather fancies himself as
a chef."

"Let me see him, Sylvia," said Aunt Elizabeth briskly.  "Please
introduce me, Mr. Hample.  Then Sylvia, we shall choose a nice
little spot by the brook.  You are fagged out."

"Not a bit," said Sylvia, throwing herself down upon a bank of moss
under a spruce tree.

Had she been the late Empress Eugénie, Arsene could not have
received Miss Murray with greater empressement, as he swept her a
profound bow.

"What lovely bread, Arsene!  And pie!  What?  Surely not
blueberries!"

"But certainement Madame! of the best! as you see."

"We thought we would picnic by the stream down there under the
trees, Arsene!"

"Ah!  Fête châmpètre!" exclaimed Arsene.  "Beautiful!"

"Your coffee smells divine, Arsene."

"Ah, non!  For de men?  Yes.  For ze lady non non--I shall make you
coffee.  Ten minutes only.  Also some egg--non!  Some omelet n'est
ce pas!"

"Arsene, I shall leave it with you!  Oh, I am starving."

"You like pancake, Madame?"

"Pancakes, Arsene?  You don't mean it."

"Fifteen minutes, Madame--one small fifteen minutes--you will see."

"I leave everything with you, Arsene," Aunt Elizabeth slipped away
with Sylvia into the woods.

"My dear, I feel it in my bones that we are to have a wonderful
feast!  But I do wish I had said ten minutes instead of fifteen."

A shady spot close to a purling stream free from infesting flies,
carpeted with pine needles, they selected for their table.

"Mr. Matheson!  Professor Hale! come here!" called Aunt Elizabeth.
"Do come here!  Did you ever see anything lovelier?"

"Never! never--saw anything lovelier," said Mr. Matheson gazing
rapturously now at one lady and then at the other.  "You both--"

"Nonsense, this picnic ground here, I mean."

"Oh, picnic ground.  Of course perfect!  Eh, Hale?"

"What about some cedar or balsam branches for a table cloth?  I'll
cut some.  I know about them, see?" said Professor Hale, but Arsene
appearing at this moment spread down upon the pine needles a snow
white table cloth.

"Dis is more better," he said.  "She keep de leetle bug from your
grubs, n'est ce pas?  De sapin!  C'est bon for your seats."

"Splendid, Arsene!" said Aunt Elizabeth.  "Permit me to introduce
my niece, Miss Sylvia Rivers.  Professor Hale, Reverend Mr.
Matheson."  Arsene's bows would have graced the court of Louis
Quatorze.

"Ah!  Madame, it is one occasion!  Now one leetle cocktail, pour
l'apéritif, non?"

"Oh, no thank you, Arsene.  The gentlemen do not wish it.  Besides
we are famished!"

"At once!  Madame!  You will see!"

"Let me help you, Arsene," said Sylvia.

Arsene held up his hands with a volley of excited French expletives
significant of horror.

"Non non!  It is impossible!  Fifteen minutes! your bouillon!"

It must be confessed that it took slightly more than fifteen
minutes.  But they were profitably spent by the party in bathing
hands and face in the cool running water of the brook.

"I'm going to wade," said Sylvia.  "Come on, Auntie.  Mr. Hale will
get some towels."

"Hurray!" cried Mr. Matheson.  "Me too.  Come on, Miss Murray.  Let
us paddle!"

A moment's hesitation and Aunt Elizabeth with a rosy face
exclaimed, "Of course, the very thing.  My riding boots are so very
hot and uncomfortable.  But do let us hurry!  Arsene will be here
with the bouillon."

They were still paddling when Arsene appeared.

"As you are, Madame!" he exclaimed.  "In de bat' is it not, as in
Ancien' Rome.  Ha ha!"  To each one he handed a bowl of delicious
soup with toasted buttered biscuits.

Shouts of delight welcomed his service, while he rushed away to
return with plates, knives and forks, following almost immediately
with a large covered pan.

From the pan he swept the cover with a bow.

"Voilà!"

"What?  Arsene!" shrieked Aunt Elizabeth, "not partridge?"

"Pardon!  It is not time only to fry!"

The rapturous exclamations from the whole party banished Arsene's
regrets.

"Oh, where is Mr. Hample?  Arsene present our compliments to Mr.
Hample and ask him to join us."

"Mr. Hample is desolate.  It is not possible he come to you."

"Ah, we are sorry, tell him please!" said Sylvia devastating Arsene
with a radiant smile.

Biscuits, pancakes, omelet, cake followed in succession accompanied
by Arsene's most profound apologies for the meagreness of the
feast.  If he only had received warning.

"My dear Arsene, the Ritz has nothing so perfectly cooked and
served as this," exclaimed Sylvia, who had regained her spirits and
who obviously, as Professor Hale declared, set herself to drive
poor Arsene into a state of helpless imbecility.

"One hour's complete repose would seem to be indicated," suggested
Mr. Matheson, after the dishes had been cleared away.

Lighting their pipes the men stretched themselves in luxurious ease
upon the balsam.

"You might now converse, dear ladies, for our delectation,"
suggested Professor Hale.

"Why not you, Professor Hale?" replied Sylvia.

"No, no, Not Hale!  Who would dare to desecrate this heavenly peace
with rude jargon as to economics."

"What are your plans, Sylvia?" enquired Aunt Elizabeth.

"We shall ride to the Fifteen Mile camp.  I think I have seen
enough in these camps for my purpose.  But at the next camp we
shall see men at work.  It is all pretty bad."

"You didn't see Arsene's cook house.  It was a joy to behold.
Clean, tidy and no refuse about."

"I think I shall ride on, Miss Rivers," said Hample, making his
appearance.  "You can come at your leisure.  You cannot mistake the
road."

"Thank you, Mr. Hample.  We shall follow more slowly."

As they approached the Fifteen Mile camp they could hear sounds of
noisy shouts, hoots, groans.  Pushing on they came upon a scene of
wild confusion and excitement.  Some thirty men were milling about
in front of a small building, which proved to be Mr. Hample's
office.  Standing in a doorway, Mr. Hample stood looking out upon
them with an easy smile upon his face.

As he caught sight of the party riding up he shouted to the mob.

"Here, you fellows, get out of this.  I'll see you tomorrow.  Come
on, clear out.  Come, move!  Can't you see I've got visitors?"

"Sorry Mr. Hample," said a young giant of a lad with a good-natured
face.  "We want a definite answer now, and we are going to have
it."

"May I ask what is the trouble, Mr. Hample?"

"Oh, nothing at all that you have to do with, Miss Rivers," said
Hample politely.

"Who pays the wages?" said a rough voice.

"Why, I do," said Sylvia.

"Why don't you do it then?"

"Here! you shut up Terry!  Aw, cut it out!"

"But your wages are always paid on the fifteenth of the month.  Is
not that so, Mr. Hample?" asked Sylvia.

"Quite right, Miss Rivers.  The fact is I haven't got round to it
this month yet."

"This month is it?" laughed Terry scornfully.  "What about last
month?  And the month before that?"

"The fact is I have been a little crowded with extra work and--"

"Ha ha! extra work!  Aw come off!"

Sylvia's eyes fell upon the young giant's face.

"Mr. Hample please introduce me to this gentleman?"

"Roderick Macdougall," said Mr. Hample gruffly.

"Would you ask this young man and another to step in to the office
with us?" she said.

"Excuse me, Miss Rivers, I am not going to be bullied by any gang
of hoodlums.  I do my business in my own way, and if you will
excuse me I must ask you to keep out of this.  I am manager of this
camp."

"Oh, of course, Mr. Hample.  I have no idea of interfering, but as
to wages, you know the wages are paid on the fifteenth of every
month."

"I have explained that, I think--"

"But these men complain that their wages have not been paid for two
months.  That is my business.  I am responsible for wages, as
Secretary-Treasurer.  Mr. Hample will you please ask Mr. Macdougall
to come into the office?"

"No.  I am not going to be dictated to by this bunch.  And I am not
going to have any one interfering with the discipline of this
camp," said Hample in a loud voice.

"Very well, Mr. Hample," said Sylvia.  "Mr. Macdougall, please tell
the men that the wages will be paid tomorrow at noon.  Will that
do, just now?"

"Certainly, Miss," said Roderick, blushing scarlet under her blue
eyes, and her ingratiating smile.

"Come on boys!" said Roderick.

"Hold on Roddy, what have you got?" asked Terry.  "Don't let her
diddle you, Roddy."  While another began whistling, "Two lovely
blue eyes."

"You Terry!  Get out of this," said Roddy, in a low voice, "or I'll
knock your block off."

"Mr. Hample," said Sylvia, following him into the office, "I am
sorry even to appear to intrude.  But you must know that as
Secretary-Treasurer I must know what has become of the payroll for
the last two or three months.  If you cannot explain I shall be
forced to put an accountant into this office to-morrow morning."
Her indignation forced her to become more personal.  "You knew my
father--he was a Glengarry lumberman.  No lumberjack ever suffered
injustice at his hands, nor ever shall at the hands of his
daughter."

"It is just carelessness, Miss Rivers," said Hample in a very
humble voice.

"Do you pay in cash or by cheque?"

"Cash.  The men like it better."

"Can you have the cash here to-morrow noon?"

"I'm afraid not."

"When can you?"

"A week or ten days.  I am a little low just now."

"Very well, I shall have the money here to-morrow and you will give
me your cheque dated two weeks ahead.  Are you agreed?"

"Certainly.  It is quite simple," said Hample.

"Now, what other grievances are there, Mr. Hample?"

"Miss Rivers, I must decline to let you come into the camp and
interfere with the management."

"Very well, I have no right to interfere with the running of your
camp.  But learning that there is a threatened strike I must ask
for a full statement of the particulars.  We cannot get the best
results if there is discontent.  Can you let me have that statement
to-morrow morning?"

"No, I decline.  I shall report to the Company, the President of
the Company."

"In that case, Mr. Hample, I must ask for your resignation."

"You?  Absurd, you didn't appoint me.  I had my appointment from
Mr. Huntington."

"You were recommended to me by Mr. Huntington, Mr. Hample.  It was
I who appointed you."

"Well, I guess I'll have to see about that.  I rather think I stand
in pretty well with the directors," Hample smiled pleasantly.

The afternoon was spent by Professor Hale and Sylvia exploring the
roads, the work accomplished and the general condition of the camp.

In the evening Professor Hale rode back to the nearest telephone
office and was able to make such arrangements that all back wages
were duly paid by noon the following day.



CHAPTER XII


The matter of the back pay being satisfactorily attended to, the
party took their leave about one o'clock.

Hample was quite cheerful.

"I am sorry for the little misunderstanding," he said as he bade
his visitors good-bye.

"So am I, Mr. Hample.  You are forcing me to do what I never
thought I should have to do."

"And that is?"

"Dismiss any one from my employment."

Hample laughed cheerfully.  "Oh, I do hope you will not be forced
to that, Miss Rivers.  Indeed I may tell you that Mr. Huntington
and I are very old and very good friends.  So please don't be sore
with me.  I can promise you that everything will be quite
satisfactorily adjusted."

"It will be, Mr. Hample, and for your sake I am very sorry indeed."

"Oh, please, don't worry about me.  Good-bye.  A pleasant trip
home.  Sorry I can't go with you.  But just tie the horses up in
the old cabin and one of the boys will go over for them this
evening."

"Good-bye, Mr. Hample," said Sylvia very gravely.

At Ten Mile camp the party were halted by Arsene with the offer of
a cup of tea.

"Oh splendid," cried Aunt Elizabeth.  "But, Arsene, we don't want
to put you to any trouble."

"But it is a mos' great plaisir," protested Arsene, who had a room
prepared for the ladies where they could refresh themselves.

There followed another petit fête châmpètre for which Arsene had
made more elaborate preparations.

"What Arsene?  Not doughnuts?  And cake?  And pie?  But this is
extravagant!  Your chief will be calling you to account."

"Pouf!  Dat fella!"  The snap of the fingers, the tone of voice
made words unnecessary.

"Arsene, I like your cookhouse.  What do you do with your refuse?"

"I show you, mamselle.  Come up with me."  He took her to the rear
of the camp among the trees and showed her an incinerator
improvised out of an old oil tank.

"Voilà!  No smell, no flies, no notting."

"Splendid Arsene!  I wish we had you in all the camps."

Arsene looked at her shrewdly.  "Maybe, it is possible.  It is
quite easy.  Dat cook!  Bah!  Sacr-r-e!"

Sylvia had an inspiration.

"Do you think?  I mean could you supervise all three camps?"

"Sure ting!  Ah, dose fly!  Dose mess!  Dose smell!  Mon Dieu!"
Arsene's hands were eloquent.

It was grey dusk when the party riding quietly came to the last
clump of trees, a thick underbrush of spruce, before issuing into
the clearing.  Professor Hale and Aunt Elizabeth were riding at a
slow walk in front with Mr. Matheson and Sylvia a hundred yards in
the rear discussing the situation at the camps.

Suddenly in the thick spruce underbrush there was a crash of
breaking limbs, and a loud snort.  Instantly Sylvia's broncho, a
hard mouthed brute leaped high in the air throwing her rider half
out of her saddle, and plunged down the declivity at a terrific
gallop.

At Sylvia's shriek, and the rattle of the galloping hoofs,
Professor Hale turning in his saddle saw the horse coming, running
low with Sylvia half out of the saddle and clinging desperately to
the pommel.

"Get to one side," he shouted to Aunt Elizabeth and stood braced to
check the runaway.

"Let him go!  Let him go!  I'm all right," shrieked Sylvia.

But Professor Hale facing his horse down hill set him off at a
gallop and as the racing broncho drew level he leaned far down,
snatched the dangling reins and held on.

Thrown out of his stride the broncho stumbled and pitched headlong
flinging his rider clear into a thick spruce tree where she lay
dazed, and at the same time dragging Hale out of his saddle among
the kicking scrambling hoofs.

Hurriedly coming up Mr. Matheson pulled Hale free and then turned
to Sylvia.

With a gay laugh she greeted him.

"What do you think of that?" she cried.  "You couldn't do that,
eh?"

"Are you hurt?" the minister gasped.

"Not a bit.  It must have been a cow, I think.  How are you,
Reggie?"

"All right--I think.  A bit--shaken up--but--oh--" he groaned
hoarsely and lay back insensible.

"Water!" cried Sylvia and springing on her horse she dashed down to
the cabin, only a few hundred yards away and returned with a small
pail of water.

In a few moments he revived and smiled wanly upon them.

"You are--all right--Sylvia?"

"Oh, yes, but you?  Where is your pain, Reggie?"

"Just here," he said laying his hand upon his chest.  "I can't--
breathe--very well--Thank the good God--you are--not hurt--Sylvia--"

"Legs and arms all right, I think, except for some superficial
cuts," said the minister, who had been examining him for broken
limbs.  "Some marks on his chest may mean kicks."

"Oh!  There is Jack, just on time," said Aunt Elizabeth.

Sylvia dashed off to meet him.

In a few swift sentences she told of the accident.

"Get in," said Jack.  "I can drive up there, I think.  Wait!  Can
he sit up?  No?"

He dashed into the cabin and returned with a ragged old mattress.
"Nothing too clean, I fear, but it will do, I guess."

In a few minutes he was kneeling beside the injured man.  "Legs and
arms all right?  Yes?  Chest, eh?  Pile your blankets and wraps in
the back seat.  Fix up this mattress, Aunt Elizabeth, and you get
in behind."

"I'll go, Jack," said Sylvia.

"Get in there, Aunt Elizabeth," ordered Jack.  "No stimulant with
you?  Whiskey?"

"Of course not!  Whiskey indeed!"

"Ought to always carry a little whiskey, Aunt Elizabeth.  Very
careless!  Now then, Aunt Elizabeth, sit up in this corner and
support his shoulders."

Meantime Sylvia and the minister had run off to tie the horses in
the cabin.  With great care Reggie was lifted in.

"Fairly comfortable, old chap?" asked Jack.  "All right, now?  The
first part will be a little rough, but once on the highway it will
be better.  Now then, let's see--about forty miles, eh?  Half an
hour ought to do it."

"Now Jack, that is eighty miles an hour.  It is very dangerous and
poor Mr. Hale, this way."

"Oh, forty or eighty won't make any difference to Reggie if we hit
anything, but we will moderate the pace," said Jack, whose
indicator after he had reached the highway rested steadily about
seventy.

"How is he looking?" he asked Sylvia, after a few minutes had
passed.

"Oh, awfully pale, Jack," she said with a catch in her voice.

"All right, we will turn in here."  He drew up at a road-house and
dashed to the bar.

"Hello Julian!  Awful hurry," he snatched a bottle of whiskey, with
a glass and dashed out again.

"Aunt Elizabeth, give him a teaspoonful as a medicine, you
understand.  We don't want him playing any tricks on us you know.
By the way, where are we going?  Royal Vic.  I suppose?  That is
another forty-five minutes."

"Nonsense, drive straight to Hilltop House," said Aunt Elizabeth
with indignation.

"Of course, Jack," echoed Sylvia.

"All right.  It is certainly where I should choose if I broke any
bones."

In exactly thirty-five minutes after reaching the highway, they
turned into the drive to Hilltop House.  Immediately Jack took
command again.

"Sylvia, will you please phone the doctor before we move him.  Aunt
Elizabeth perhaps you will see about the room, bed, etc.  Mr.
Matheson you stand by till the doctor comes."

Sylvia came running out.  "Dr. Lang will be right over."

"Meantime, if I remember my first-aid stuff," said Jack, "there
being neither bleeding nor concussion, another spot might be good.
I am rather doubtful of Aunt Elizabeth's measurements.  In a little
water, not too much.  Well, here's the doctor.  I resign the
patient into more capable hands."

"Principal pain, where?"

"Here!" said Reggie, laying his hand upon his chest.

"Ah, no other pain?"

"Oh yes--all over--but--sharp pain--just here--"

"Well, well my lad, don't worry."

"I'm not worrying--mighty lucky."

"Ah well, don't.  We will soon set you to rights."

"How soon?" gasped Reggie.

"Tut tut!  Now my dear lad--be reasonable.  I think we shall use
the mattress as a stretcher.  Fortunately he is not unduly
developed--a hundred and fifty pounds."

"A hundred--and--forty-seven," said Reggie.

"Ah, very good.  Now young man, have you ever carried men who were
hors de combat, so to speak."

"Often," said Jack.  "Off the football field."

"You will take the shoulders then; Mr. Matheson, you will support
the legs; I the body--move easily, but swiftly without jar or
hesitation."

"Ought to have another man," said Reggie fretfully.

"Here am I," said Sylvia.  "I'm as good as most men."

"No!" exclaimed Reggie.  "You'll hurt--"

"Thank you, Miss Sylvia, you will do excellently."

Swiftly, without too much jar or hesitation, the task was
completed, the Professor fretfully protesting all the way, against
Sylvia's taking part.

"Apart from various contusions and abrasions, a fractured collar
bone and three ribs, the patient has escaped serious injury," the
doctor announced gravely to the little company assembled in the
drawing-room.

"Hurrah!" cried Jack.  "Lucky devil.  He might have had a couple of
teeth knocked out or something."

"The broken ribs might easily have been driven inward and
perforated the lung.  A broken rib has an extraordinarily piercing
quality," replied the doctor gazing at Jack with grave disapproval.

"Yes, indeed," cried Aunt Elizabeth, reproach in her tone, also.

"Of course, or the heart," said Jack earnestly.

"The location of the cardiac organ and the structural conformation
of the chest would render that difficult though not impossible,"
said the doctor.

"How long will he be laid up, doctor?" asked Jack.

"That is, of course, quite impossible to say.  Probably two or
three weeks," replied the doctor.

"Rather a nuisance," said Jack.

"Jack!"  Sylvia's blue eyes were turned reproachfully upon him.

"I mean, his job you know.  His classes at Cornell begin in about
two weeks, I guess--of course, if he can't--I mean--we can fix that
up.  You can't promise--"

"What do you mean, Jack?" asked Sylvia in bewildered amazement.

"Well, I'm off.  I'll just run up and say good night to Reggie."

"The patient has settled down and will probably be better left
alone.  The nurse is in charge and quite competent and trustworthy.
Quiet and rest are important for at least forty-eight hours.  After
that a little pleasant excitement."

"He'll get it too.  I mean--I'll run out now often.  Well I'll push
off.  Good night."

Sylvia followed him to the door.

"Oh Jack, what a mercy you came along.  I mean you were so
efficient.  Poor Reggie, you helped him so.  Poor boy!"

"Lucky beggar, if you ask me," said Jack grimly.

"Lucky?  Why Jack!"

"Forty-eight hours quiet, and then, the Lord only knows how many
hours of pleasant excitement to follow.  Feel like a spin round the
block?  No?  You look awfully tired dear.  You are a plucky sort,
you know.  Now go right to bed."

"Not for an hour or so yet, I'm afraid.  I must do some thinking."

"Thinking?"

"Yes.  About that perfectly terrible and messy camp."

"Oh!  The camp?  Well good night, dear."  Jack somehow found it
difficult to take his final departure.

After he had gone, Sylvia went to her room and set herself to do
some hard thinking.  But instead, she found herself preoccupied
with Jack.  "How funny he was!  He never acted like that before.
What could be the matter?"  Suddenly a light shone in her eyes and
overflowed her face.  A tender pitying smile touched her lips.  "I
wonder if it could be that.  Poor dear!  What a silly boy!"

With a much lighter heart she took up the work before her.  If a
touch of jealousy were all the trouble with Jack she could easily
remedy that at their next meeting.  But this messy camp, and this
impossible camp manager--these were quite different.

Before she had laid her weary body to rest Sylvia had the carefully
prepared outline of a letter to the President, Mr. Huntington,
announcing the dismissal of Mr. Hample as superintendent of the
Lumber Camps in the region of the upper Ottawa for the reasons set
forth in the report which she begged to enclose.



CHAPTER XIII


The head office of the Central Canada Lumber and Furniture
Corporation was one of the most commodious and imposing in James
St., and the president, Mr. J. B. Huntington, one of the most
impressive of the "Big Business" men doing business in that famous
street.

The president was a keen, hard-featured, hard-headed man.  As a
stock manipulator he was dreaded by every stock selling house as
utterly ruthless, and preternaturally uncanny in his premonitions
and prognostications as to stock movements.

In his relation to the Central Canada Lumber and Furniture
Corporation, however, he was no mere stock operator.  He was
determined that the Corporation should become one of Canada's great
industrial concerns, developing with the national development, and
helping to exercise a steadying influence upon the whole industrial
life of Canada.

The merger was making fair steady progress.  The various concerns,
large and small of which it was composed were each and all working
out their various problems and destinies, some toward permanency,
others toward elimination.

Into the head office there came a daily report from each unit in
the merger, which received the swift and searching study, first, of
the chief of staff, Mr. Piper, and then of the president himself.
At the close of each day the president and his chief of staff could
tell you just how each unit stood individually and relatively to
the great Corporation as a whole.

On the morning of the second day succeeding the visit to the camps
the chief of staff, Mr. Piper laid some papers upon the president's
desk, with the attached memo "special attention and immediate."
The combination of "special" and "immediate" was quite unusual and
therefore arresting.  The documents consisted of:  (1)  A
memorandum setting forth the terms upon which the Riverside Mills
had entered the merger; (2)  A summary of the monthly reports from
the Riverside Mills since reorganization; (3)  A report of a visit
paid to the camps upon the Blackwater River; (4)  A letter from the
secretary of the Riverside Mills dismissing from the service the
superintendent and manager of the Camps, Mr. E. J. Hample.

A hasty glance through the documents and the president rang Mr.
Piper's bell.

"Now Piper, who the devil is this S. Rivers, secretary of the
Riverside Mills?  And what the devil does he mean by this sort of
high handed stuff, dismissing Hample, our manager at the Lumber
Camps?  What do you know about him?  And who the devil does he
think he is anyway?"

With perfectly unmoved face Mr. Piper proceeded to answer his
chief's demands categorically and in order.

1.  He knew Rivers only by his reports, which are always punctually
rendered and in perfect order.

2.  He was acting strictly within the terms of their contract with
him.

3.  He knew nothing personally about him.  Never had met him.

4.  He evidently was a man of prompt and decisive action.

"Who knows about him?  Who put through this deal?  Who made this
fool contract anyway?"

"Tim Brady was the agent in the case.  The greatest difficulty has
been experienced in getting the Riverside Mills into the
Corporation.  The Riverside Mills was considered to hold a place of
great strategic importance because of its location, and its
efficient management.

"Get Brady," ordered the chief.

Mr. Piper hesitated a single moment--a most unusual proceeding.

"Well, what?"

"I would venture to suggest, sir, that you read this report, a very
clever and very complete document."

"Get Brady," ordered the president.

It took an hour or so to get Brady, but during that hour the
president had a rather disturbing visit from Hample, the
superintendent in the Blackwater River district.

The relation between the president and the superintendent were of
old standing, and evidently of a very intimate nature.

Without ceremony Mr. Hample pushed into the president's private
office.

"Good morning, Hample.  So you're in trouble again?" was the
president's greeting.

"Trouble?  Well hardly," replied Hample with a smile of easy
assurance.

"Well I have a letter this morning that makes rather bad reading."

"Let's look at it."

"Private letters of the Company are not for public inspection."

"Well, I'm telling you, Huntington, that I'm through with that job.
Unless I can run my own camp, according to my own ideas, I'll see
the thing to hell.  It's only a one horse job anyway.  You gave it
to me only as a temporary thing.  My work is office work.  Do you
think I'm going to stay up in the woods there all winter, buried in
snow to the neck and run a couple of hundred men?  Not me.  And the
sooner you get that the better.  You can't shunt me into any back
yard like that, Huntington."

Hample's bearing was that of a man who has the whip-hand and who
knows it.

Mr. Huntington showed amazing self-control, indeed almost
obsequiousness in the presence of this truculent bully.

"Well well, Hample.  I'll look into the matter.  But this is really
serious, you know, rather ugly, in fact.  That holding back of the
payroll funds has an ugly name you know."

"Ugly name?  Not so ugly," Hample's language became highly
sulphurous, "as some other matters we know about."

The president's face changed subtly.  A look of hate gleamed in his
eye, but his manner of suave geniality remained unchanged.

"Well, I'll see what can be done, Jim.  I must get through my
morning correspondence.  Drop in--eh--in a day or so--"

"Day or so?  Not much.  This has got to be settled and quick.  I
don't want to be unreasonable," he hastily added as the president
rose to his feet, with a look of desperate resolve on his face.  "I
want a new job, and in the meantime a perfectly free hand where I
am."

"All right, Jim.  I'll fix it up somehow.  But I must get on with
my work.  Good day, Jim."

"Good-bye, Huntington," said Hample moving out.  "Those are my only
terms.  Fix it up."

"Terms, eh?"  He swore a deep slow oath.  "'Fix it up' eh?  You
polecat--you cur--.  Yes, as God in Heaven lives, I'll fix it up,
and I'll fix you up, too, my boy.  You think you can bulldoze Jim
Huntington, do you?"

His great fist closed slowly into a hammer.  "I'll smash you, my
boy.  Give me a little time.  You fool, you ass."

A knock came to the door and Tim Brady appeared, smiling and
debonair.  "You sent for me, Mr. President."

"Come in, Brady, sit down.  You were the agent of the corporation
that negotiated the contract with Riverside Mills?"

"I was, and a divil of a time I had with that same," said Brady,
who was an old friend of the president.

"Well, you have let us in for serious trouble with the secretary.
Just read that letter and that report, while I look at some letters
here."

Brady read with his eyes all atwinkle, then sat back waiting for
his chief with a look of benign complaisance on his fat, red face.

The president rang his bell for his chief of staff.

Mr. Piper appeared with a terrifying pile of letters in his hand,
which he laid in the basket at the president's right hand.

"Now then, Brady.  You are the man that let us in for this contract
with this--this--fool secretary--what's his name?  Rivers."

"It's meself is the man, and never was I prouder than I am at this
blessed moment."

"Look at your fool contract!  You allow this man the right to hire
and fire.  And what does he do?  Butts into Hample's Camp upon the
Blackwater--that's where you have those valuable hardwood stands,
isn't it?--and finding things not exactly to his taste he fires our
superintendent without a single reference to me.  What do you say
to that?"

"Not a word.  Not a blessed word.  But first I will read that
report to you.  You just gave it a glance.  I'll bet you a hundred
dollars you can't tell me but one thing and that is that Hample is
fired."

"Done!" exclaimed the president.  "He says he found the horses with
galled backs, all eaten up with flies."

"Bedad, you've got me!" exclaimed Brady much chagrined.  "I ought
to have remembered you were a horse man.  Well, here's your money."
And from his roll Brady peeled off ten $10 bills, and handed them
over to the president.

"I'll teach you to monkey with a buzz-saw," said the president
gleefully pocketing the money.

"All right!  Now if ye have any sport in ye I'll lay ye another
bet, two hundred dollars that if ye drive out with me to Riverside
Mills and let that secretary talk one half-hour with you over that
same report, ye'll take it, and ye'll thank God for the kind of
secretary you have.  Come on now if ye have any guts in ye!"

"Come on, Piper, we'll have dinner at the Royal at Riverside, the
loser pays the dinner."

"Done it is!" said Brady.

In high glee the president, accompanied by Brady and his chief of
staff, drove out to Riverside and turned in to the office of the
Riverside Mills.

"Rather neat, eh?" said the president as his glance took in the
smooth gravelled front with trimmed borders of green grass edging
the flower beds.

Ushered by Tim Brady they entered the outer office.  Spotlessly
clean it was with flowers in the windows, and two clerks, neat,
busy and prompt in their response to a request to see the
secretary.

Entering the inner office with something of a flourish, Mr. Timothy
Brady presented the president to the secretary.

"Miss Sylvia Rivers allow me to have the honour of presenting to
you the president of the Central Canada Lumber and Furniture
Corporation, Mr. J. B. Huntington.  Mr. Huntington, Miss Sylvia
Rivers, secretary of the Riverside Mills.  Mr. Piper, Miss Rivers."

Shy, blushing, her blue eyes wide open with surprise and dismay,
Miss Sylvia shook hands with the two men and offered them seats.

"Miss Rivers," said the president, "before I sit down I want to
tell you that this man Brady is a low down creature who has played
on me and on you a mean and dastardly trick."

"Mr. Huntington, Mr. Brady has always treated me fairly, but--I can
quite believe--oh, Mr. Brady, you didn't tell him who S. Rivers
was!"

"Never a hint!" exclaimed Mr. Brady rocking with delight.  "But I'm
not through with him yet."  He took out his watch and laid it on
the desk.

"Miss Sylvia, Mr. Huntington is a very busy man.  We have exactly
one half hour.  It is about the Blackwater Camps.  I have read your
report.  Mr. Huntington has only glanced at it.  Will you please
now tell us just what you found out there.  And please we are in a
hurry.  Begin by telling us why you went out at all--"

"Do you wish this, sir?" asked Sylvia.

"No!  Unless you would like to do so," said Mr. Huntington with a
bow.

"Please sit down, Mr. Huntington."  She opened her desk and took
out copies of her letter and the report sent that morning to the
head office.

"I am sorry Mr. Hample is not here.  Would it not be better that we
should wait."

"Never mind Mr. Hample," said Mr. Huntington.  "We really don't
need him to-day."

"To begin with I found it difficult, indeed impossible, to get
detailed reports of the work in the camps, the kind of information
which you apparently desire.  I could not just see the work going
on.  I have been in lumber camps before, but somehow Mr. Hample
didn't seem to understand just what I wanted.  There were other
things too.  So I thought it would help all round if I went out."

In simple, clear concise narrative she presented a picture of the
camp, with apparently every effort to be quite fair to the facts,
and to make such apology as was possible for the conditions
existing.

At the end of half-an-hour, Mr. Brady interrupted.

"The time is up, Mr. Huntington.  Are you ready?"

"Shut up, Brady.  Please go on Miss Rivers."

"There was practically a strike on at Fifteen Mile Camp on the
ground of non-payment of wages."

"And you sent the money?"

Sylvia rang a bell.

"Frances, this is Mr. Huntington, our president, and Mr. Piper."
The gentlemen rose and made their bows.  "Please bring the cash
book and the cheque register."

"These entries show you our method of checking the cash payments,
Mr. Huntington."

"Quite all right.  Please go on."

"Mr. Huntington, remember, I am not suggesting misappropriation of
funds, only carelessness and unfairness to the men who have weekly
obligations to meet."

"Exactly so, I quite understand," said Mr. Huntington, his lips
drawn in a hard line.

"These were the reasons why I felt I could not allow Mr. Hample to
continue to represent our interests in the camps.  I love my work
and I want to be happy in my work.  I could not be happy when I was
not sure that the work was going on as the company and you would
like it to go on.  I couldn't bear to think that the men were not
sure of their monthly pay.  They have their homes and families I
know.  And it made me really ill to think of the poor horses, and
there were other things too."

"It is enough, by Gad.  It's more than enough.  Miss Rivers I wish
to Heaven we had a secretary as conscientious and as capable as you
in every unit of our Corporation.  And Brady, blast your ugly Irish
mug, here's your $200.  I was a fool to bet with you, but how was I
to know that the secretary of Riverside Mills was--was a--Miss
Rivers.  I can't just trust myself to say just what--"

"Put yer money in yer pants, Mr. President," said Timothy Brady.
"Bedad it was worth a hundred to see your face when ye walked into
this office, and another hundred to have you see just the kind of
secretary it was I got for ye in this plant."

"Get to blazes!  Here's your money."

"It's himself that took a hundred off a me this morning.  As to the
other hundred, well, we'll see.  Now Miss Sylvia, can you take us
through this factory, as you took me once.  Just half-an-hour, and
then dinner.  He owes us a dinner.  Oh, it's a great day entirely,
so it is--"

"Can you spare the time, Mr. Huntington?  We have only a small
plant and nothing great to see."

"Can you spare the time, Miss--Miss Sylvia--if I may call you so?"

"Oh, I should be glad to show you our place and our people.  We are
rather proud of our people, you know."  Her radiant smile quite
took Mr. Huntington's breath away.

"My dear young lady, I'm sure they are a very lucky lot," he said
earnestly.

It was Mr. Brady who undertook to show the party the various points
of interest in the plant.  As they reached the large room where the
machine girls were busy at their sewing and decorating, the bell
for the noon hour blew.

"My dear Miss Sylvia, could you now, could you just let the
president hear them do one of them songs I heard.  Do you
remember?"

"Oh, Mr. Brady, it is nothing worth while.  We do encourage them to
sing at their work."

"Sing?  You don't mean it?" exclaimed the president.

Miss Sylvia clapped her hands.

"Girls, you remember Mr. Brady?"  Mr. Brady swept them a bow.  "It
is a great honour to introduce you to our president, Mr. Huntington
and to his secretary, Mr. Piper.  They would like to hear you
sing."

At once a girl began singing softly a French-Canadian chanson.
Immediately the whole group took up the song in beautifully
arranged harmony.

"Now what was it we sang once for Mr. Brady?" asked Sylvia.

After a moment's hesitation, a girl began, "The Old Londonderry
Air."

"That's it!" cried Mr. Brady in ecstasy.

"Thank you girls," said Mr. Huntington, who was deeply moved, when
they had finished their song.  "I only wish that in all our
factories we could have such conditions as make it easy for the
workers to sing as you sing."

"Ye've got it, Mr. Huntington," said Mr. Brady in a loud tone.
"It's easy to sing when people are happy and contented.  They don't
sing much out in them camps, I bet ye."

What Mr. Huntington said was too low to be caught by any but Mr.
Brady.

"Thim's the words," he said with emphasis.

"And now then, Miss Sylvia," said Mr. Huntington, "there is that
dinner, if you would be so good as to honour us."

"Oh, thank you, I should love to dine with you," said Sylvia, her
beautiful face aglow with delight.  "But I have only an hour for
it, more's the pity."

The dinner, though hurried, was a great success.  Mr. Huntington
and Mr. Brady were both on their mettle and kept Sylvia rocking
with laughter.

"I am behaving shamefully, I know," she said.  "And in my home town
too.  They will all be shocked."

"Won't they, then?" said Mr. Brady.  "I've heard them.  She has the
men all eatin' out of her hand."

"I don't doubt it," said Mr. Huntington.

"You see, a lot of these men here have some of their people
somewhere in the mills.  They are not like ordinary working people.
You see their fathers all worked with, or for my father.  They are
all dear folk.  And their children now work with me.  That is why,
Mr. Huntington, that clause about hiring and firing is in the
contract."

"You know she has a dozen clubs and things, boys, girls, men and
women, music, dancing, reading, dramatics," said Mr. Brady, in warm
admiration.

"How are they supported?" enquired Mr. Huntington.

"They are self-supporting, or were till very recently."

"Falling off, eh?" said Mr. Huntington.

"The girls unfortunately are all in the stock market.  It is so bad
for them.  Oh, I forgot--Mr. Brady--"  A quick hot flush covered
her face.

"Oh, never mind me.  I guess I don't help them much.  But if I
didn't get their money some other fellow would get it.  And anyway
I make money for them.  And for some of them a lot of money."

"I don't like it, Mr. Brady.  It is very disturbing.  They are
forgetting their Club work.  They are all going mad.  And they are
spending too much money."  Sylvia's face showed its distress.

"Never mind.  They will have to learn their lesson," said Mr.
Huntington.  "People like them have no right in the stock market."

"How can you keep them out?" said Sylvia.  "I wish I knew how.
They are withdrawing their money from the Savings bank and putting
it in stocks.  The crash is coming, Mr. Huntington, isn't it?"

"Just as surely as that sun is going down this evening.  They must
learn their lesson.  People like that have no business in stocks."

"What can one do?"

"What indeed?" said Mr. Huntington.  "The whole world has gone
crazy, but more than any others the Americans and our people."

"Now I must run.  Thank you, Mr. Huntington for the lovely dinner,
and for the good time.  I am sorry about Mr. Hample."

"No chance for reconsideration?" said Mr. Huntington observing her
intently.

"No, I would be unhappy all the time about the work, and the men
and their families."

"And the horses," said Mr. Brady, with a smile.

"The poor horses!  Oh, they were terrible."

"And what about his successor?"

"There is a man in Fifteen Mile camp whose grandfather worked once
for my father.  I have asked him to carry on for a few weeks, till
we could see.  Was that right, Mr. Huntington?  You see, I didn't
know you then."  Again her smile disturbed Mr. Huntington's
equilibrium.

"Quite right, my dear.  You go right along.  I wish I was as sure
of the other units in our corporation as I am of Riverside Mills.
Now for your clubs, I am quite sure Mr. Brady will put up fifty of
the hundred he made out of me to-day, and I'll meet him with
another fifty."

"Oh, thank you, but I would rather not.  If you will let me ask you
when I need it any time, I would like that better, Mr. Huntington.
Now I'm off."

The men lingered over their cigars after the girl had left, smoking
in silence.

"How is this Riverside plant coming on, Mr. Piper?" asked Mr.
Huntington thoughtfully.

"Best in the lot.  I have been following it closely.  I am
expecting great things from the enlargement of the sawmill.  The
hardwood stands up there are very promising, bird's eye maple,
beech, butternut and birch.  The maple and birch will make fine
veneer work.  I know woods, and you have some very fine stands, if
carefully handled."

"And this young lady, she seems to have an extraordinary gift for
business.  She apparently can handle anything," said Huntington.
"She has that plant working like a clock."

"Do you know why?" asked Brady.  "She has two great qualities.  She
thinks of her workers as folks and she has a conscience.  She has
taught me something."

"Eh?  A little sentimental, Brady?  That's the Irish in you."

"Let me tell you something," replied Brady.  "I've been poking
round that plant a good deal.  She knows those people of hers like
as if they were her own family.  There's an old Scotty engineer in
that plant.  He sits up nights with his engine.  Why?  Because she
looks after his sick baby.  Those girls now.  She keeps them busy
in the evening, clubs, singing, reading, dancing.  But she works
them like slaves when they are on the job, and pays them for it
too."

"She's evidently got you eating out of her hand, Brady, eh?"

"It's myself that isn't ashamed to say it.  I went in there ready
for any devilment with those clerks of hers, but by the Holy saints
and Heavenly Powers she has me playing the guardian angel to them."

"She surely is some kid, if she did that to you, Brady," said Mr.
Huntington, with a laugh.  "But let's go.  It is a hard world, a
devil of a hard world, and what is coming to us the next six
months, the Lord only knows.  If the market only holds.  Well let's
get into the game.  You are operating an office here, Brady.  Go
easy!  Those kids and their fool racketing."

"Will you, or will any man tell me how?" asked Brady bitterly.
"God knows I hate shearing lambs.  The old bucks now.  I'd take the
hides off them and rejoice in it--but--"

 The following day Roderick Macdougall was standing in the
Riverside office, now on one foot and then on the other, listening
to the young lady setting forth the duties of the superintendent of
the camps.

"I can't do it, miss," he said.  "Not with the staff there.  You
are asking for clean camps and cook houses, well kept horses.  You
are asking for a logging gang that is up to its job, and keen on
the bit, you are asking for road building and you are putting in a
new store and new payroll system.  I can't do it to your liking and
I won't do it any other way."

"Think it over, Roderick, till this evening.  Then come and tell me
what staff you want.  Your grandfather was camp boss for my
father."

"Lumbering was different then," said Roderick.

"And our appliances and equipment are different, Roderick.  Take
half a day to think it over."

As Roderick was passing through the outer office he was halted by
Frances.

"Here are some papers you might look at," she said.  "You will find
them useful."

"Useful?"

"Yes, in your job.  Record sheets and that sort of thing.  Also
price lists for your store things."

"Price lists?"

"You must keep a price list unless you have a wonderful memory."

"Say, Miss--"

"Frances is my name," she said demurely.

"Well mine is Roderick Macdougall and--"

"I know."

"You seem to take for granted, Frances, I'm going to take on this
job?"

"Well aren't you?  She wants you.  And she thinks you can do it."

"What does she know about me?"

"She heard you speak for the men to Hample in camp.  And besides
she knows.  She says you can do it.  And she wants you, and--well--
she needs you, Roderick."

"Say, you're sold on her, eh?"

"Yes."

"I don't wonder.  She's a peach and that's why I'd hate to
disappoint her."  Roderick's eyes were glowing.

"You won't disappoint her.  But young man, let me tell you
something.  Don't lose your heart to her.  She is already taken
up."

Roderick's face flushed a deep wrathful red.

"Say!  What do you think I am.  A darned fool?"

"Just as well you should be warned, or you would be falling for
her.  Hard too.  They all do.  I'd hate to see you break your
heart.  But of course, you may have a girl of your own?"  Frances'
smile was very alluring.

"Not me.  Haven't the time nor the cash."

"Time?  Cash?"  Frances laughed scornfully.  "What have time and
cash to do with it?"

"A mighty lot as far as I'm concerned," replied Roderick shaking
his handsome black curly head.

"Well, you'd better read that stuff over.  Perhaps you would like
me to go over them with you.  It would save you time."

"Say!  Would you?  When?  Now?"

"No, come at half past twelve.  I could rush through lunch."

"Look here!  Let's eat together."  Roderick could not check the
flush on his cheek.

"What about the cash?  What about a Dutch treat?" suggested
Frances.

"Not with me," he said quietly.

"All right," said Frances quickly.  "I know a nice cheap place."

"You will come with me to the Royal Hotel," Roderick's tone brooked
no dallying.

"My what a boss!" exclaimed Frances.

"That's me.  I'll call for you here at twelve exactly."

"With your car, I suppose," said Frances meekly.

"You will walk on your two feet," replied Roderick firmly.

"I think you will make a fine camp boss, Roderick," said Frances
smiling up at him.

"At any rate no woman pays for her eats with me," said Roderick in
a haughty tone.

"Highland chief, eh?  Well, forgive me, please."

"I will--but--"

"No, no, I'll never do it again Roderick Dhu."

"Aha!  Where did you get that?"

"Well, I will tell you.  My minister knows your minister."

"God pity me.  Has he been telling you?  And will you still come
with me?" asked Roderick aghast.

"I will, Roderick," said Frances, a very kind look in her eye.

The second day after, Roderick was in camp and explaining to the
men gathered in the grub-house how he came to take on his position
as superintendent.  "I can't rightly tell you how I came to do it.
But my grandfather was camp boss for her father in the old days.
And--well she asked me to do the best I could.  And I'm going to--
and if any fellow doesn't like it, his money is waiting for him,
right here and now.  I am going to promise you a clean camp, good
grub, lots of hard work and regular pay, according to what you
earn.  I'll give you a week's try at it, and then you will sign up
till the end of the season.  I promise you my best--and I ask from
you your best.  Anyone that doesn't want to stay at the end of a
week, his pay is waiting him.  That's all."

"All right boss!  Go to it!  Suits me!" cried a voice.

"Me too!  Same here!  Let's get going!" came responses from the
gang.

Ten days later the president of the Central Canada Lumber and
Furniture Corporation sat reading a report handed him by his chief
of staff.

In reply to his bell Mr. Piper appeared.

"Piper, you have read this report?" asked the President.

"Yes, sir."

"Piper, that is the first real report I've had from those camps on
the Blackwater.  It's all there, every detail.  Say, we can't
really close up that Riverside plant.  That Secretary is too good
to be lost.  And besides there may be something in those hardwood
stands.  Veneers in bird's eye maple and birch are coming up well."

"Whatever is in it she'll get out.  But the whole thing is in a
very uncertain condition," replied Mr. Piper doubtfully.

"Well, we will try everything else first, but the stock is slipping
badly," said the President.  "There's a monkey somewhere in the
woodpile."

"Monkey?" said Mr. Piper as he sat down to his desk.  "Not much
monkey or any other land bird.  It is them," at this point the
chief of staff allowed a careful selection of adjectives to flow
from his lips, "water rats that have swamped the blasted ship."



CHAPTER XIV


Professor Hale and Sylvia were sitting upstairs in what had come to
be known as the Professor's den, a small room adjoining his
bedroom.  It had become their custom to spend the time between
Sylvia's return from her office and the dinner hour, in intensive
study of certain books, dealing with the subject of economics,
which the Professor had selected for his pupil.

"Now then, Sylvia," said the Professor, lying back in his armchair.
"Just give me the points in that last chapter."

Without an instant's hesitation the girl was able to give him in a
perfectly coordinated sequence the contents of the chapter.

"You are an amazing girl," said the professor.  "I have been
teaching economics now for more than three years.  I have had
hundreds of students pass through my hands.  Never have I had a
pupil of such keen insight into the essentials of a subject or such
marvellous capacity for getting at the heart of a discussion."

"But--Professor Hale," said Sylvia.

"Professor Hale?  To me, Sylvia?"

"Well then, Reggie--I am sure it is perfectly delightful to hear
you say that, and I am extraordinarily uplifted."

"It is the simple truth," said Professor Hale.

"But you see, Reggie, to me this is not the study of a book; it is
a study of the things that make up my life.  It has to do with my
business, my responsibilities.  Look at this awful merger.  It has
the terrific power of swallowing, of obliterating all personalities.
Look at me, for instance.  There is my little business, expanding
enormously, a practically new sawmill for preparing veneers and
other materials for furniture.  Then there are those hardwood camps
with a hundred men and more employed.  Also there is that fantastic
equipment for fanning mills, apparently for the sole purpose of
advertising and pushing my poor little patent.

"I understand," said the Professor, "at least someone has told me,
Jack perhaps, that it is a most excellent device."

"Oh, it may be," said Sylvia.  "I don't know, but think of all this
expansion, with the responsibility attached.  No wonder I am keen
on the study of industry and economics.  Then too," she continued,
eagerly, "there is my future.  This whole business may blow up some
day.  I have a dreadful sense of insecurity.  That word 'security'
has taken on a new meaning for me, I assure you.  Besides, I have
had almost two years' experience in the practical affairs of
business, so that these books do not represent to me mere ideas and
theories, they are practically my very life.  James MacDonald says,
I have a business head.  I don't know how true that is, but
sometimes I wish I could escape from all this responsibility."

"I wish to God you would, Sylvia my dear."

"One thing I have quite decided to do, and that is, I shall get rid
at once of all my stock in this terrible corporation.  Mr. Brady
offers me one hundred and fifty for my stock, but he advises me to
hold on, for he is quite sure it will go over two hundred.  That is
why I want to sell now, for I know quite well that it will never be
really worth two hundred.  How could it become worth two hundred?
We have sold very little of what we are manufacturing, and where
the market is to come from for all the stuff, furniture and fanning
mills and the rest of it, nobody seems to know.  That is what makes
me anxious.  How can a little business like mine compete with the
great concerns and their mass production?  That is why I am selling
all my stock in the merger.  I should like to be done with it all.
Indeed I should like to quit and give it all up.  But how can I
quit?  I have double the responsibility now that I had a year ago.
How can I quit?"

"No!  That's the devil of it," agreed the Professor.  "You can't
quit."

Suddenly the Professor sat up very straight, his eyes blazing, his
pale cheeks tinged with color.  "I wish to heavens I could take you
out of it, Sylvia," he exclaimed.  "Why doesn't Jack take you out
of it?"

"Jack?  Oh, I do wish--" exclaimed the girl, a tone of despair in
her voice.  "Oh, poor Jack, he is very tired and very worried.  He
is working dreadfully hard, and then he is anxious about his
father, who is not at all well, and is also worried and anxious,
Jack says.  And that is another reason why Jack cannot possibly
take me out.  He wants to but I can't see my way out."

"The Lord pity him," said the Professor.  "I hear about Jack from
everybody.  They tell me he is one of the rising young men among
the stock brokers, and becoming quite a power in the market, that
he has developed a marvellous instinct for what they call 'the
market pulse' and that he is getting tied up, more and more deeply,
with that pack of wolves."

"What do you mean exactly?" enquired Sylvia, a note of anxiety in
her voice.

"Why that bunch dominated by that wolf pack leader Scaiffe, Sir
James Scaiffe.  I consider him the most dangerous man in Canada to-
day.  And before long there will be a big killing, Scaiffe will get
away with the carcase, the rest of the wolves will be left fighting
for the bones."

"Sir James Scaiffe," said Sylvia.  "Why I have met him.  I met him
last week at dinner with Jack.  I found him most fascinating."

"Fascinating?" echoed the Professor.  "So is Satan, I believe."

"And they say he is very kind," said Sylvia.  "He often helps
people."

"Helps people!  My God!" ejaculated the Professor.

"Jack says that he often helps men who are on the point of a crash,
and sets them on their feet again."

"Helps men?  On the verge of a crash?"  Suddenly the Professor
seemed to lose control of himself.  "Sylvia, Sylvia, my dear girl.
Jack ought to be out of all that.  You!  You are far too good, too
fine a girl to be involved in all that mess.  Why should you be
forced to touch it with the point of one of your fingers?  A girl
like you!  You! who are fitted for high things, for noble things."
The Professor became more and more excited, "I wish somebody--oh--I
wish with all my soul I had the chance to lift you out of it all,
to lift you to the high place for which you are fitted.  I could do
it too.  I know I have a future and a great future.  I am no
egoistic ass.  I know myself.  Oh Sylvia--" suddenly he reached
forward and caught her hand in both of his.  "I am mad, Sylvia, I
love you.  I would give my life if I had the right this moment to
take you in my arms."

Startled, shocked, Sylvia sat rigid a moment staring into the
Professor's burning eyes.  Then quickly recovering herself she
pulled her hand free of his grasp, and with a loud laugh, verging
on the hysterical she cried:

"But Professor Hale, think of your cracked ribs!  Besides," she
added running to his desk, "there is Pearl."  She lifted up a
photograph of a young girl, and held it up before the Professor's
eyes.

"Pearl," groaned the Professor.  "Poor little soul, she is tired of
me.  Indeed we bore each other to death.  Oh!  That was one silly
blunder.  A bit of summer madness two years ago.  Oh Sylvia--"

"Hush! hush!  Professor Hale," her face had become very sad, her
eyes kind and pitiful.  "You bore each other?  Surely you don't
know what you are saying.  Oh, I am so sorry for you.  Besides you
see how impossible it is.  First, there is Jack, Jack loves me.
And then there is me, I love Jack."

"God pity me!" he said with a groan.  "Don't I know it?  It was the
maddest folly!  Try to forget it Sylvia!  Try to forget."

"Hush hush, Reggie," she said in a low voice.  "I hear Aunt
Elizabeth coming."

"Of course I will forget and you will forget," the Professor's
laugh rang out loud, and a little wildly as the door opened.

"Oh, Aunt Elizabeth," exclaimed Sylvia.  "You've come at a most
exciting moment.  The Professor had been telling me about his love
affairs."

"Yes," said the Professor again with a loud laugh.  "I have been
boring Sylvia with my love affairs.  All love affairs are boring
except to the lovers, and indeed sometimes even to them."

Aunt Elizabeth glanced sharply from one face to the other.  "Love
affairs?" she said.  "Well, they are as a rule very interesting,
but we didn't talk about them so much in my young days."

"Oh Auntie," exclaimed Sylvia.  "You had your own love affairs."

"Love affairs," again said Aunt Elizabeth, a little color tingeing
her cheeks.  "Yes, we had our love affairs.  And sometimes they
went deep, deep as life," and after a bit she added, "deep as
death.  But hurry child, dinner is just ready and Jack will be with
us in a very few minutes, and poor boy, we must not keep him
waiting."

"Lucky Jack!" said the Professor in a low tone.

Sylvia hurried to her room, her mind dazed, her heart in a turmoil.
During her young life she had had the usual experiences in love
affairs that fall to the lot of the modern girl.  Possessed of such
attractions as were here, men young and old, had made love to her,
lightly or desperately, according to the nature of their malady.
But these experiences had ruffled the serenity of her soul no more
than does the summer breeze the calm placidity of a land-locked
lake in the bosom of the hills.

This experience with Professor Hale, however, was something quite
different.  Here was a man ten years her senior, a man of brilliant
intellectual power, a man of extraordinary force of character, a
man who commanded the respect and confidence of the members of his
own profession, and of any community with which he became
associated.  That such a man should have become so desperately
infatuated with her as to confess his love openly, to a girl whom
he knew to be engaged to his friend, completely overwhelmed her.

As she attempted to perform the mysteries of her toilet, she found
her hands all atremble, so that she was forced to abandon the
attempt.  She flung herself down upon a couch and took herself
severely to task.

"Now, don't be a little fool," she said to herself.  "The man is
nervously overwrought, poor dear, and he has been seeing far too
much of me these last three weeks.  Naturally he imagines himself
in love."

She recalled his burning eyes, his drawn, pale face, the fierce
nervous grip of his hands upon hers.

"He must feel dreadfully," she said.  "And really it must be a
terrible thing for a man to love somebody who does not care for
him."

As for Pearl, she found herself strangely indifferent.  If the girl
frankly acknowledged that the man to whom she was engaged bored
her, there was little use wasting pity upon her, and with Reggie it
was quite otherwise.

"Poor Reggie, he is a dear after all.  I should not have laughed at
him with his cracked ribs."  In spite of herself, however, a smile
touched her lips.  "Now, there must be no more nonsense."  Once
more she sprang to her dressing.  "It will be perfectly awful at
dinner," she said, continuing her soliloquy.  "I must get Jack and
Reggie talking economics.  I am afraid Aunt Elizabeth suspects
something.  She is so very sharp, and I didn't like the look in her
eye.  I really must do my very best at dinner."

And it must be confessed that her very best at dinner was rather
bewildering to them all.  Never had Jack seen her so brilliantly
fascinating.  Never had she kept the professor so completely at his
very best on all his pet themes.  Before the dinner was over Jack
had been driven out of the conversation, and had relapsed into
gloomy silence.  Thereupon Sylvia took on the Professor herself in
argument, and in such brilliant fashion as to completely engross
his attention and make him quite forget for the time the painful
experience through which he had just passed.

In the full tide of an unusually severe attack upon the modern
economic system, Sylvia interrupted him.

"Excuse me, Reggie, but you must remember that it is a comparatively
easy thing to play the role of critic.  No system can stand up under
the handicap of a perverse and selfish human nature, which has been
the ruin of every civilization in past history."

The Professor turned sharply upon her.  "You acknowledge then that
the present system has broken down?"

"Well partially, but hardly beyond repair.  The foundations may
here and there require shoring up, but surely it is rather a
drastic method of improving a building by setting fire to it."

"But my contention is that the very success of the present system
is its chief condemnation.  This tremendous development in modern
industry--the vast increase of wealth in the hands of a few, the
obvious and unprecedented prosperity which every bank manager in
Canada has acclaimed in his annual address this year, these are the
features which condemn the present system.  For, coincident with
all this magnificent prosperity, losses totalling almost a billion
dollars mark last year's transactions."

"But Professor Hale," began Sylvia.

"Excuse me," cried the Professor riding high upon the crest of his
oratorical wave.  "Allow me to give you a few illustrations, not in
regard to stock values, but in regard to actual money losses.  The
losses of the Canadian Pacific Railway for instance, a most
magnificent and solidly based Canadian industry, amount to
$55,000,000; Shawinigan $54,000,000; Brazilian the pet investment
of the market $64,000,000, and if you consider the most important
and most secure stocks you find Abitibi dropping 36 points,
Consolidated Mining and Smelting 57, Steel of Canada 75.  These are
statistical facts that have shaken the confidence of our great
bankers."

"But Hale," interposed Jack, "you are giving us rather old stuff.
You don't know that within the last few days there has been a very
definite recovery in the industries mentioned and in the stocks as
well.  But for Heaven's sake can't we talk of something else.
Pardon me, Aunt Elizabeth," Jack continued, "but really I am
somewhat wearied of this everlasting economic argumentation.  I get
it everywhere and all day long."

"But Jack," said Sylvia brightly, "I am trying to prove that
Professor Hale is wrong."

"My dear," said Aunt Elizabeth in her most dignified tone, "I think
we have had enough of economics.  Jack is tired and I confess that
my poor brain is somewhat in a whirl."

"Jack tired?" said Sylvia with a quizzical smile.

"Tired?" said Jack.  "No, not in the least.  Only, if I may very
humbly suggest, I am rather bored with disputations that appear to
be both interminable and inconclusive.  Frankly, you behold me as a
part of a vast machine, which however imperfect is organized under
our present government and operated in accordance with our laws.
Confessedly it has defects, but under it I must carry on whether I
like it or not, or whether I am attacked or not."

"But Jack, I am not attacking you," exclaimed Sylvia.

"Nor am I, my dear boy," said the Professor.  "Except in so far as
you defend a system whose evils are so apparent without--"

"Reggie, for Heaven's sake!  I am only suggesting the futility of
this endless economic discussion."

"But Jack," broke in Sylvia, "it is so very interesting, and to me
it is so very important, so very vital, for you see I am involved--"

"Exactly," interrupted Professor Hale.  "We are all involved, Miss
Sylvia as an industrialist and as a financier, I as a professional
expert, more or less competent in the science of economics."

"Pardon me," said Jack in a tone of excessive and deliberate
courtesy.  "Am I right in saying that you and this young lady spend
the hours in which she is free from her business routine in these
same economic discussions and studies?"

"I am afraid that that is true," said the Professor.

"Yes indeed," said Sylvia, "to poor Professor Hale's sorrow."

"Delight," cried the Professor.  "Unbounded delight."

"Our mutual delight," exclaimed Sylvia.

"Very well," continued Jack with an excess of calm courtesy, "as a
mere matter of variety of occupation, might I suggest that since
there are so many interesting and delightful subjects of
conversation--"

"Such as?" enquired Sylvia simply.

"Love affairs, eh Reggie?" exclaimed Aunt Elizabeth, with a wicked
little smile.

"Love affairs?" gasped Professor Hale, flushing a deep red.

"Love affairs?" exclaimed Sylvia, her cheeks also hot.

"Love affairs?" said Jack casting a swift glance from one pair of
flushed cheeks to the other.  "Splendid!  But whose--not yours,
Aunt Elizabeth?"

"Certainly not," cried Aunt Elizabeth with a gay little laugh.
"Let's have something much fresher--the Professor's for instance, I
understand the Professor was--"

"Auntie!" cried Sylvia, in a shocked and indignant voice, her
cheeks flushing a still deeper red.

"Well, my dear," said Aunt Elizabeth cheerfully, "this evening you
both seemed to be engaged in a most hilarious discussion, as I
understood you to say, of the Professor's love affairs."

"Really?" exclaimed Jack, "I am most intrigued; truly we have
lighted upon a subject of fresh, absorbing, indeed passionate
interest.  I am all for it.  The Professor's love affairs!  Will it
be a serial?  Let's begin with number one."  Jack was enjoying
himself hugely.  Not so the others.

"Oh, I do think, Auntie, you are really--" began Sylvia, in a voice
of indignant surprise.

"Tut, tut child," said Aunt Elizabeth.  "A little bit of
pleasantry.  Surely there is no place either for indignation or
surprise.  What were you and the Professor laughing at so
hilariously this evening as I entered the room, may I inquire?"

"Something quite private," said Sylvia.

"Quite personal and private," echoed Professor Hale.

"Ah!" said Jack.  "Quite private?  The interest deepens.  Personal?
Well most love affairs are marked by both qualities.  Did you get
any particulars, Aunt Elizabeth?"

"None whatever," said Aunt Elizabeth, who for some reason appeared
to be enjoying herself vastly.  "None were offered and of course I
couldn't ask."

"Certainly not," said Jack.  "I am quite sure you are not guilty of
the slightest indiscretion, not to say indelicacy."

"What nonsense, Jack," cried Sylvia, with great indignation.  "The
Professor was merely--"

"In short, if you are at all interested," said the Professor.  "I
was merely--"

"Professor Hale--Reggie--" interrupted Sylvia, her cheeks now a
deep crimson, her voice trembling.  "I forbid you to refer any
further to the subject."

"I shall certainly not," said the Professor, bowing gravely toward
her.

"Dear Aunt Elizabeth, I really can't understand how you--"

"Pooh, pooh! pray don't 'Aunt Elizabeth' me in that tone of voice.
You remember I came in upon your stories and found both the
Professor and you in gales of laughter, which you said was caused
by the recital of the Professor's love affairs.  You remember, I
simply made the remark that we did not make a practice in my young
days of discussing our love affairs, after the manner of our modern
young people.  Why should it be that what seemed to you both a
subject of hilarity this afternoon should now suddenly become a
shocking or improper thing?"

"My dear Miss Murray," implored the Professor.

"But darling Auntie," exclaimed Sylvia.

"May I suggest that the matter appears to be quite unimportant and
has even ceased to be interesting.  Shall we go into the drawing-
room and have some music?"  Miss Elizabeth's tone and manner were
on her grandest scale, the scale reserved, in short, only for great
occasions.  So much so that no one thought for a moment of
continuing the discussion.

"Aunt Elizabeth," said Jack following her into the drawing-room.
"I regret greatly that I must hurry away.  The truth is my father
is not at all well.  Nothing serious, but he is overdone, tired and
somewhat worried.  These are rather trying days for him."

"I am so sorry, Jack.  I do hope you will find him better.  Let us
know in the morning."

"Good-night, Reggie," said Jack, with a cheerful grin on his face.

Sylvia accompanied him to the door.

"Good-night, Sylvia," said Jack, "or will you come for a turn round
the block.  Perhaps it is too cold."

"I am going," said Sylvia, in a quite determined voice.  And
putting on her fur coat, for the night was sharply cold, and a
fascinating little blue toque, she ran out and climbed into the
car.

"Well this is very nice of you, my dear.  If you are not too
tired," said Jack.  "Though I must say you developed a new
brilliance in conversation to-night, you quite astonished me.
Sorry I was so dull, but I was played out.  These are hard days."
He snuggled down a little closer to her, "It is really lovely to
have you all to myself, even for a few minutes.  We do not seem to
have much time together, do we?  You are so terribly occupied with
your economics, and your professor and all that."  Jack's voice
faded off into silence.

"My professor," said Sylvia rather sharply.  "Poor Reggie!"

"Poor Reggie," echoed Jack.  "Lucky beggar, if you ask me.
Comfortable home, capable, fascinating, sympathetic attendants,
nothing to do but worry about his love affairs," said Jack with a
little snicker.  "Of course I am not in his confidence in that
regard.  By the way, wasn't Aunt Elizabeth killingly funny to-
night!  A perfect scream, I thought."

"Yes, you evidently did, but I want to say I was surprised and
indeed shocked at Aunt Elizabeth, and at you too, Jack.  If you
only knew the facts," Sylvia paused abruptly.

"Tell me," said Jack in a tone of deep sympathy.

"Now Jack, you are being horrid again."

"But you see I am not informed, nor apparently is your Aunt
Elizabeth."

"How could I tell you what was given to me in confidence?"
exclaimed Sylvia.

"But you both apparently regarded the whole thing as a huge joke.
Aunt Elizabeth speaks of hilarious laughter.  Why then the pity for
poor Reggie?"

"If you only knew," said Sylvia in a low voice.

"Well, I won't you see," replied Jack, "and I am not particularly
anxious to know, and I have no particular desire to pry into his
love affairs; but apparently he has confided in you something that
struck you both as being enormously funny."

"Funny, Jack?" Sylvia repeated.  "Why it is a perfect tragedy."

"What is?" asked Jack.

"How can I tell you," said Sylvia.

"Well," said Jack.  "He has shown me a photograph of a very lovely
girl, his inamorata I gather, which he keeps upon his table."

"Yes," bursts forth Sylvia, "and he bores her to death.  There,"
she said crossly.  "I shouldn't have told you that."

"Ah, he bores her to death," said Jack.  "Probably because he talks
economics to her.  I must say I am not entirely surprised.
Economics and love-making really don't mix too well.  Personally,
my sympathy goes out toward the poor girl.  Possibly she bores him
as well.  That should be the natural reaction."

"Jack, you are not nice.  Indeed you are most unkind."

"But my dear, if they bore one another to death where is the
tragedy?"

"Isn't that tragedy enough that after ten years' engagement these
two should bore one another to death?" retorted Sylvia.  "There!
You've got that out of me."

"My dear Sylvia, it was rather obvious, I must say.  But I fail to
see the tragedy."

"And isn't it a tragedy?"

"Tragedy?" said Jack, "no, stupidity.  If they bore one another to
death why the deuce don't they end it."

For answer there was silence.

"But apparently," continued Jack, "your Aunt Elizabeth suggests
that the thing was something at which he laughed hilariously."

"Laughed?" exclaimed Sylvia.  "It was a horrible laugh.  It was
very like hysteria."

"But you laughed also, I understand," continued Jack relentlessly.

"Well, Aunt Elizabeth had just opened the door and of course I had
to laugh too."

"And quite right, I should say," said Jack.  "If two people bore
one another after ten years' experience, why shouldn't they laugh
about it, and treat it as a huge joke, and be done with it?"

"Ah, but this is not the tragedy.  If you only knew!  And I am not
going to discuss the matter any further."

"Very sensible indeed, my dear."  Jack's voice was full of
consolation.  "By the way," he went on, "when is the Professor
going away?  He seems to be fairly recovered by this time."

"He is not," said Sylvia emphatically.  "He is miserable, nervous
and lonely."

"Lonely?  With two charming ladies to spend their spare hours in
happy converse with him?"

"He is very unhappy, Jack, and you are certainly not very
sympathetic with my friend."

"Your friend?"

"Yes Jack, and yours as well."

"I am not so sure there," said Jack.

"Not your friend, Jack?"

"Well," said Jack recklessly.  "You've asked for it, and I might as
well be frank with you.  I have had a very high regard for Hale.
He is a brilliantly clever man, but as to friendship, after what
you've told me, I am not quite so sure.  A man who announces that
the girl to whom he has been engaged for ten years bores him to
death, I have another name for him than that of friend.  But for
Heaven's sake, let us forget him for the present."

"But I cannot, Jack.  You don't know the sad part of it, and you
can't understand."

"Oh well, Sylvia, it is rather obvious, and I may as well be frank
about it.  If I am wrong you can correct me.  I fancy your friend,
Reggie, has allowed himself to fall in love with you, and he knows
it is no use.  That is indeed a tragedy, I grant you the most
terrible tragedy that can befall a man.  But if you ask me to
register woe in this connection I am afraid I shall have to
disappoint you.  The tragedy is there, but the tragedy is, not that
his own girl bores him, but that he had the nerve to allow himself
to fall in love with a girl whom he knew was engaged to a man whom
he called his friend.  I confess I have little sympathy for a man
that behaves like a cad."

"Jack, will you please take me home?"

"Certainly, my dear," said Jack, "if you wish me to."  And soon the
car was on the way to Hilltop House.

As they approached the end of their drive Jack said gently, "I am
sorry for this Sylvia.  It is extremely unpleasant for you, and it
is hard lines upon Reggie."

"Please don't talk about it, Jack," she said in a low voice.

"I shall not!  Not to-night, nor ever again," said Jack as they
drove up to the door.

"Good-night, Jack," said Sylvia kissing him lightly.

"Oh good-night.  Well! is that all?  Well, good-night, Sylvia.  I
am sorry I have hurt you."

"Oh good-night!  Oh go!  Jack, I can't bear it--oh go!"  She ran to
the door and opening it passed hurriedly into the hall and stood
there with her heart beating hard as if it would choke her.

Suddenly it came upon her that Jack was going away.  Anything might
happen before she saw him again.  Immediately she tore the door
open, ran out into the drive and cried, "Jack!  Wait! wait!"  But
the car moving swiftly was disappearing through the gate.  "He is
gone," she said in a grief-stricken voice.

She came slowly back to the house, removed her wraps in the hall
and was passing upstairs when Aunt Elizabeth called to her, "Are
you coming in for some music, Sylvia?"

"I think I shall go to bed, Aunt Elizabeth, I have a headache."
She ran downstairs, kissed her Aunt and said:  "Say good-night to
Professor Hale for me," and disappeared upstairs to bed.

To bed, but not to sleep.  "What has happened?" she asked herself.
"What have I done to Jack, and why?"  Over and over, as she tossed
sleepless, she rehearsed the conversation at the dinner table and
later with Jack in the car.  Most of it seemed now to her to be
entirely silly.  Why had she been so indignant with Jack?  She was
dismayed to discover that she could not recall any just reason for
her treatment of him.  For Reggie she could arouse little sympathy,
or pity.  He had certainly not behaved well, either to the young
lady to whom he was engaged or indeed to herself.  She made up her
mind that she would phone Jack the first thing in the morning.  The
present situation was perfectly intolerable.  With this resolution
in mind, and thanking God for another day, she at length fell into
a troubled slumber.



CHAPTER XV


Mr. Timothy Brady was early at the office of the Riverside Mills.
With his usual aplomb he entered the outer office and beamed upon
the clerks.

"Hello, Miss Frances, my dear, is my lady in and can she spare me a
few minutes?  I am rather rushed this morning and regret to say
have no time for even such charming young things as you are.  These
are strenuous days.  Great doings are afoot, Canada is going to see
big things."

"Oh, dear Mr. Brady," cried Sally, the blonde typist under her
breath.  "Tell me what shall I do with International Nickel?  They
want me to sell, but yet everybody says it is going very much
higher."

"My dear," said Mr. Brady solemnly, "my advice is to do the exact
opposite to what everybody says.  In regard to International
Nickel, let me say, the deluge is surely coming, still not just to-
day.  International Nickel is the one stock which I should say it
was a quite safe bet to hold for at least three months.  On general
principles my advice is don't be a hog, let the other fellow have
something.  Now, my dear Miss Frances, can I see my lady?"

"Sit down, Mr. Brady," said Frances moving toward the door of the
inner office.

"Thank you, Miss Frances, I have no strength to sit down.  You see
it requires so much more energy to rise than to stand, and I need
all my strength to keep moving.  My dear Miss Sally," he continued,
"how many stocks are you holding at the present time?"

"Only five," said Miss Sally sadly.  "You see it is so hard to hold
when they offer you a good price."

"Five stocks, you blessed little idiot.  Get rid of four.  Do you
hear me?  Or you will be biting the blankets some of these fine
nights.  As I have said, don't be a hog, let the other fellow make
a dollar."

"You may go in," said Miss Frances, returning from the inner
office.

"Oh, thank you my dear," said Mr. Brady.  "If I can help you any
time, let me know."

As he entered the inner office he exclaimed.  "Hello!  Miss Sylvia
what is the matter?  Market hit you?"

"Good morning, Mr. Brady.  No the market gives me little trouble.
I am perfectly all right.  Though I didn't sleep as well as usual."

"Thank God, then that you have no market troubles.  Lots of them
have these days.  And now I want to relieve you of possible
trouble.  I want your Central Canada Lumber and Furniture stock.  I
offered you last week one hundred and fifty, I told you it would go
to two hundred.  It is on the way.  To-day I offer you one hundred
and seventy-five.  But I am telling you it is going to two hundred
sure as you're a foot high."

"All right, Mr. Brady.  Last week you offered me one hundred and
fifty.  I will take one hundred and fifty."

"Not now!" expostulated Mr. Brady.  "I don't steal candy from a
baby.  You will sell me your stock at the market price or not at
all, and the price to-day is one hundred and seventy-five and going
up."

"Very well, I shall sell at one hundred and seventy-five."

"Remember, I am telling you that the market will close to-day at
one hundred and eighty-five.  Do you want to hold on?"

"No, certainly not," said Sylvia firmly.  "It isn't worth one
hundred and eighty-five.  It isn't worth one hundred and seventy-
five, but since you insist, one hundred and seventy-five it is."

She rang a bell and gave orders to her secretary for the transfer
to be made.

"This means a lot of money, Mr. Brady," she said, as he proceeded
to make out the cheque for $52,500.00.

"Not so much as $60,000.00," said Mr. Brady, "where it will be by
the end of this week.  You are just handing me $7,500.00."

"Mr. Brady, I am sure all this stock inflation is wrong."

"Now, my dear, don't worry your pretty head.  You can't make the
world right, you must take it as it is and do the best you can to
play the game."

"I wish I was done with it all," said Sylvia.

"Say young lady, don't talk like that.  What you want is a rest.
What is wrong with you?"

"Mr. Brady," said Sylvia earnestly.  "Will you do something for
me?"

"Will I do something for you?  Tell me something real hard."

"Telephone Mr. Jack Tempest for me the moment you reach town.  Ask
him to call me at once."

"Ah!" said Mr. Brady, "So that's what it is?  Pardon me, Miss
Sylvia.  That telephone will be the first thing, before I sell a
dollar of stock.  Remember the sun is high in the sky and all the
clouds will roll by.  I didn't mean to make poetry.  Cheer up, my
dear, good-bye."

In response to Miss Sylvia's bell Frances brought in the daily
reports.  First there was the report from the camps.

"Anything important there," enquired Sylvia.

"The camp seems to be in good order," replied Frances, "everything
running smoothly--horses got fit again--roads being cleaned up--the
cutting is progressing satisfactorily, and the men are quite
content though there is a hint of trouble between the French and
English--nothing to speak of.  Roddy--I mean Mr. Macdougall--says
he would like you to go up in about two weeks' time to look it
over."

"I'm afraid not.  That seems to be a fine boy."

"Yes, Miss Sylvia," said Frances demurely.  "He says they have
found quite a stand of white oak, which is very valuable.  The bark
itself is worth a lot for tanning, so Roddy--Mr. Macdougall says."

"We must keep that in mind, Frances.  Of course we are doing no
tanning just now.  What next?"

"There are several enquiries, Miss Sylvia.  The first is about
fanning mills.  Here's a letter asking if we will sell your patent
outright."

"Well, let that rest just now, Frances.  Report to Headquarters.
They will decide that point."

"Then," continued Frances, "we have two or three enquiries as to
our nursery furniture.  The decorations seem to be making that
rather attractive."

"Frances, we shall push that a little harder.  You might put two or
three of the girls on that department.  What next?"

"A letter from Headquarters," said Frances.  "The usual thing, hard
times, must cut overhead expenses."

"Make the usual answer, Frances."

"They ask us to hurry with the hardwood."

"Just tell them we cannot move much hardwood till the snow flies;
though we might possibly run a raft down before freeze up.  Has Mr.
Macdougall any men fit to run a raft?  You might ask him.  Anything
else?"

"Nothing but mere routine."

"Very well then, Frances.  Here are some letters: I have indicated
the answers as usual, and I think that is all this morning.  Oh, by
the way, are many of our girls buying stocks?"

"Yes, Miss Sylvia, quite a number of them."

"Can't you persuade them to give up this nonsense?"

"Mr. Brady says International Nickel is good for three months, at
least."

Sylvia remained silent a few moments.

"Frances, Mr. Brady is an enthusiastic Irishman.  He has got the
booming blood bouncing in his veins at the present time.  A friend
of mine, an excellent judge and very well informed, assures me that
bad times are coming.  Tell the girls that I would be much pleased
if they would get rid of their stocks at the earliest possible
moment."

"It is no use, Miss Sylvia.  They won't listen to me and some of
them are making quite a lot of money."

"Do your best, Frances.  I am sure this stock booming is all wrong.
I sold all my stock to-day."

Frances paused a moment as if she could make reply, but changed her
mind and went slowly from the room.

A few moments later the telephone rang.

It was Mr. Timothy Brady.

"Sorry, Miss Sylvia, but I can't get in touch with Jack Tempest.
He is not at the office, and the house will not answer.  The report
is that his father is rather seriously ill."

"Thank you, Mr. Brady," said Sylvia and rang her bell.

"Frances, please order my car around at once.  I shall run into
town.  How long I shall remain I cannot say.  Telephone my Aunt
that I shall not be home for lunch.  Please do not say anything of
my whereabouts."

An hour and a half later Sylvia was standing at the outer desk in
the office of Tempest, Boyle, Brice and Company.

In reply to her inquiry concerning Jack, the clerk could give her
no satisfaction.  Mr. Jack Tempest had sent word that he would not
be at the office to-day, the reason given being that his father was
seriously ill.

"Can I see Mr. Boyle?" inquired Sylvia.

"Mr. Boyle is engaged at present, but I will make inquiry."

As he spoke the door of the private office opened and out came Mr.
Boyle, accompanied by Mr. Cameron Ogilvie.  They both came forward
to meet Sylvia.

In answer to her anxious inquiry, Mr. Boyle replied:

"I am sorry to say that we have very bad news in the office to-day.
And Miss Sylvia, I am rather pressed for time.  Matters of great
importance are awaiting my decisions.  Perhaps Mr. Cameron Ogilvie
will explain."

"My dear friend," said Mr. Cameron Ogilvie.  "Can I take you some
place?"

"Thank you, Mr. Ogilvie.  My car is at the door.  Tell me, what is
it?  Is Mr. Tempest dangerously ill?"

"He is gravely ill," said Mr. Cameron Ogilvie.  "In fact, he has
had a stroke, the issue of which is quite doubtful.  But besides
that I may as well tell you, for the whole world will know it to-
morrow, a terrible disaster has befallen this office.  One of the
partners, Mr. Brice, has been found guilty of very serious
irregularities, indeed deliberate dishonesty.  He has used the
firm's name and authority to make heavy purchases in the stock
market, Pulp and Paper, in fact, buying on margin, a practice
utterly contrary to the practice and tradition of this office.  The
market slipped a few points yesterday, and the demand for cover
came into the hands of Mr. Tempest.  Inquiry revealed an appalling
situation.  I am telling you this to save you the pain of learning
it on the street.  I have been using my utmost endeavors to prevent
a complete collapse of the market, but I have not been successful.
I am on my way to see Sir James Scaiffe.  He is the only man who
can do anything.  I have been unable to get him so far.  I fear,
however, that I can do little with him.  He is a hard man, a
ruthless man indeed.  If Mr. Jack Tempest were free he is about the
only man who can handle Sir James, but of course Jack cannot leave
his father's bedside."

"Oh," cried Sylvia, with quickening breath.  "I think I must see
Jack at once.  Do you think I could?"

"Miss Sylvia," said Mr. Cameron Ogilvie, "I do think it would be a
kind and wise thing to go to him at once."

"But, Mr. Ogilvie, I do hope you can see Sir James."

"I shall do my best with him, but have little hope of influencing
him.  You have my sympathy, my dear.  Goodbye."

As in a horrible nightmare Sylvia made her way slowly through the
crowded traffic toward Mr. Tempest's residence.  At a cross street
the traffic held her up.  Close to the curb, as her eyes were
wandering dully over the faces of the passersby, suddenly she
became aware that Sir James Scaiffe was standing on the pavement
and looking at her.  Instinctively she raised her hand, beckoning
him to her.

"My dear Miss Sylvia," said Sir James, greeting her with a
fascinating smile.  "And what are you doing in this mess at this
hour of the day?"

"Oh, Sir James," said Sylvia breathing hurriedly, "I am on my way
to see Jack Tempest.  I must see him, his father is very ill, and
there is trouble at the office.  I wish--" she paused abruptly.

Sir James's face fell.

"Oh--yes--of course, I have just heard the very sad news."

"Can I drive you anywhere, Sir James?  Will you get in?"

"Why, thank you, my dear, yes, I am rather in a hurry at this very
moment.  Indeed I am on my way to catch a train."

He glanced at the girl's stricken face.  "My dear, I am grieved for
you," he said.  "I remember now, you are engaged to Mr. Jack
Tempest."

Sylvia made no reply, unable to command her voice.

"I really am very sorry," Sir James continued.  "Mr. Tempest and I
were once very close friends.  In later years we have not seen eye
to eye in matters of business, in fact we are in opposite camps.
Still he is an old friend, and it grieves me to hear of his serious
illness.  I am sorry, very sorry for his son Jack.  I regard him as
a fine boy, a young man of great promise."

With a tremendous effort Sylvia took herself in hand.  She suddenly
remembered Mr. Cameron Ogilvie's word that Sir James Scaiffe was
the only man who could save the situation for Jack's father.  She
resolved to take her chance and make an appeal to him.

"Sir James," she said in a quiet voice, "Jack Tempest is very dear
to me.  He is in terrible trouble.  I have no right to talk to you,
but Mr. Cameron Ogilvie has just told me that you are the only man
that can help.  Please let me speak?" she said, as Sir James made
an impatient movement.  "You see, Jack has only his father.  There
is besides a little lame boy, Nickie, a wonderful, a very dear
little chap, very nervous and needing care."

"Yes! yes!  I remember," said Sir James hurriedly.  "But what can
I--"

"Sir James, Mr. Cameron Ogilvie says you are the only man that can
deal with the market.  He says you know all about what is being
done, and you are the only man who can prevent disaster."

"Ah!" said Sir James.  "Did Mr. Cameron Ogilvie say nothing else?"

Sylvia hesitated remembering what Mr. Cameron Ogilvie had said
about Sir James.  "Yes," she said in a very low voice, "but if you
please I would rather not--"

"Never mind," said Sir James.  "They will blame me of course.  But
if men will play the fool and the rogue they must suffer for it.
Of course," he added hurriedly, "I am not blaming Roger Tempest, he
is neither one nor the other.  He is their victim to-day."

"Yes," said Sylvia in a sudden rush of tears.  "And he is dying and
Jack is alone."

"Miss Sylvia," said Sir James suddenly.  "Will you drive to the
Montreal Club, the side door please."

Arrived at the Club, Sir James alighted briskly.

"Come in," he said, and ushered her into the Ladies' waiting room.
"Let me order you a glass of sherry."

"No, thank you, Sir James, I never take any."

"Then, let me see.  I shall be busy for a few minutes.  A pot of
tea, waiter and a biscuit.  Now will you excuse me, wait here."

"Certainly, Sir James," she said, catching his hand in hers.  "And
oh--Sir James--Thank you for trying."

"Trying?" replied Sir James, his lips coming together in a straight
line.  "Make your mind easy.  I will do something!"

It was quite half an hour before Sir James reappeared.  "Cheer up!"
he said.  "I have succeeded in checking a run on the Pulp and Paper
stock.  Things will be steady for a couple of days at least.  Tell
Jack that I say to him that he has no need to worry about Pulp and
Paper for a few days at least."

The sudden accession of hope completely broke down Sylvia's self-
control.  "Oh, Sir James," she said, holding his hand as he bade
her good-bye, her lips trembling, the tears running quietly down
her face.  "They tell me you are a hard man, but I know you have a
kind heart."

"I hope you will always be able to say that, Miss Sylvia," he
replied, gravely.  "Now run away to Jack."

By noon it was known that Sir James Scaiffe was buying Pulp and
Paper, with the result that there was a swift upward swing of the
market.



CHAPTER XVI


Sylvia found Mrs. Foster and Julia in the morning room.

"Dear child," exclaimed Mrs. Foster.  "What a shock to you, to all
of us.  Poor Jack, he is in a dazed state, and all that terrible
affair at the office.  Tom says it is quite serious too."

"Mother," said Julia quietly, "Jack would like to see Sylvia."

"Shall I call Jack?" asked Mrs. Foster.

"No Mother," said Julia.  "Take Sylvia in."

With a grateful glance at Julia, Sylvia followed Mrs. Foster into
the bedroom.  Jack looked up and came forward quickly to meet her.
Sylvia put her arms round him and murmured, "Jack--Jack--Jack
dear," clinging to him.  The nurse placed a chair for her near
Jack's, at the bedside.

"He is resting more quietly," she said and left the room.

"Sylvia, this is more than good of you, to leave your business in
this way."

Sylvia took his hand and held it very tight, but for some moments
was unable to say a single word.

When she had regained her self-control she gave him Sir James
Scaiffe's message.

Jack listened astonished.  "He said that, the old devil?  Well, it
is decent of him.  But," he added, "he cannot bring Dad back
again."

At this point the doctor entered the room and Sylvia moved away
toward the bay window, where she stood vaguely taking in the room
and its furnishings.  It was a large, square bedroom with heavy old
fashioned furniture, a beautifully carved, ornate mantel over the
fireplace where a fire was burning.  On the walls were hung some
old fashioned prints, a large photograph of Jack's mother and on
the wall opposite an illuminated Scripture text with the words:
"My Peace I give unto you."

The doctor finished his examination and said, "He is better this
morning, distinctly easier.  Of course, it would be wrong to give
you any false hope.  We must wait for his recuperative powers to
come into play.  He must have perfect quiet, no attempt at
conversation.  But if he seems anxious, try to understand and
relieve his anxiety."

"Dr. Strang," said Jack, "may I introduce my fiancée, Miss Sylvia
Rivers."

"Ah, I remember her quite well--sings--lovely girl--good sense,
too."

"Shall I go now, Jack?" whispered Sylvia.

"No, no," said the doctor.  "Stay with Jack.  Mr. Tempest likes
you.  It would be a great help.  Watch his eyes.  Try to understand
him.  Keep his mind at rest."

Immediately after the doctor's departure the nurse came in.

"Mr. Jack, I think you should try to get an hour's rest."

"I am all right," said Jack.  "Besides there is Nickie."

"Jack, you need your strength, therefore you must rest.  I shall
take Nickie home with me, if you promise to go and lie down an hour
or so.  The nurse is here, Mrs. Foster is in the next room,
everything will be all right."

To this Jack finally agreed.

In the next room they found Nickie.  Jack who had not seen him for
some hours was shocked at his wan, pale appearance.

"Nickie," he said in a cheery voice.  "Dad is better, he is
sleeping quietly now and Sylvia is going to take you out to her
home for the night.  You will come in to-morrow morning."

"Dad is better?" said the boy, a wave of colour flooding his
cheeks.

"Yes, the doctor says so," answered Jack.

The boy turned to Sylvia.  "Yes, I should like to go with you."

"Come along then, Nickie, and we shall bring your violin with us."

On her return to Hilltop House, Sylvia found Aunt Elizabeth in a
state of great anxiety.  She gave the little boy a warm motherly
welcome, and soon had him quietly seated before a comfortable fire
in the morning room with a cup of cocoa in his hands.

"Professor Hale went away this morning, Sylvia," said Aunt
Elizabeth.  "He left this letter.  I tried to persuade him to
remain, but he said no, feeling that your preoccupation with Jack
and his trouble made it better that he should depart."

"It was very thoughtful of him," said Sylvia, taking the letter and
going upstairs.

After she had dressed for dinner she opened the letter and read:


Dear Miss Sylvia:

Nothing I can say can fully express my grateful appreciation of the
care, the loving care, I have had from the dear friends in this
house, nor am I able to tell you how greatly your companionship has
stimulated and cheered me.  There is one thing more for which I am
grateful.  You have shown me the wrong which I have been doing
Pearl.  That at least I can and will make right at once.  Any
pretence at engagement where love has ceased to exist is both
foolish and wrong.  As for my love for you, that will remain a
sacred experience, but as to my speaking, I pray you, forgive and
forget that sudden madness, and regard me as your true and loyal
friend.

REGGIE


Sylvia was surprised to find how slightly the letter moved her.
"Poor Reggie," she said, and put it away.

Next morning the papers announced a slight improvement in Mr. Roger
Tempest's condition.  He had had a quiet night, but he was by no
means out of danger.  On another page of the paper it was announced
that Pulp and Paper stock showed a distinct recovery, and was
already on the upward swing.

A phone call from Jack informed her that the newspaper report was
unduly optimistic.

"Shall I come in at once?" asked Sylvia.

"No, it is not necessary.  You will have your morning work to do.
If any change occurs I shall let you know immediately.  How is
Nickie?"

"He looks very much better this morning.  He had a good night and
has apparently enjoyed his breakfast.  I am going to take him down
to the office with me.  One of the girls will show him about.  I
think he will be quite happy."

The morning Sylvia spent busy with the routine duties of the
office.  This being attended to, she took Nickie herself through
the more interesting parts of the factory.  At two o'clock,
however, a phone call from Mr. Tempest's house announced that he
had taken a turn for the worse, and indeed was rapidly sinking.

In a little more than an hour's time Sylvia, with Nickie, reached
the house.  Leaving Nickie with Mrs. Foster and Julia, Sylvia
passed into the sick room where she found Jack with the nurse in
attendance.

The sick man was obviously much weaker and apparently very
restless.  As Sylvia took her place at his bedside he made a slight
movement with his hand.  Sylvia took it in hers and kissed it.  The
sick man's eyes remained steadily fixed on hers.  There was no
mistaking the enquiry in the eyes.

"Is it Nickie?" asked Sylvia.  "If so, close your eyes."

Immediately the eyes were closed.

"Oh, Nickie had a very happy evening with us," she said, "and a
good night.  He is very much better.  Jack will bring him in."

Nickie greeted his brother eagerly.  "Is father better?" he asked.

"No Nickie," said Jack slowly.  "He is not quite so well."

"Jack," cried the boy, "is Daddy going to die?"

Jack picked him up and took him in his arms and carrying him to the
bay window sat there with him.

"Nickie," he said quietly.  "Nickie boy, can you be brave for
Daddy's sake?  The doctor says Daddy must not be disturbed.  Can
you be brave and quiet?"

The little boy was silent for a moment, then with a deep breath he
said, "Oh, is Daddy going to die?"

"Nickie," said Jack very gently, "you remember mother went away.
Daddy was very lonely.  He is going now to meet mother.  Isn't that
wonderful?"

The boy's lips began to quiver, his eyes slowly filling with tears.

"Jack, I am afraid I cannot help crying.  If Daddy is going I think
I would like to go too."

Jack drew him tight to his breast.  "I know, Nickie, I know just
how you feel, but I don't want you to go yet.  You see I need you
with me, I need you."

It was the right word.  Nickie put up his thin hand and stroked
Jack's face.  "All right, Jack," he said with a deep sigh.  "I will
try--I will try my best, Jack."

"Brave little man," said Jack.  "You are just like Daddy.  He was a
very brave man.  Do you think now you could go in and say good
night quite quietly?"

"I think so," said the boy.  "Just wait a minute or two."

In a few minutes Jack said, "Are you ready, Nickie?"

"Yes, Jack," said the boy.

Then Jack carried him in and laid him beside his father on the bed.

"Say good night to Daddy, Nickie," he said.

"Good night, Daddy," said the little boy, his clear boy's voice
ringing out steady and true.  He put his arm round his father's
neck and kissing him, held him fast.

The father's eyes were on Sylvia's face gravely enquiring.

"You want something," said Sylvia.

The eyes closed.  Then opening again fastened upon Sylvia's face.

"Is it something about Nickie?" enquired Sylvia.

The eyes closed again.

"I am going to take Nickie home with me.  Is that what you want?"

Again the eyes closed.

"Now, Nickie boy, say good night," said Jack in a firm quiet voice.

"Good night, daddy dear," said the boy and kissed his father.

Jack lifted him in his arms and carried him out into the next room.

"Good stuff, laddie," he said.  "Brave boy!"

"Jack," said the boy suddenly, his arms convulsively clutching his
brother about the neck.  "Jack," he cried, "I want him."

"God help us, laddie," said his big brother in a broken voice.  "So
do I," and sitting down before the fire, held him tight in his arms
till Julia came and took him away.

"Come with me, Nickie," she said.  "Jack must go to Daddy now."

"Yes, yes," whispered the lad.

Again Jack went into the bedroom and sat with Sylvia at his
father's bedside, waiting for the slow deep breaths as they came
one by one.

For some minutes his father lay with eyes closed.  Then suddenly
the eyes opened wide, bright with intelligence, and turning first
to Sylvia and then to the wall opposite and once more back to
Sylvia's face.  The lips moved.  Quickly Jack bent over trying to
catch a word, but in vain.  Once more the eyes travelled from
Sylvia's face to the wall opposite.  Following the glance Sylvia
found her eyes resting upon the illuminated text:  "Peace I leave
with you."

"Is it 'peace' you mean?" enquired Sylvia.

The eyes closed.

Quietly Sylvia said the words over very clearly, "My Peace I leave
with you," and finished the quotation from memory, "Let not your
heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid."

"Is that what you want?"

Once more the eyes opened, held her face steadily for a moment,
turned to the face of his son and slowly closed.

A deep breath--a long pause--another long deep breath--and again a
long pause.  Once more and again a longer pause--once more a long
deep--deep breath.  They waited.  There was a little sigh--again
they waited--and waited--and waited--but there was only silence,
eternal silence.

"He is gone," said the nurse.

"Gone?" echoed Jack in a hollow moan.  He leaned over his father,
put his arms round him and held him close to his heart.  "Oh, Dad--
Dad--I want you--you were a great man--a good man--I want you."

For the first time in his life there was no response to his cry.
He sank on his knees, his head on the bed.  Sylvia knelt beside
him, put her arms around him, drew him close, but no word she
uttered, only the warm strong clasp of her arms.

Mrs. Foster came softly in.

"He is gone," she said in a broken voice.  "For forty years he has
been my friend--a great man--a great gentleman--a great Christian.
Thank God for him and for all such men.  Come Jack," she said, "you
must tell Nickie."

"God help me," he groaned.

Mrs. Foster passed out and left the two together.  Jack rose, stood
looking into Sylvia's eyes.  "Sylvia," he said in a quiet steady
voice, "whatever may come to us two, never, never shall I forget
what you have been to us--to my father--to Nickie--to me--these
days."  Sylvia went quickly to the bedside and kneeling took the
still hand in hers, kissed it once, twice, thrice.  Once more she
came and stood with her arms round Jack.

"Oh, Jack, he was a good man and I loved him.  I shall take Nickie
home with me until everything is over."

"Oh Sylvia," said Jack.  "How understanding you are.  I am a
foolish and weak man.  Be patient with me, Sylvia.  The other night
I was foolish and wrong and unkind."

"The other night," said Sylvia.  "What was it?  What was wrong?
Oh, that silly old Professor.  Forget all that nonsense.  Oh Jack,
come and get Nickie for me."



CHAPTER XVII


Returning from his father's funeral, Jack found awaiting him Mrs.
Foster with Sylvia and Nickie.

"Come, Jack," said Mrs. Foster.  "You have eaten nothing to-day.
We have a cup of tea waiting for you."

They had no sooner seated themselves about the table when the phone
rang.

"Let me answer it," said Mrs. Foster.

"Yes, he is here.  I beg your pardon.  Hold your telephone, please.
Jack there is a very excited man on the telephone.  I can't make
out what he is saying."

"Yes.  Who is it?" said Jack, placing the receiver to his ear.
"Oh, Brice," he said.

"Can you give me three or four minutes," said Brice.  "I am not
going to explain, nor am I going to ask forgiveness."

"Don't you think that anything you might say now is quite
unnecessary?"

"No," replied Brice.  "I believe I can make it a little easier for
you if I give you these facts.  Do give me a chance, I shall never
trouble you again."

"Go on, but please make it short."

"God knows I wish to make it short.  I had inside information in
regard to Pulp and Paper.  The stock had declined sharply.  I was
assured on the best authority there would be quick recovery.  I
bought heavily on margin.  The market caught me in half a dozen
places next day.  Never did I have such damnable luck.  I couldn't
cover.  I borrowed the firm's name for a day, only for a day.  The
market went to pieces, and I couldn't meet it.  The crash came.
Jack, I never knew a father.  For fifteen years Roger Tempest was a
father to me.  If he had asked for my life I would gladly have
given it, that is what hurts me now.  You loved your father.  You
loved him no better than I did.  I wanted you to know this.  Good-
bye, Jack."

"Where are you going?" asked Jack.  "Are you leaving town?"

"No, I am not leaving town," answered Brice.

"What are you going to do?"

A mumbled reply came over the telephone.

"I can't hear you.  Where are you now?" asked Jack.

"At home, Jack.  Good-bye.  Jack, remember I loved your father and
that is what kills me now."

"Wait a minute, Brice.  Hello!" cried Jack.  "Hello!  Hello!  He is
gone," said Jack turning with a ghastly face from the phone.
"Julia, listen to me.  I must speak quickly.  Telephone Dr. Strang--
a matter of life and death--send him to Brice's house.  Tell him
possibly a case of suicide--carbon monoxide--or some such stunt,
and for God's sake tell him to hurry up."

Without hat or coat he dashed from the house, leaped into his car
and within six minutes was at the Brice's home.  Driving to the
garage door he heard a car running within, with the garage doors
closed, locked from the inside.  He rushed to the side door.  That
also was locked.  Looking around wildly his eye fell on a spade.
With a single blow he smashed the lock and was within the garage.

In the driver's seat he saw the figure of a man slumped over the
wheel.  He leaped at the car door, tore it open, seized the man by
the shoulders, dragged him from the car and on to the gravel walk
outside.  There was no sign of life in him.

Jack was skilled in the technique to be applied in drowning
accidents, but he knew well that these would be of but slight use
in the case of poisoning by monoxide.

Within five minutes of his arrival, Dr. Strang drove up in his car,
and came running with his case of instruments in his hand.

"I'll shoot this into him," said the doctor, thrusting a hypo into
the flesh.

Together they worked frantically over the inanimate form of the
asphyxiated man.  After some minutes of desperate work the doctor
exclaimed, "There, I believe the breath of life is in him."  In a
short time the eyes of the unhappy victim slowly opened.  With a
groan he closed them again, gasping, struggling for breath.

"Jack, there is a pulmotor in my car.  Pump a little oxygen into
him."  As a result, the eyes opened once more, and the breath began
to come steadily.

"Confound you, Brice!" exclaimed the doctor in an angry voice.
"What the hell do you mean by this fool stunt?  Haven't you done
enough mischief already without this?"

"Why--didn't--you--let--me--go?" moaned Brice in bitter agony.

"And leave your wife and kiddies to struggle on alone?  Not much,
you poor coward.  We won't let you go out yet!"

"Get hold of him, Jack, lift him into your car.  We'll take him to
the Royal Vic."

After leaving Brice at the hospital, comfortably resting, Jack
drove Dr. Strang to the home of the rescued man.

"Must keep this quiet," said Jack.

"Keep it quiet?" said the doctor.  "The thing will certainly leak
out."

"Well, he will never be nearer the pearly gates than he was to-
day," said Jack.

"Pearly, eh?" grinned the doctor.  "Darned idiot!  Suicide is the
coward's back door of escape from himself.  Drive round the block,
Jack, you are all shot to pieces.  Have you a flask?"

"Never carry one," answered Jack.

"Well, it is lucky for you that I do," said the doctor, rummaging
in his bag.  "Here, take a good mouthful of this mixture.  You need
it.  So do I."

"Yes," continued the doctor, "a man like Brice has no business to
be in the stock game.  It is a devil's game anyway.  There are
three classes of money madmen in the world.  (1)  The miser, who
loves money for itself--psychic.  (2)  The man who loves money for
the things it can buy.  He wishes to make a pyramid of things and
climbs to the top and sits there where all may behold him.  Vulgar
beast!  (3)  The man who seeks money for power.  Brice belonged to
the second class.  He had no resources within himself, therefore
must accumulate a pile of things for his glorification, thereby
confessing his poverty of mind and soul.  Old Scaiffe represents
the third class.  Money to him means power.  He loves to make men
jump at the crack of his whip, and the more men the better.
Hundreds of thousands of men in Canada to-day jump at the wave of
his hand.  Humiliating, eh?  He can't make me jump.  He has nothing
to offer me."

"Unless his appendix gets funny," said Jack.

"Ah!" said the doctor.  "Old man La Roque down in Trois Rivières,
the millionaire, poisoned by his money, had a tumor two weeks ago
that bothered him.  I extracted the tumor and incidentally with it
$6,000."

"Quite a fee," said Jack with a grin, "for a man who despises
money."

"Sure!" the doctor said.  "It did me a lot of good and him a lot
more.  Besides it pays for the cure of two hundred and fifty little
children otherwise condemned to lifelong bondage to crooked backs
and legs.  I love to make millionaires pay up some return to the
people who make their money for them.  But Jack, you have the gift
of making big money.  Old Scaiffe told me so no earlier than last
week."

Jack cursed below his breath.

"That is why I am talking to you to-day," the doctor continued.
"Your father was my friend.  Twenty years ago he helped me to
finish my college course.  He backed me again and again, but more
than that he showed me what was the big thing in the world.  Not
money, nor the things money can buy, but something beside which
money is mere dirt--life--high quality of life--that is why I am
what I am to-day--a surgeon.  My assets are in myself, my brain, my
hand, my nerve.  That is my fortune.  Besides that there is the
possibility--not to speak cant--of rendering a great service to
humanity.  Your father did that for me, Jack.  I am speaking now to
his son on the darkest day of his life.  I know what you are
planning, Jack.  You are planning revenge, not on Brice, poor fool,
but on the man whose manipulation drove Brice to dishonour and
suicide.

"Let me say two things to you, Jack.  Revenge is not good enough.
Complete revenge for the blow dealt your father would involve that
whole wretched gambling crew, who support this present damnable
system.  The man you think of is only a figure head.  The second
thing I want to say is, revenge is not satisfaction to a man of
such heart qualities as you have.  That was the cause of your
father's death, not the loss of money.  Not in the least.  But the
blow over the heart killed him.  These are the lethal blows.  The
man he had loved and trusted and treated as a son for twenty years
betrayed him.  The heart shock killed your father.  Jack, I wish
you would get out of the game.  But, anyway, for God's sake and for
your father's sake, forget old pirate Scaiffe."

"Never," said Jack in a low, level tone.  "Listen to me--as God
lives--"

"Jack, I won't listen to you.  Come to me in six months and I will
listen.  Don't be a fool.  Think of that poor creature in the
hospital.  A desperate deed now might ruin your whole future."

"No, no," Jack replied with a little laugh.  "Don't imagine
anything crude, no shooting, no beating up, but I want to see that
man where he can't hurt people like my father any more."

"Jack, don't deceive yourself.  There is nothing high minded in
revenge.  I have spoken, my boy, for your father's sake.  I have
spoken for your sake.  I have said what I know he would say.  That
is all."

"Thank you, doctor," replied Jack.  "You have done all you could.
Never shall I forget what you have done for me these days.  Never!
Never!"

"All right," said Dr. Strang.  "Here we are at the house.  I
suppose we must run in and see the wife.  Well, let's say Brice has
had a seizure.  Fortunately, you and I happened along.  That will
do as well as any other story."

As Dr. Strang drove away he held Jack's hand for just a moment.
"Old man, think carefully of what I have said."

"I've thought the whole thing over, doctor, very carefully indeed."

"Looks ten years older," said the doctor to himself as he drove
away.  "God help him, and God pity the man whose trail he is
following."



CHAPTER XVIII


It was Sally Long, Miss Sylvia's blonde typist, who was responsible
for the Riverside sermons, which made such a sensation, not only in
that hamlet, but in the neighbouring city as well; Miss Sally Long
and her special boy friend, "the enterprising news hound" as he
called himself, who honoured the Montreal Evening Courier with his
services.

It fell upon an afternoon that Miss Sylvia found Sally emerging
from a bout of tears, with Frances striving to lend aid and comfort
in the case.  Now Miss Sally was not of the tearful kind.  She had
a cool brain and a steady little heart.  But the loss of six
hundred dollars was more than her cool brain and steady little
heart could bear with equanimity.  The six hundred dollars were
dedicated to the paying off of the last installment of the mortgage
on their home, and this was to have been a Christmas present for
her mother.  The tears were tears of disappointment at her loss,
tears of humiliation at her own stupidity, tears of fury at Bertie
Bingle on whose advice and assurance that Consolidated Aeroplanes
were bound to go "away up," she had invested her six hundred
dollars.  And so they did, but alas! their subsequent career only
demonstrated the truth of the old adage that "whatever goes up must
come down."  Her red eyelids and tragic gloom could not escape the
observation of her chief.

"What is wrong, Sally?  Come into my office?"

Sally followed her in trepidation for her chief, she knew,
possessed not only a kind heart, but in case of need the power of
searching penetration and of cold and biting comment.

Having listened to Sally's tale however, Miss Sylvia, who might
have said:  "Well, Sally, I told you," but she did not, or "I hope
it will be a lesson to you, Sally," which also she avoided,
listened patiently to her story.  She thereupon sought to comfort
her typist with soothing words; "Never mind, Sally, perhaps we can
find a way to help out."  This she did later on, by double pay for
extra work which Sally took on in overtime.  This overtime
engagement, however, excited the disappointment and wrath of her
boy friend the "news hound," who had arranged for Sally's overtime
in quite another fashion.

The following evening Sally, in discussing her woes with her boy
friend, a red headed North of Ireland youth, only a year out from
the ould sod, carrying the cognomen of Andy McGarrick, announced
with obvious satisfaction:  "But they are all going to catch it
next Sunday."

"Not them," said Andy, "the devil himself can't catch those burds."

"No, but the minister can," said Sally.  "And he is going to hold
them up to public reprobation."

"What?" asked the news hound, his nose to the trail.

"He is going to preach a sermon on them," said Sally.

"A sermon?  Is he then?  What minister?  When?  Where?  Is he any
good at all?" questioned the hound.

"Our minister.  In St. Paul's and a fine man he is.  He is going to
give the first of three sermons next Sunday evening."

"He may be a fine man for St. Paul's, but will he give those fellas
hell like the Rev. Tommy Bailey, for instance, would in the
People's Church?"

"Andy, our minister is not a sensational preacher.  He would
despise such stuff as Tommy Bailey gives.  He is a scholar I would
have you know, and a gentleman, and he knows what he is talking
about."

"Oh rats! my dear," ejaculated Andy.  "It isn't a scholar those
fellas want, it is the broth of a bhoy who can put the fear of hell
into them.  But Sally--you know--a scholar, well, and a gentleman?
I will go and see him, Sally.  Is he the kind of a man now that a
chap like meself could call on without the fear of being kicked out
of the back door?"

"I am telling you, Andy, he is a gentleman.  He is a perfect dear,
and awfully kind."

"Och now, hold your horses!  Is that the kind of a man to set after
these lads of the Stock Exchange for instance?  Howsomeever, I will
have a look in on him.  He can't do more than kick me out, and
that's in my day's work."

"Don't mention my name or say I sent you," cautioned Sally.  "I
wouldn't for anything like him to think--"

"Listen to me, my dear.  Andy McGarrick wasn't born yesterday."

Andy's interview apparently strengthened his resolve to persuade
his chief to allow him to get a story out of the Rev. Malcolm
Matheson's three sermons.

A modest note in the regular St. Paul's weekly announcement had
advertised the first of three sermons to be preached in St. Paul's
by the Rev. Malcolm Matheson, on the general theme:  "The Kingdom
of Heaven and Modern Finance."  But the news had gone through the
little town like wildfire, and in consequence St. Paul's was
filled, as the reporter put it "to the cross beams," with a
congregation representative of all classes and all creeds in the
community, which goes to show, the reporter commented, "that when
preachers preach to-day on themes of interest to the people of to-
day, the people will be there to hear."

It took Andy McGarrick's full powers of persuasion to secure from
his chief the assignment of St. Paul's for the Sunday evening
sermon.

At the close of the service Andy had no time, even for Sally.

"Sally, my dear, I have got the blessed stuff burnin' in my heart,
and if I can only get it out, and if I can only persuade the chief
to run it, there will be something doin' on the streets of
Montreal, or my name isn't Andy McGarrick."

At ten o'clock a weary and worn reporter with pale face and burning
eyes, laid his copy upon his chief's desk, and waited developments.
The chief fell upon it, blue pencil in hand.  But soon the blue
pencil was laid aside.  The copy ran as follows:


In style of delivery the Rev. Malcolm Matheson is frankly a
disappointment.  A poor, thin voice, and a bad delivery.  We
venture to suggest that a few simple lessons in the art of
elocution would undoubtedly make Mr. Matheson's services to his
congregation more acceptable.  The minister apparently is a humble-
minded, gentle soul, with an ingratiating manner and a disarming
smile, but he has the little grey matter packed above his kindly
blue eyes, and he knows his European history, from Versailles to
the last date and the last dollar.  If only the late M. Poincaré
and Mr. Lloyd George had been present, their tempers might not have
been improved, but their souls might have benefited, and no one
would have had to keep them awake either.

The minister knows his economics as well, and no mere book stuff,
but the economics which the present day world desperately requires.

He is strong too on theology.  His theme, we must remember, was the
Kingdom of Heaven and Modern Finance, and his definition of the
Kingdom of Heaven was a little poem which we would like to insert
verbatim et literatim, but for fear of the chief who wields a blue
pencil with a penetrating point.  What struck one about the
minister's understanding of the Kingdom of Heaven was that it
appeared quite remote from the religion which churches are trying
to give people to-day.  Here is his definition:  "The Kingdom of
Heaven is an organized state of existence in which the principles
of the spirit of Heaven prevail.  It is something not for the life
after death only, but for life here and now in this present evil
world."

And then in his gentle voice he read a bit from the Book
descriptive of the City within the Gates of Pearl, where gold is
used to pave the streets and where the River of Life flows down
between avenues of the Tree of Life, whose fruits come every month,
and whose leaves are for the healing of the nations.

"There are strange absences from this city," he cried with his
gentle smile.  "No pain--no sorrow--no tears--no sin--no curse--no
death.  Everybody healthy, everybody kind to everybody and
everybody happy.  What a City to live in!"

"Here, here!" says I to myself.  "But get down to real life."

Which the minister proceeded promptly to do by leaning over the
pulpit and saying confidentially, in his ingratiating voice, to the
congregation:  "This church of St. Paul's exists to promote that
sort of experience in the daily life of thousands of the people in
your town, in Montreal, in Canada.  If the church is not doing
this, then whatever else it may do cannot save it from the just
condemnation of Almighty God."

There was no sleeping in the church that night; even the lads in
the back seats were leaning forward eyes and mouth wide open.

The preacher then proceeded to draw a contrast between the
organized form of existence in Riverside and the Kingdom of Heaven,
in regard to one single test, that was the happiness of its people.
And he sure had his facts about Riverside.  As he pictured the
town, the homes of the poor, their daily burden of toil, their
inadequate wages, the sickness and suffering, the dreary monotony,
the haunting fear of poverty--says I to myself, says I; "No
Riverside for me."  But when he proceeded to describe the great
city nearby I found myself even more determined that Montreal was
no place for a decent man to live in.  Before the picture was
completed I was dismayed to discover that there was no place in all
of Canada where I could safely and happily live.  Pain, sickness,
sorrow, poverty flourished, the result of cruelty, meanness, lust
and greed.  Again the minister leaned over the pulpit, with his
disarming smile, but he did not catch me this time, I knew he was
reaching for the solar plexus.  "The church that is content," he
cried, in his thin little voice, "in a world so unlike Heaven is a
church that is false to its charter, forgetful of its mission, and
traitor to its Lord.  It has ceased to have any right to exist."

For the first time in my life I was conscious of a feeling of
satisfaction and relief that no church could claim me as a member.

The preacher then turned to the subject of finance.  Here, says I
to myself, he will make a slip or two.  But again I was
disappointed.  Just as he knows his European history, his economics
and the social conditions of his people, so he knows finance.  If I
knew his college where they give this stuff to their students I
would gladly devote a small percentage of my princely income to its
support.  Here are a few of the tender titbits dropped into the
open mouths of his people.  But the disarming smile was gone, and
in place of the smile tears which did not fall, and agony which
twisted your vitals and wrath which made your conscience turn
summersaults within you.  "Finance," said the preacher, "is the
science of money, and money is the marker of value in exchange.
Business is human activity organized for the equitable exchange of
the fruits of man's toil, for his happiness and well being."

If I knew the book where he got those definitions I should do my
utmost to borrow it.

After elaborating upon the magnificence of the opportunity in the
hands of the men of finance in this country, and after lauding to
high heaven the splendor and glory of the service that business men
might render, and have rendered, to humanity, the minister once
more leaned over the pulpit and dropped a few burning coals upon
the consciences of those who have to do with certain methods of
finance and business.  "The man that uses his superior power of
hand or brain to secure for himself more than he honestly earns is
a predatory pirate, and should be removed from human society.  The
man that takes advantage of his superior knowledge to deceive,
cajole or allure simple people into the purchase of mere wind or
water in the form of stocks, is a thief and a robber and should be
denied a place among honest men.

"The man that uses his power, whether of brain or money, to
oppress, enslave or injure his fellow men is the enemy at once of
humanity and of God.  He deserves and will receive his just
judgment.

"The man, who in the happy enjoyment of great material blessings
and privileges, is forgetful of and indifferent to the miseries,
sufferings and wrongs of his fellow men has nothing in common with
Him who came to share the burdens of the unhappy and suffering and
lost children of men.  These men should not sit at any communion
table in a church bearing the name of Jesus Christ.  These men are
of the tribe of Judas, they are traitors to their Lord."

A swift glance I cast about me.  It seemed to me I could detect all
the church members by the ghastly expression on their countenances.

I was waiting for him to walk in upon the Montreal Stock Exchange.
I was disappointed.  He cheered me, however, by announcing his
intention to deal with these gentlemen on the following Sunday
evening.

This minister has the supreme gift of the great orator.  He knows
when he has said enough.  His concluding words were spoken, again
leaning confidentially over his pulpit, his ingratiating manner and
his charming smile had returned to him, but there were tears behind
both.

"The question, my beloved brethren, for us here tonight, is not
what the financiers, what the business men, what the Stock Exchange
is going to do about it.  This is not the first question for us
here.  But the question for this church, for its members, for its
office bearers and for its minister, is, what is the church going
to do about it?  The Lord have mercy upon us all."

To which this reporter said:  "Amen! and go to it!"


The chief laid down the copy and turned his eyes upon his young
reporter:  "Look here young fellow!  What do you suppose you're
writing? a novelette?  This is a newspaper office.  You've got some
good stuff here.  But say, cut out all that goo, and give us the
facts in clean journalistic English!"

The boy's face fell.

"Say chief, I can't do it into journalistic English, and I don't
want to do it.  That man got me and I am wid him, I am all for hell
and blazes for that bunch of robbers getting fat with the earnings
of the poor and ignorant and having a good time while these poor
devils sweat blood."

"Aw, get out!" roared the chief.  "You're a darned bolshie, a
blasted communist, as red in your politics as you are in your
hair."

"A bolshie, is it?" said the boy standing up.  "I never knew what
kind of a baste he was, but if he is like that soft-voiced gentle
faced hell fire of a volcano out at Riverside I am one, and I don't
care who knows it, and you can fire me if you want to, and go to
hell with the rest of them.  Me!  I'm for the poor divils outside
of the church, forgotten by the church, but not by the Man that
died for them."

McGarrick turned to leave the room.

"Come back here you red-headed Fenian."

"A red-headed Fenian is it you're callin' me?" answered the boy
indignantly.  "It's an Ulster Presbyterian I am, so it is."

"Here," said the editor.  "Take your stuff to the composing room
and we'll run it as it is and be darned to you."

And thus it came that the first of Mr. Matheson's three sermons
appeared in the Courier on the following Monday in the form as
reported by the Ulster Presbyterian, bolshevist and communist, Andy
McGarrick, and with portentous results to McGarrick himself and to
others as well.

The first of these results came to no less a person than the editor
of the Courier.  The editor happened to be an Ulster Irish
Presbyterian, by blood and training, whatever his daily practice
might be.

The chief was not in his office on Monday evening after the issue
of his paper.

His first phone call on Tuesday morning was from the President of
the Stock Exchange:  "Is that you McIvor?  Cuthbert speaking."

"Yes sir," said the editor.  "Good morning Mr. Cuthbert."

"What sort of blank, blank reporters have you on your staff
anyway?"

"The livest reporters in the City.  They give the news and they
serve it up hot.  What do you like best in yesterday's edition?"

"Look here, McIvor!  That darned stuff about that blankety blank
preacher in Riverside is sheer bolshevism."

Mr. McIvor listened patiently to what Mr. Cuthbert had to say, then
he replied in a polite businesslike tone.

"Excuse me, Mr. Cuthbert, I am very busy just now.  If you don't
mind, would you please call me in an hour and I shall be happy to
talk to you."

For two hours Mr. McIvor was occupied in answering phone calls.
They came from all sorts and classes of men.  Men of the Stock
Exchange, Bank managers, presidents of Loan and Insurance
companies, in fact Montreal big business men seemed to be taking
the morning off in their eager desire to enter into conversation
with the editor of the Evening Courier.  Mr. McIvor's reply to one
and all was in the same terms as he had used with Mr. Cuthbert.

During the second two hours of the morning the editor made a point
of calling up each gentleman who had phoned him earlier to discuss
the sermon of the Riverside minister, and to each he made the
following proposition.  He had carefully noted what his interviewer
had said and he proposed to publish in this evening's edition these
remarks and similar remarks of other gentlemen who had called him
up on the phone, duly signed with the appropriate names.  The
profanity, of course, would be indicated merely by dashes.  He was
very particular about the kind of language that appeared in his
paper.  He wished each gentleman a brief good morning, and shut off
the telephone.

The following two hours his chief clerk spent in receiving
apologies, appeals, threats, from these gentlemen, who all gave the
clerk a definite indication that they had no desire whatever to
make any public statement in regard to the report of Rev. Malcolm
Matheson's sermon, which had appeared in the Monday evening's
edition.

At noon the chief called in reporter McGarrick.

"Look here you dod blasted Ulster Irish Presbyterian!  You've got
me into a hell of a mess, but I am Irish myself and I want you to
stay with that gentle-voiced volcano of yours for the next two
Sunday evenings.  We will give you double space and let the blank
gold bugs go the way this minister evidently has them ticketed for.
And McGarrick your salary is up ten percent, but don't you weaken
or you're fired.  Now get out of my sight, you red-headed
communist."



CHAPTER XIX


The second Riverside sermon was duly reported by Andy McGarrick
and, if the report lacked something in originality of style and
naïveté of expression, it gained in exactness of record and logical
articulation of the argument.  However, the report attained the
distinction of an editorial in the paper and in addition, a front
page insert of "Titbits Dropped Over the Pulpit."  These titbits
consisted of pungent and juicy dicta taken verbatim from the
sermon, which challenged some of the fundamental principles
underlying the practice of the Stock Exchange artists in Canada and
the United States, but which set forth certain principles
enunciated by Jesus Christ in his conception of the Kingdom of
Heaven.  The Monday edition of the Evening Courier ran to over
double the size of its usual issue.  The Riverside sermons indeed,
proved to be extremely good copy, outclassing the most spectacular
bank robbery, or millionaire kidnapping incident.

So great was the interest aroused by this arraignment of the
principles and practices of the Stock Exchange that a group of
leading members of the Exchange and others held an informal meeting
to consider what action, if any, should be taken.  Opinions varied
with the character and experience of the speaker.  After some
desultory and diffused discussion, Mr. Cameron Ogilvie, President
of the Empire Bank rose and addressed the gathering.

"Gentlemen, I have been waiting for some one to make a definite
charge against the minister of Riverside, of inaccuracy of
statement in his criticism of some of the practices of members of
the Stock Exchange.  Apart from all considerations of the wisdom
and propriety of bringing these matters into the pulpit of a
Christian Church, it strikes me that the primary question to be
considered by us here, is, whether the statements made in the
sermon are true or false.  Is there any gentleman present who can
indicate a single utterance which represents a departure from
truth.  Can any gentleman here present challenge any statement as
reported in this paper?"  Here Mr. Cameron Ogilvie held up a copy
of the Evening Courier of Monday's issue.

There was no reply.

"Then, Gentlemen, it seems to me that the first business of the
members of the Stock Exchange, to which I have the honour to
belong, though I do not indulge in the stock selling game, is to
investigate certain practices of some of its members, and to
condemn those who are guilty of the practices condemned."

This daring challenge by a gentleman of the standing of Mr. Cameron
Ogilvie so disturbed the company that the meeting broke up without
action.

In the office of Sir James Scaiffe the matter of the Riverside
sermons was discussed by Sir James and his principal partner, who
generally represented him in his stock operations.

"Mr. Macnamara, have we no representative in Riverside?  Have we
none in this minister's congregation?"

"I do not know of any one, but I can find out," said Mr. Macnamara.

"But surely," Sir James went on, "something can be done to make
this man see the unwisdom of such utterances.  The first thing we
know the whole pack of preachers, who are desperately hunting up
sensational subjects to fill their empty churches, will be
buttonholing every fool who has been caught in the market for hot
stuff for his evening sermon.  Look into this Mr. Macnamara."

"I shall do so, Sir James.  I think I can promise you that
something effective can be done.  I remember now that we have in
Riverside, Mr. John Henderson of the Canada Imperial Loan Company,
who I think is a member of St. Paul's congregation."

"Another thing," said Sir James, "that fellow Brice, you know, the
partner of the late Mr. Roger Tempest, stopped me on the street and
asked for an interview.  As a matter of fact he wants a job.  Think
of the audacity of the man!  I asked him to call at the office on
Friday."

"A job!" exclaimed Macnamara.  "For a man who sold up his chief!"

"Well!" said Sir James.  "I turned him over to you.  Who can
conscientiously offer such a man a job?  Think of the effect on the
public mind.  We cannot be too careful in these days in keeping
high the moral standards of our business men."

"I will see the man, Sir James," said Macnamara.  "You can leave
him to me."

"Well, of course," said Sir James, "I am sorry for the fellow and
should be glad to offer him a cheque, if he is in need of money.
You understand?"

"A cheque?" said Macnamara gruffly.  "I'll check him all right."

In the Riverside congregation the reaction following the minister's
sermons was very definite and very varied.

For instance the manager of a leading bank in the town frankly and
definitely supported the minister in his attitude towards stock
gambling.  At the same time, however, he gravely questioned the
wisdom of introducing these matters into the pulpit.

"I am old-fashioned, in my reverence for the pulpit," he said.
"The pulpit should be reserved only for sacred and spiritual
themes.  The people want something for their souls' good when they
come to church."

There were others, however, and more particularly those who had
been fortunate in their stock transactions, who were indignant at
their minister.

Mr. Bertie Bingle, a young man who had been notoriously fortunate
not only in his own dealings in the stock market, but also in his
advice to his clients, was one of this class.

"Why don't he attend to his own business?" enquired Mr. Bingle of
the young man at the filling station.  "I used to think a lot of
Mr. Matheson, but when he butts in to--to--well to things that
ain't got nothing to do with religion and--and--that sort of thing
I have no use for him."

"No religion in your business, eh Bertie?" replied Joe Piggot, the
filling agent.  "I guess perhaps you're right."

"Well, you know what I mean, Joe," said Bertie.  "Every man should
stick to his own job.  How would this country get its railroads
built, its power projects, its big industrial firms organized
unless they sold stock?"

"That's what he said, Bertie," said Joe.  "You must have been
asleep."

"When I sleep, I sleep at home," answered Bertie.

"Well, I read the papers," said Joe, "but I never sleep in church,
Bertie."

"No, nor keep awake either," replied Bertie.

"One for you, Joe," said a bystander.

"Well," said Joe, "I've got to fill her up for you and your crowd I
guess on Sunday night same as Saturday."

A more formidable opposition, however, arose after Mr. Macnamara
had found it necessary to run out to Riverside to interview some of
his clients on some very promising new issues, about to be placed
on the market.

One of these visited, Mr. John Henderson, Chairman of St. Paul's
Kirk Session, became deeply concerned for the good name of his
church, and for the success of its financial activities.

"This is no time to be stirring up strife and creating division
among our people, when we are planning a campaign for the
renovation of our church, and especially when we are organizing to
meet our allocation for the Missionary and Maintenance Fund.  It is
a very bad policy.  The session should take action and that
immediately."

Mr. Henderson had no difficulty in securing the support in his
attitude toward the minister, of the members of session, who had
been called together to discuss matters of importance to the
congregation, especially the questions of church renovation and the
Missionary and Maintenance Fund.  It was decided that a carefully
chosen delegation should wait upon the minister and point out to
him the very grave consequences that might ensue if the third
sermon advertised should take the same line as that of the first
two.

The deputation reported that the minister had received them most
cordially, and had assured them that he deeply appreciated their
concern for the welfare of the congregation, and promised that in
his closing sermon of the series on the Kingdom of Heaven and
Modern Finance, nothing should be said to endanger the spiritual
well-being of the church.

"I made it quite clear to him," reported Mr. Henderson, "that I
could not see how we could successfully hope to carry through our
renovation campaign, or meet our allocation for the Missionary and
Maintenance Fund, if a large number of the most important and most
liberal members of our congregation were alienated, as they were
being alienated at the present time, so I think there will be a
change next Sunday."

Towards the end of the week, however, two events happened which
stirred deeply the community of Riverside and of the neighbouring
city as well.  The first of these was the arrest of two prominent
members, the President and the Secretary-Treasurer of one of
Montreal's oldest and most honourable financial corporations.  The
firm had recently been reorganized and new blood introduced in the
person of the Secretary-Treasurer.  With the reorganization new
methods were employed, the effects of which were seen in a very
large increase in the extent of their business.  Branches were
opened up in every important city in the Dominion, and the firm
took a leading place among the financial concerns of Canada in the
promotion of industrial and utility enterprises.  The firm appeared
to have almost unlimited credit and its various ventures were
invariably attended with enormous success.  Without the slightest
warning, came the announcement that the President and the Secretary-
Treasurer of the company had been arrested, charged with conspiracy
to defraud and theft.

At the preliminary hearing they were both committed to stand trial
and were immediately committed to bail under heavy bonds.

The shock of this event was felt throughout the length and breadth
of Canada.  The offices of the company were immediately closed,
accountants placed in charge of their affairs and the whole
clientele, whose investments were in the company's hands, were
thrown into a panic of dismay.  A preliminary inspection of the
books and a careful estimate of the values of the securities held
revealed a situation more serious than was at first suspected.  A
sense of uneasiness and anxiety thrilled through all Canadian
financial circles, and ominous premonitions of disaster threw the
Stock Exchange of Montreal into temporary confusion and
uncertainty, while everywhere on the street, men began to ask one
another if the collapse so frequently predicted by a certain school
of economists, might not indeed be at hand.

The second event was of a much more terrible and tragic nature.

As Mr. Edward Macnamara, Sir James Scaiffe's partner and
representative was sitting in his office on Friday afternoon, a
clerk handed him a card.

"Send him in," was the reply, and into the room, pale, nervous,
trembling, and with the appearance of a beaten dog, came Mr. Brice,
former partner and friend of the late Roger Tempest.

"I have an appointment to see Sir James Scaiffe," he said in a weak
and trembling voice.

"Your business," enquired Mr. Macnamara gruffly.

"Sir James Scaiffe asked me to call and see him."

"Sir James is busy," said Mr. Macnamara.  "He has asked me to see
you."

Mr. Brice, without being invited, sat down in a chair across the
desk from Sir James Scaiffe's representative.

"I need not explain to you, Mr. Macnamara," he said in a low and
trembling tone, "the reason for my presence here to-day.  I have
made application to Sir James for a position in some department of
his business.  I understand it would be a very minor position of
course.  You know my record.  I want to get another chance to
redeem myself, and Sir James Scaiffe is the only man in this city
who can give me this chance."

Mr. Macnamara's cold blue eyes had rested with a relentless gaze
upon the man's pale face while he was making his plea.

"Brice, I have to say you have a colossal nerve to come into this
office, and make such a request, after you have been practically
charging Sir James with the responsibility for your crime."

"That I did not, Mr. Macnamara," said Mr. Brice.  "I accept full
responsibility for my own act.  It is true, of course, that owing
to Sir James' action in connection with the Pulp and Paper stock I
was misled.  I am laying the blame upon no one.  I made my mistake--
the only mistake in my career.  All men make mistakes."

"All men are not traitors, Mr. Brice."

A rush of hot blood came to the pale face before him, and receding
rapidly left it more ghastly than before.

"Have you never made a mistake, Mr. Macnamara?  Have you never done
wrong?"

"I never sold up a man who had trusted me for twenty years, as you
did, Mr. Brice."

"Give me a chance, Mr. Macnamara," pleaded Brice.  "Just one
chance."

"A chance in this office?" was the reply.  "You amaze me.  Do you
know where you should be this morning?  You should be in the
penitentiary."

Brice suddenly rose to his feet, his hands trembling, his breath
coming quick, his eyes blazing.

"And you, Macnamara, you should be in hell, and your boss, too.  I
did betray my chief, the best man God ever made, but where I
betrayed one, you and your chief have betrayed thousands, yes,
hundreds of thousands in this country.  Your chief went into Pulp
and Paper.  He obtained control with fifty million dollars, he
watered it to one hundred and fifty millions.  He slid out and left
his victims with the empty bag.  I alas, was one of them.  You were
his agent, his chief agent in the business.  You knew what you were
doing.  I am a traitor, you say.  As God judges, I am a saint
compared with men like you and your chief.  You say I should be in
jail," here his voice rose to a scream, "and you are right, I
should be in jail, but if you had your rights you should be in
hell, and by God that is where you are going now."  Suddenly he
pulled out a gun.  Macnamara sprang to his feet.

"For God's sake don't shoot.  I will give you--"  He stepped back
toward the door of the inner office, his hand clutched at the door
knob.  Brice fired once.  Macnamara staggered against the door.
Again Brice fired and Macnamara fell to the floor.

"And now you will go where you belong, and maybe I will go too, but
not to the same hell."  He put the gun to his mouth, fired and fell
dead across the desk, the red blood streaming over the white paper.

The stock gambling madness had once more claimed its victims.



CHAPTER XX


"How is it that our friend the padre is not here with us, Aunt
Elizabeth?" asked Jack.  "In fact I have not seen him for many
days.  I hope I have not offended him by my capitalistic opinions."

"No fear of that Jack, he is really very fond of you," said Aunt
Elizabeth.

"Though of course he cannot help thinking of you as a dangerous and
reactionary character," said Sylvia.

"I have the greatest admiration for him.  He is a fine old boy, and
his arguments are hard to resist, however much one is opposed,"
replied Jack.

"But Jack," said Aunt Elizabeth, "you are not really opposed to his
opinions.  In your heart you agree with him."

"Well Aunt Elizabeth, I believe he is right to a very great extent,
but if I may make such a remark in this house, I am sincerely sorry
that he has dragged matters of business into the pulpit; I believe
it is a bad thing, not only for business, but for the church as
well."

"Why," exclaimed Aunt Elizabeth, "you haven't even heard him
preach."

"I read the newspaper reports however," said Jack.

"But Jack," said Sylvia.  "That is quite a different thing.  I am
quite sure that if you had only heard him preach these two sermons
you would have been tremendously impressed, and I believe you would
have entirely agreed with him."

"Of course I can only speak of the effect upon the public mind as I
get it from the press.  The congregation consists of a few hundred
people, the press reaches many many thousands."

"Is Mr. Matheson responsible for that?" enquired Sylvia.

"Yes, he cannot escape responsibility for he knows quite well that--
they are being reported.  Are the reports not accurate?" enquired
Jack.

"The reports are really very well done, and very cleverly and
clearly give the line of thought, but as Aunt Elizabeth says, you
cannot begin to get the full effect of the sermon, nor can you
catch the spirit and purpose of the preacher by reading the press
reports.  Why not come to-morrow evening and hear him for yourself?
You ought to come, Jack," she added earnestly, "for he is to speak
upon the subject of the Kingdom of Heaven and the Stock Exchange."

"Terrible!" said Jack, "Just think of it!  No thank you.  I go to
church for something quite different.  I get enough of the Stock
Exchange throughout the week."

Suddenly little Nickie broke in.

"Jack, I like the minister and you should not speak that way about
him."

"Why do you like him, Nickie," asked Jack.

"Because he is kind and he tells splendid stories and he loves
Mozart."

"These are all fine reasons, Nickie boy," said Jack kindly, "and I
am sure he is all that you say.  But I am speaking of something
quite different."

"But Jack," replied Nickie, "the way you were speaking made me
think you didn't like him."

"Well Nickie, to be quite candid," Jack answered, "I do not like
what he is doing now.  No," he added turning to Aunt Elizabeth, "I
must say I deeply regret the course Mr. Matheson is taking.  I
think a minister should preach religion.  I go to church to
worship, to get something good for my soul, to get a change of
atmosphere.  It annoys me terribly to go to church and hear a man
tell me how to run my business.  I will have to ask you to excuse
me from going to-morrow night."

"Why certainly, Jack," interposed Sylvia, "we wouldn't for the
world urge you to do anything that you don't think right."

"Now Sylvia, I know I have hurt you, but you must allow me to have
my own opinions about this, and I cannot help my feelings.  Perhaps
I am old-fashioned about this but I can't stand these sensation-
mongers in the pulpit."

"My dear Jack," exclaimed Aunt Elizabeth, "sensation-mongers!"

"Jack," said Sylvia gravely, "I do think this is quite unfair to
call Mr. Matheson a sensation-monger.  Nothing is further from his
style, and nothing further from his nature than to be a mere
sensation-monger."

"Well, you can't deny," said Jack--"and I don't want to discuss the
matter--you can't deny he has succeeded in springing the greatest
sensation that this part of the country has experienced for many a
long day.  But will you excuse me, Aunt Elizabeth?  I am sorry, I
must run away.  I have an important meeting to attend, one I am
afraid, neither you nor Sylvia would greatly approve of."

"But why not?" asked Aunt Elizabeth.

"Well, it is a meeting of the junior members of the Stock Exchange.
We are getting a little fed up with the old game and the old bunch,
we think they are a bit out of date."

"And in what particulars?" asked Sylvia in a deliberate, almost
cold tone.

"Well, for one thing we wish a little closer checking upon the
brokers.  We are opposed to bucketing, and oh--well--there are
other matters.  But I need not go into all this business for I am
sure you are not interested, Sylvia."

"Oh, but I am Jack.  I am awfully interested in anything that will
get rid of the shameful and terrible practices that are carried on
by members of the Stock Exchange, and surely with what has been
recently seen in Montreal, there is no doubt that certain changes
should be made.  The whole country is going mad with this stock
gambling.  I get it among my girls and boys."  Her face had grown
very pale, her voice began to tremble.  "I do wish with all my soul
that you had nothing whatever to do with it."

"My dear Sylvia," replied Jack a little impatiently, "I am afraid I
cannot discuss this with you.  I know that you have studied a good
deal about this matter, and I am not going to condemn your opinion,
but all the same I am certainly not going to accept wholesale
condemnation of the business carried on by the Montreal Stock
Exchange of which my father was one of the founders, and all his
life an honourable member."  Jack's voice ended upon a low and
husky note.  He was obviously deeply moved.

"Why Jack," cried Sylvia, "you should not speak to me that way.
You know that not for the world would I suggest any criticism of
such practices and methods in the business of the Stock Exchange as
your father used."

"I must go," said Jack hurriedly.  "I really must."

Sylvia followed him to the door.  "Jack," she said putting her arms
round his neck, "please don't imagine--" her voice broke.

"No, no, Sylvia, I don't imagine that you cherish any opinions that
would reflect upon my father's memory," said Jack.  "But I am
afraid we do not see eye to eye upon this stock business."

"But Jack," said Sylvia, still clinging to him, "surely we are not
going to allow this to come between us in the very slightest
degree."

"God forbid," said Jack.  "Good-night, darling."  He kissed her
tenderly and hurried away.

Sylvia came from the door, kissed her aunt good-night and went
upstairs to her bedroom.  A little later her aunt tapped upon the
door.

"You are not feeling well, Sylvia," she said.

"Yes, I am feeling quite well--I mean I am not ill."

"Sylvia," said her aunt, "I am afraid there is something between
you and Jack.  Somehow you don't appear to be getting on well
together."

"Oh Auntie!" cried Sylvia, her reserve breaking down completely, "I
don't believe Jack cares for me.  He is all bound up in that
business of his and I hate it!" she said vehemently.  "It is a
wicked, wicked business.  Just think what it is doing with us here
in Riverside and in Montreal, and just look at the New York papers
for the terrible accounts of defalcations and suicides.  I hate the
business!  Oh Auntie!  I am afraid it is dragging him away from me
every day."

"Now Sylvia, you must not speak in that way.  You are speaking like
a foolish child.  Jack loves you truly, sincerely, anyone can see
that, and though he may differ from you in his opinions on many
things, that does not affect his love.  As to this business of his,
you must remember that it was his father's business before him."

"But it is different now," exclaimed Sylvia.  "Mr. Tempest never
did carry on business in such a way as to drive men to ruin.  Jack
is quite different from his father in that; he says every man must
look after himself."

"Sylvia, no son is like his father.  Besides you can't undertake to
be conscience for any man.  If Jack thinks he is doing right, what
right have you to step in and demand that he should do as you
think?"

Suddenly her aunt came to her, put her arms round her and cried:
"Oh my dear, be patient.  Only one thing matters--love--love--only
love.  Listen to me--I know what I am speaking about--I know from
bitter experience--be patient--put nothing before love."

"But Auntie," began Sylvia--

"Oh, go to bed, Sylvia.  You are far too opinionated," said her
aunt impatiently.  "You are not the only one who has loved a man
who insists upon taking his own way.  And why shouldn't he, that is
his responsibility?"  Without further word Aunt Elizabeth turned
and left her.



CHAPTER XXI


The tragic news of the past week had produced a state of mind in
the whole country almost akin to panic.  The congregation that met
in St. Paul's Church on Sunday night when the third of the series
of sermons was being preached by the Rev. Malcolm Matheson were
obviously in a mood of solemn expectancy.  The minister also was
evidently under a strain of deep emotion.

He prefaced his sermon with a brief account of the two events that
had taken place during the last week in the city.  By the mercy of
God, the attending physicians gave promise of life to the wounded
man.  For all those more immediately connected with both families
concerned, the minister expressed the deepest pity and sympathy.

The minister announced that he had been approached by some members
of his congregation with a request that he should postpone, or
altogether abandon the sermon, as announced, upon the theme "The
Kingdom of God and Modern Industry."  After earnest consideration
he felt it more than ever to be his duty to deal with this subject.
The subject was as announced, but he acknowledged that the sermon
he had prepared was not the sermon which he would preach to-night.

The report of the sermon sent in to the Evening Courier by Andy
McGarrick, reflected the atmosphere and spirit of the whole
service.  There was a complete absence of McGarrick's rather
flippant asides, but the reporter not only clearly reproduced the
line of argument, but he caught the spirit and atmosphere of the
whole service.

Industry, the minister defined as "The co-operative activity on the
part of the people in the production of things for the use and
service of all the people."  He thereupon proceeded to picture the
Canadian people thus actively engaged in the service of the
Canadian people and showing forth the spirit of the Kingdom of
Heaven.  The Kingdom of Heaven, conceived as industry, would bring
about a state of existence in which all workers would be protected
in their essential rights of security, freedom and growth.

Jesus definitely forbade the mad pursuit of wealth as the chief aim
of industrial activity.  The true objective of industry was service
of the whole body of the people.  The badge of rank was not the
power to command men, but the power to serve them.  The greatest
man in the community was he who could serve most men in the
community.  Industry should never be carried on under such
conditions as would enslave and degrade men, but rather ennoble
them and develop their highest powers.

Jesus thought of humanity as a great brotherhood, whose members
were bound together by ties of love and mutual responsibility.
Egoistic individualism is a denial of brotherhood of man and of the
fatherhood of God.  The unhappy, the unfortunate, the poor, the
sick, the outcast, Jesus conceived to be his very brethren.
Service to these unhappy creatures He considered as service to
Himself.

There was little argumentation in the sermon and almost an entire
absence of oratorical declamation.  Quietly, impressively, simply
the minister stated the principles of the Kingdom of Heaven in
relation to industry.  He concluded his sermon, however, with an
entrancing and moving picture of a community in which all the
members lived to express in their life and work the sacrificial
love represented in the life of Jesus.

At the close of the sermon, during the singing of the last hymn a
young man, tall and with a fine, strongly marked intellectual face
came and stood beside the minister and said a few words to him.
Mr. Matheson nodded his head.  After the hymn was finished the
minister said, "Mr. Graham Douglas, president of the Young Men's
Club will make an announcement."  Thereupon Mr. Graham Douglas made
the announcement:

"The Young Men's Club has been asked to hold its regular open
meeting to-night here in this auditorium.  The subject to be
discussed is:  'What are we going to do about it?'  All young men
will be made welcome.  I might add that all men who feel young are
young men in the opinion of this club."

Immediately the President of the Ladies' Association, one of the
modernistic and strong-minded type, rose in her place and said:

"May I respectfully inquire if there is any reason why a similar
invitation should not be extended to the women in this meeting?"

Promptly Mr. Graham Douglas made reply:

"There is no reason why women should not be present at this
meeting.  I believe I represent the opinion of the young men of the
club when I say that all who care to remain will be entirely
welcome.  I may add however, that the discussion will be confined
to the members of the club."

In consequence of this announcement the report of the third sermon
was greatly curtailed, a very considerable amount of the space
assigned to it being taken up with the report of the Young Men's
meeting.

After the benediction, as some of the people began to pass out of
the church, Sylvia became conscious of a hand gripping her arm and
an excited voice speaking in her ear.

"Jack's here!  We're going to stay.  Is that all right?"

"Why Peggy, you here?  Of course it is all right.  Stay if you
like."

"You bet we'll stay," cried Peggy excitedly.  "Jack was with us for
lunch.  I wanted to hear this wonderful minister of yours.  Mother
said Jack ought to come too.  He has been awfully dull and quiet
lately, and mother thought--Oh here he is."

"Good evening, Sylvia," said Jack.  "I thought I might as well be
hung for a sheep as a lamb, so here I am, staying for an after
meeting no less."  As he spoke he crowded into the seat beside
Peggy.

"Aunt Elizabeth, may I go in beside you?" asked Peggy.

"Come along, Peggy," said Aunt Elizabeth, and Peggy moved to the
other side of Aunt Elizabeth.

In the meantime the people seemed to be of two minds as to whether
they should go or stay.  But when the president of the Young Men's
Club called the meeting to order, and when at his request those
remaining in the gallery had taken their places in the body of the
church, it was seen that the church was comfortably filled with the
congregation that remained.

"Glory!" exclaimed Peggy excitedly, "will you look at the crowd at
the meeting.  Will there be a discussion?  I hope there will be a
first-rate row."

"Shut up! you little idiot," said Jack.  "Don't you know you are in
church?"

"But this is the Young Men's meeting," said Peggy.

"Hush, Peggy," said Jack, "they are going to begin."

The president opened the meeting and in a few compact sentences
explained how it was the Club had come to hold this open meeting in
the Church.  There were three main reasons:

(1)  The Club had been deeply stirred by the sermons on the Kingdom
of Heaven and Modern Finance, preached by their minister.

(2)  The Club was of the opinion that the questions raised were of
such importance to demand earnest study and discussion.

(3)  The public interest awakened by the sermons seemed to indicate
a widespread desire that the discussion of these questions should
be open to a larger number than the members of the club.  Hence
this meeting.

"We do not consider it wise," he continued, "that discussion of the
questions raised should be carried on this evening.  The program
will therefore be confined simply to one question:  'What are we
going to do about it?'

"The sermons preached in this church the last three Sundays have
created a new world of thought for many of the members of the club.
An attempt to enter to-night into a discussion of the problems
raised without due time for preparation and study, would not be
treating the great moral, religious and national issues raised,
with the consideration they deserved, nor would it be respectful to
their minister whose treatment of these questions gave evidence of
much study in their preparation.  The committee, therefore, have
prepared three resolutions which they hope the members of the club
will accept.  (1)  The Young Men's Club of St. Paul's Church,
Riverside, hereby express their grateful appreciation of the great
and valued service rendered this congregation, and the whole
community, by the able discussion of the important themes presented
in these sermons by our minister the Rev. Malcolm Matheson.  (2)
The members of the Young Men's Club beg respectfully to assure
their minister of their confidence in his integrity of purpose,
their admiration for his courage, their appreciation of his fair
minded, able treatment of the questions presented, and their
undiminished affection and esteem for him as their minister and
spiritual guide.  (3)  The members of this club pledge themselves
to begin immediately the earnest study of the questions raised in
their relation to their present lives and to the well being of the
whole community."

The President thereupon presented the first resolution.  Two young
men, in glowing terms, as mover and seconder of the resolution,
proceeded to eulogize their minister, and to express their
gratitude for the service he had rendered the church and the
members of the club in the sermons delivered.  They believed that
in saying this they represented the opinion of the whole body of
the young people of the congregation.

After a very brief discussion the resolution was unanimously
adopted by a standing vote of the members.

Suddenly a man from the congregation rose and cried excitedly.

"Mr. President, I move that we--this whole congregation--support
the resolution."

Immediately the suggestion was seconded and before the president
could speak the whole congregation, with very few exceptions rose
in support.  The president, however, apparently did not approve of
this action.

"It is not in order," he said, "that in our open meetings
resolutions should be voted upon by any who are not members of the
club."

The second resolution and the third were proposed in like manner
and carried.  Thereupon the chairman who had conducted the meeting
with prompt despatch, announced that he would now accept a motion
to adjourn.

"No," came a voice, loud, sharp and stern, as a man in the back of
the church rose and came slowly forward.  When he reached the front
of the church he began to speak in a clear penetrating voice that
reached to the farthest corner of the building.

"My name was once on the roll of this congregation.  I have not
attended this or any other church for thirteen years, because I
felt that all the churches were false to the principles of the
Founder of our faith.  But when I saw the advertisement of these
sermons in the paper, I decided that I would hear what the minister
had to say.  I have not been disappointed.  But I am disappointed
in the action taken by the young men of this club.  The last
resolution pledged its members to study these questions discussed
by the minister.  Study?  Why study?  These principles stick up
into the light of truth as the spire of this church into the light
of the sun.  I had hoped for a different answer to the question:
'What are we going to do about it?'  Do?  That is the point!  Will
this young men's club demand that these principles become
conditions of membership in the church?  Study?"  The man's voice
was now ringing out like a trumpet over the congregation that sat
spellbound, with eyes riveted upon his white face and gleaming
eyes.  "What are you going to do about it?  If nothing, then why
not in God's name dissolve this church and come out in your true
colors before the world, not as Christians, but as anti-Christians.
Is this only another instance of humbug and sham?

"Will you stop chasing money?

"Will you work together and share together with all the people?

"Will you count those poor wretches, outcast from your society as
your brethren for Jesus' sake?

"If not, then you are a lot of damned--I am not swearing--the
minister said 'condemned'--I am using the simpler English word--you
are damned hypocrites."

The people sat gaping at one another while the man went slowly back
to his place, picked up his hat and coat and made for the door.
There he paused and turning back thundered at them this last word:

"Jesus Christ is waiting your action.  What are you going to do
about it?"

For some minutes not a soul moved.  The president sat as in a
trance.  Finally the minister rose and for a few moments stood
facing his people.  "Who he is that has spoken," he said, "I know
not; that matters not.  But it does matter that he has spoken the
truth for Jesus Christ this night.  The question for me and for you
my friends, is:  'What are we going to do about it?'"

For some tense, breathless moments he stood regarding his
congregation, then he raised his hands for the benediction.  "God
be merciful to us sinners."  The words came in low, clear,
penetrating tones to the congregation's ears, then after a pause,
"Amen."

Slowly the people moved out of the building in deep silence as if
under a spell.

"Come home with me," whispered Sylvia to Peggy.  "The others will
follow."

Catching her arm Peggy whispered in reply:  "Wasn't it great to see
that man?  He sure had them all buncoed; not one of them could wink
an eye.  Even the minister was paralyzed."

"Yes," said Sylvia, "because he is an honest man; I too felt
paralyzed I assure you."

Before they had reached the door Aunt Elizabeth and Jack had caught
up to them.

"You are coming in for supper," said Aunt Elizabeth.

"You bet I am, I am starved and so excited.  Aren't you?" said
Peggy turning to Jack.

"I'm afraid," began Jack.

"Now Jack," said Sylvia, "you have no meeting tonight.  Come along.
I will just dash on before and see about things, you follow on with
Aunt Elizabeth," and she ran away, leaving Jack to bring the others
home.

As they opened the front door they were surprised to hear shrieks
of laughter coming from upstairs.

"Who is that?" exclaimed Peggy.  "Not Nickie, surely.  I never
heard him laugh like that in all my life."

"Oh, he and Sylvia are carrying on some prank or other," said Aunt
Elizabeth.  "They do all sorts of wild and funny things up there in
the attic."

"May I run up?" enquired Peggy eagerly.

"And me, too?" said Jack.

"Certainly," answered Aunt Elizabeth.  "Run along!"

They both ran upstairs to the top floor and reached a closed door.

"Hush!" said Peggy, "let's see what they are about."  She opened
the door and peeped through the crack, then immediately drew back,
wonder, almost awe on her face.

Jack then looked in, and he too drew back with a like look on his
face.

Slowly they both opened the door.  There was Nickie swinging on his
arms on a horizontal bar, his poor little legs dangling about in
pathetic helplessness.  Immediately as they entered the room, with
a whoop the boy took a flying leap at Sylvia, who caught him in her
arms and lowered him to the floor.  Never had Jack been so
surprised in his life, and seldom more deeply moved.  That his
little brother, who since his accident, three years ago, had been a
poor miserable, helpless, petted and spoiled child should make this
display of physical activity and of exuberant joy, was almost a
miracle.

"For Heaven's sake, Nickie," he said.  "How did you learn this
trick?  Are you not afraid that you will fall or knock Sylvia
over?"

"Huh! not a bit.  I can't fall and she is as strong as you are
yourself, Jack.  Why I have been swinging on this bar here for two
weeks every day, and Sylvia says I am going to learn to swing on my
legs too."

Jack gazed in silence at Sylvia, too moved to speak.

"What were you laughing about a little while ago?" enquired Peggy.
"We could hear you out on the street."

"Oh, that was at my pictures," said Nickie.

"Pictures?" echoed Peggy.

"Yes," said Sylvia, taking up a portfolio.  "Here they are.  The
girls in the designing room have been teaching Nickie all sorts of
things, and he has gone far before them all in design.  We use
these things in our nursery furniture department, you know.  We try
to make them as funny as possible."

Suddenly Peggy, who was turning over the portfolio of comic
sketches of children and animals, went off into a series of
giggles.

"Look, Jack, at that pig.  'This little Pig went to Market.'  Isn't
he a perfect darling?  So cocky, you know."

"Yes," said Sylvia, "that is one of our prize table covers.  Nickie
is beating them all.  The girls, of course, are crazy about him.
He demoralizes the whole room, and then, too, you know, he is
transforming their singing.  I couldn't have believed that two or
three weeks would have made so great a change."

Meantime Jack, as he listened, was studying the boy's face.

"By Jove, Nickie, you look a different creature.  Whatever they are
doing to you, I hope they keep on doing it."

"Why he is the busiest boy in town," said Sylvia, "from early
morning till--"

"What?  Early morning?  Do you mean EARLY morning?  Whose job is it
to get him up EARLY in the morning?"  Jack's voice had a quizzical
note of unbelief in it.

"The 7.30 bell wakens him and he is ready for breakfast at 8
o'clock," replied Sylvia.  "We are at the office at exactly 8.45."

"Seven thirty?" exclaimed Jack.

"Of course.  Why not?" asked Sylvia.  "He goes to bed at nine."

"What?  Bed at nine?" said Jack, amazement in his voice, "and who
gets him to bed at nine?"

"I go myself," said Nickie proudly.

"Of course he does," said Sylvia, "Why not?  A big boy like him.  A
boy who is beginning to earn his own living."

"Earn his living?  You are joking."

"Not I," said Sylvia, "Why shouldn't he draw a regular salary for
the instruction he gives these girls?  But now he must go right
away to bed.  Come Nickie, good-night.  I will see you later."

Nickie looked wistfully at Jack and at Peggy, then in a grave and
manly voice he said quietly, "Good-night Jack.  Good-night Peggy."

Peggy rushed at him, flung her arms round his neck and kissed him:
"Oh Nickie, Nickie," she said, tears in her voice and eyes.  "It is
too--too wonderful."  She paused abruptly and rushed from the room.

"Good-night, Jack," said Nickie, as Jack put his arms round him and
kissed him.  "Jack, I am going to do a lot of things, Sylvia says,
oh, a whole lot of things."

The full pathos of the words only Jack understood, for he could not
help thinking of the dull and colorless life of the boy, who was
never allowed to do things for himself or for any one else, but who
had things always done for him.

"Do things!" cried Sylvia, "You just wait, he hasn't begun yet.
Take him down Jack, not in your arms like a baby.  Let him climb on
your back.  He is going to have a pony next spring."

The eager light in the little lad's eyes smote Jack into silence.

Throughout supper both Jack and Sylvia took very little part in the
conversation.  Peggy and Aunt Elizabeth carried on a vivacious
discussion in regard to the extraordinary evening service, through
which they had passed.

"I just love your minister," Peggy exclaimed.  "He made me cry over
and over again.  I couldn't exactly tell you why.  And I understood
every word, or almost every word he said.  And do you know Aunt
Elizabeth, when he was talking about all those poor people in our
towns and cities I seemed to see them with their sad, hungry faces.
I feel horribly mean when I think of all the money I spend in silly
things, like shows and sundaes.  Don't you Jack?"

"Sure thing!" said Jack, "at least I mean--I ought to."

"Just think, Aunt Elizabeth," cried Peggy, "this dress of mine--of
course it is my best dress--would cost enough to keep a family for
a whole month.  It seems terrible, doesn't it?"

"It really doesn't seem quite fair, does it?" said Aunt Elizabeth.

"Fair?  It is a dirty deal, and think of all the girls!  Ethel
Wiley's coming out dress cost a hundred and fifty dollars, without
the jewelry and frills.  Why it would keep two families for two
months in food.  I have been working it out.  It is a beastly
shame."

"A good deal longer than two months," said Sylvia.

"Why don't they do something about it?" indignantly enquired Peggy.
"Just as that man said.  Wasn't he splendid?  He had the whole
bunch absolutely paralyzed."

Sylvia gazed in wonder at the girl.  In her fine new dress she
looked quite a grown-up young lady.  She had indeed developed
amazingly during the last few months.  Her features had grown
finer, her figure had developed new curves of loveliness, she had
somehow shed some of the hoyden awkwardness of girlhood.  The
promise of rare beauty was strongly apparent in every line of her
lovely figure and every feature of her vivid face.  Sylvia was
conscious of new and strange emotions as she watched the girl's
countenance, and listened to her shrewd, almost brilliant remarks
on the various happenings in the church.

"Well," said Jack, "I think we must go.  I am due at the office at
8.30 A. M. and this young lady is in my charge, and must be ready
for her classes at 9."

"He is really thinking of himself, you know," said Peggy.  "And
indeed he ought to be in his little bed.  You know, Jack, you don't
get sleep enough."

"Well, you at any rate should be there now," replied Jack.  "For if
you don't make your matriculation there is no European trip for
you."

Peggy made a face at him.  "That beastly matric.  I know I shall be
plucked," she said.

"You are not to be plucked," he said.  "You know," he continued, "I
am teaching Peggy to run my car on the condition that she makes the
grade in her reports every month."

"Yes," cried Peggy with enthusiasm.  "He is teaching me everything.
He shows me where he keeps his gun for hold-up men, and all the
rest of it.  And when we get out of the traffic, I can drive his
car as well as he can.  You see I will need a car for myself when I
am at the University."

Sylvia listened with queer little qualms in her heart.  This child
would be a University undergraduate in a few months.  A very
advanced, self-confident, capable young lady, she was becoming
rapidly experienced in the ways of the world of men and things.
Her devotion to Jack was apparent in every tone of her voice, and
in every flash of her brilliant brown eyes.  And Jack in his "big
brother way" was obviously very fond of her.

"I am coming out again to see Nickie at his work, Aunt Elizabeth,"
she said as they made ready to go.  "I can't imagine what you have
been doing to that boy."

"It is all Sylvia," said Aunt Elizabeth.

"Nonsense!  It is all Aunt Elizabeth and Annette, who feeds him
tremendous meals, and all the girls at the factory.  They show him
everything they know, and he has picked up their work in quite a
wonderful way.  You know, Jack," she added, "he has an amazing
flair for colour and design, and such clever fingers.  I am sure he
will be an artist some day."

"Well, I am coming out, next time Jack comes," persisted Peggy, "Eh
Jack?"

"Depends on how you behave yourself," said Jack, "and--and on other
things too."

"Aunt Elizabeth," said Peggy, "I should like to come to church out
here."

"Ask Jack to bring you," said Aunt Elizabeth with a twinkling
smile.

"Now indeed, Aunt Elizabeth," said Jack, "your man I confess got me
to-night, but to be candid I don't believe in his methods and in
many of his ideas."

"Why Jack, you believe," began Peggy.

But Jack interrupted her.  "That will be enough from you, young
lady.  I have all I can handle already in that line in this
family."

"You will acknowledge, Jack," said Sylvia earnestly, "that he was
quite sound in his industrial theories tonight, wasn't he?
Cooperation in industry and all that."

"Yes," said Jack, "I confess his theories seem sound enough, but it
is the application of them in this modern world of ours that is the
trouble."

"Yes, it is the application of them," said Sylvia, in rather a sad
voice.  "That is the real problem, I find."

"Yes indeed," said Peggy, "As that wonderful man said:  'What are
you going to do about it?'  Oh, I'm all worked up inside.  But I
have no one to talk to about it.  Jack is always so busy on old
Scaiffe's trail--"

"Peggy!" said Jack sharply.

"Well, they all say so, Tom and everyone," replied Peggy, slightly
abashed.

"It is none of your business, Peggy, and you are not to talk about
it."

Peggy flashed a queer little look of defiance at him, threw up her
head, but apparently thought better of it and remained silent.

"Come out and go to church with us any time you like," said Sylvia.
"We shall always be glad to have you."

"Thank you," said Peggy very earnestly.  "When I can get our car or
Jack's."

"Jack's eh?  Not just yet, my girl," replied Jack.

"Never mind, Peggy.  Come when you can, and we shall have fine,
long talks together," said Sylvia.

"Yes, and I suppose you will convert her to your socialist ways of
thinking.  I will have to keep an eye upon her," said Jack
decisively as he moved toward the door.

"Kiss him, you fool," whispered Peggy.  Then in a loud voice, "What
in the world have I done with my wrap?"

Aunt Elizabeth had the good sense to assist her in the search for
her fur.

"Sylvia," said Jack when they were alone.  "You are doing wonderful
things for Nickie.  You are a dear, dear girl.  Can't we forget all
these foolish economics and other questions?  We love each other
and that is enough."

"Oh yes, Jack--oh yes--yes--" Sylvia murmured yielding herself to
his arms and to his kisses.

"Let's quit all this foolish discussion, let's forget all these
social fads," said Jack in a pleading tone.

"Oh Jack!  I can't!  I can't.  I wish sometimes I could, but you
know they are part of my very life.  You can see that Jack, can't
you?"

"Well, never mind, darling, we'll make out somehow."

"Found it upstairs," cried Peggy coming out to them with a noisy
rush.  "Good-night you darling Sylvia.  A wonderful evening we have
had.  I shall never forget it."

After they had gone and when Sylvia was in her own bedroom, she
said to herself:  "Yes, a wonderful night--a wonderful night.  I
wonder--oh Jack, my darling, I cannot live without you Jack."



CHAPTER XXII


The Christmas season in Montreal and the surrounding district this
year was one of hectic hilarity, and indeed of wild dissipation.
Business was roaring, the stock market booming, money flowing as
never in the history of Montreal.  The flood-gates of social
festivity let loose upon the city a tide of riotous and reckless
gaiety such as had never before been witnessed.  The churches of
both Protestant and Roman Catholic communions were packed with
worshippers.  The dance halls, the picture shows, the theatres were
all equally packed with their devotees.

Sylvia saw very little of Jack during these gay days.  His
financial operations were every day expanding, exacting more and
more of his time and strength.  His social engagements became
increasingly enthralling.  Two or three times in the week,
sometimes accompanied by Peggy, he would rush out for dinner at
Hilltop House.

During these wild and hectic days Sylvia became apprehensively
conscious of an ever widening gap between the currents of their
lives, and consequently carried in her heart a daily ache, that
grew at times into an intolerable pain.  Well it was for her that
her business affairs made ever larger demands upon her time and
strength.  One such bright spot was the work carried on by Roderick
Macdougall in the hardwood camps up the Ottawa.  Once every
fortnight the young camp boss found it convenient, if not
necessary, to run down to Riverside to make personal reports and
consult with his chief, or more frequently with her second in
command, in regard to the work.  Before freeze-up he had been able
actually to run a raft of beautiful white oak logs to the Riverside
mill.  The very sight of these logs, piled high in the mill yards,
delighted all the old lumbermen of the district.  Chief among these
was old Sandy Brodie, who in his younger days had been a master
tanner.

"Yon's fine oak bark," he said to Sylvia one day as he met her on
the street.  "It breaks my heart to think of all the fine and
beautiful lambskins and sheepskins that are being burnt or buried
in this country."

"Why, Sandy," said Sylvia, "do you think you can do anything with
them?"

"I am not so sure," he replied.  "But I should like weel to have a
crack at the tannin' again."

"Go to it then!  Sandy," cried Sylvia eagerly, "I will back you.
There are the vats, there is the white oak bark, you have the
skins, and you might as well make the attempt.  Go to it!"

And Sandy went to it.

It fell upon a morning after the height of the Christmas season's
festivities had been passed that Timothy Brady drove up in his
splendid car to make a call upon the secretary of the Riverside
Mills.

"Here I am!" said Mr. Brady cheerfully, as he walked into the outer
office.  "I am like that bird that always brings bad weather.  What
do you call it?"

"Good morning, Mr. Brady," said Frances.  "We are always glad to
see you.  And if I remember right you generally bring good weather
with you."

"How is my young lady to-day?" enquired Mr. Brady.

"She's well, and if she were not she wouldn't let on," said
Frances.

"And you are right there," Mr. Brady concurred.  "But it seemed to
me she was worrying about something or someone," he added, with an
inquiring glance at Frances' face.  But Frances refused to gossip.

"And how is the hard wood doing?" asked Mr. Brady.

"Well, we have brought one raft down," replied Frances.

"The hard wood is perfectly fine, Mr. Brady," said Sally with
uplifted eyebrow.  "We are all terribly interested in the hard wood
and in the camp, not to speak of those who run it."

"So I have heard," said Mr. Brady with a twinkle in his eye, "and
it's good luck I wish him.  By the way, Miss Sally," he continued,
"How is your minister going on with his grand sermons?  I hear he
is making you all communists and Russian bolsheviks."

"Never you fear, Mr. Brady," replied Sally.  "Our minister is a
fine man, and he carries a level head.  Indeed it would have done
you a great deal of good had you heard his sermons."

"They were telling me there was a divil of a row in your church one
night."

"Then," said Miss Sally, "they were telling you a lie."

"I know the chap well," said Mr. Brady, "Dave Derring is his name,
another of your communists.  I hear he gave you all hell."

"Nothing of the sort, Mr. Brady," replied Sally warmly.  "He spoke
good religion and good business, and our minister backed him up."

"Well, it is a queer business to happen in church.  The like of it
my priest would not stand for a minute."

"Let me tell you about that," said Sally.  "I have it on the best
authority that our minister searched that man out and that they
have come to be great friends."

"Friends?" echoed Mr. Brady.

"Yes friends!" said Sally emphatically.  "Our minister has had him
up to tea, and he has visited him in his own home, and has spoken
at his club, and all that sort of thing.  That's the sort of man
our minister is."

At this point Frances, who was becoming a little impatient with
Sally and her unbusinesslike flippancy, interposed:  "Do you wish
to see Miss Sylvia?" she enquired.

"I do," said Mr. Brady, "and will you tell her, please, that I
won't keep her more than a minute."

"Good morning, Mr. Brady," said Sylvia as that gentleman walked
into her office.

"Good morning, Miss Sylvia, and sorry am I that I'm bringing you
trouble."

"At least I am afraid it may be trouble," Mr. Brady continued, "I
have heard a rumor that they are talking of closing down this plant
almost immediately."

"Closing down Riverside Mills," said Sylvia, dismay in her voice.

"That is what I hear."

"Why Mr. Brady, that is very disturbing news.  I know our plant has
not been paying.  We cannot make sales in any department, except
our furniture factory.  But of course the winter is not the best
time for sales.  And the overhead is certainly very heavy."

"That's what it is," said Brady.  "There is a heavy overhead all
along the line.  There has been rather wild and rash expenditure in
plant and the market has almost entirely disappeared.  I am afraid
times are getting bad for some of the industries in this country.
The financial concerns and the stock market, of course, are very
grand, and booming to beat the band, but the work--"

"What do you advise, Mr. Brady?" enquired Sylvia anxiously.

"Well, it is to advise you that I came in, and what I say is this.
It would be a good thing if you could slip in and have a talk with
the president, Mr. Huntington.  He tells me that the directors are
becoming more and more anxious and impatient.  They are having a
meeting this week."

"I wish I could meet those directors," said Sylvia.  "I'd like to
have a talk with them."

"And why not then?" said Mr. Brady.  "My! but that would be a grand
idea.  And now I mustn't keep you."

"Good-bye, Mr. Brady, and thank you for calling."

"Good-bye, Miss Sylvia.  If you had only invested that fifty
thousand you got from me you would have been a millionaire to-day."

"I don't want to be a millionaire, Mr. Brady.  I suppose all your
money is invested in this terrible stock boom."

"Every penny," replied Mr. Brady cheerfully.

"Mr. Brady, would you think it rude in a girl like me to offer you
advice?"

"Rude, my dear?  Indeed it's proud I'd be to get any word of advice
out of that clever little head of yours."

"Well then, Mr. Brady, I am going to ask you have you put aside
none of the profits from your investments in the stock market?"

"Well," said Mr. Brady, "I have settled my house upon my wife, and
she has got that, if she hasn't mortgaged it for the stocks
herself."

"I wish you would promise me, Mr. Brady," said Sylvia earnestly,
"to put half your money into solid investments, bank stock, or
government bonds or something like that."

"I will promise you," said Mr. Brady, "that I will invest fifty
thousand dollars this week as you say.  And now about that meeting,
Miss Sylvia--"

"I was just talking, Mr. Brady," said Sylvia, "I wouldn't dare
attend a meeting of the directors."

"Wouldn't you, then?  I think it might be a good thing to have a
talk with Mr. Huntington about it."

"I will think it over," said Sylvia, as Mr. Brady left the room.

Immediately Sylvia turned to her telephone and called up Mr.
Huntington.

"I am surprised and shocked," she said, plunging at once into the
business, "to learn that you are thinking of closing us up here."

"Why, dear Miss Sylvia, if I may call you so, I am delighted to
hear your voice, and I am sorry that things are not too good.  We
have a big overhead, sales are bad, and apparently with this
infernal stock boom there is no money for legitimate business.  Who
brought you your bad news?"

"Well, it was Mr. Brady.  And do you know Mr. Huntington, he made a
rather wild suggestion."

"And what was that pray?"

"That I should ask you whether I might attend the meeting of
directors this week."

"Ah! that is an idea," cried Mr. Huntington.  "Tomorrow our
directors meet at 10:00 A.M.  Come right along to my office at 9.45
and I will take you in."

"But Mr. Huntington, I should be terribly frightened.  I must
confess, though, I am more frightened at this plant closing down.
So that if you think I might dare, I will go to it."

"Come along, my dear I will take care of you."



At 9.45 on the day appointed, Sylvia found herself in Mr.
Huntington's office.  He greeted her with a cheery smile.

"And you look very much too lovely, my dear, to feed to a
director's--meeting," he said.

"Mr. Huntington," said Sylvia in a hurried voice, "now that I am
here, I am terrified, but I do want to tell them our plans for the
coming season."

"Do," said Mr. Huntington.  "And tell them about your girls.  I
will back you, and don't be afraid of them.  They will all fall for
you at the very first glimpse they get of your face."

It was with an air of possessive pride that Mr. Huntington
presented Sylvia to the Board of Directors.

"Gentlemen, this is our secretary at the Riverside Mills, Miss S.
Rivers, the most efficient, prompt and business-like official in
our whole corporation.  I have asked her to come and tell you
something about her plans for the coming season.  Miss Sylvia,
these gentlemen form your board of directors, and I want to assure
you that they will be delighted to have you tell them something of
the fine work you are doing at Riverside."

With a little touch of colour in her pale, lovely face, Sylvia
stood up and in a voice clear, though tremulous, which gained
strength as she went on, told her story.

"I heard you were going to close up the Riverside Mills," she began
breathlessly rushing in medias res.  "I was very grieved and very
surprised, for you remember you gave me a two-year contract, and
then you promised to give me the chance of buying you out too,
besides.  But first, I want to tell you about our plans.  I know we
are not paying our way, but that is because of the big overhead.
You see you put in all that new machinery in the sawmill, and one
hundred and fifty men up in the camps, getting out hard wood; and
they have got quite a lot of it; a raft of beautiful white oak came
down the river before freeze-up.  And from all that of course there
is no return as yet."  She paused a moment for breath.  "But you
see, that is not our fault," she went on more deliberately, "I
would not have put in all that new machinery, as we could have got
along without it.  But in our own factory we are paying our way.
We make furniture you know, nursery furniture, the loveliest
things, and games and toys and playthings for children, all nicely
decorated."

In her excitement Sylvia was still rushing her words as if at any
moment her speech might be arrested.

"Take your time," said the vice president, Mr. Selby Manners.

"They are really very lovely," she continued, "and the people are
crazy about them.  We can't make them fast enough, and we are going
to open a showroom in Montreal, at least I am going to ask Mr.
Huntington if we may."

At this the board of directors relaxed in a broad smile.

"And we will have the girls of our factory out and they will sing.
Nickie will lead them.  He is wonderful!  Nickie is the late Mr.
Roger Tempest's little lame son, he is only ten, but with his
violin he leads our girls in their songs and trains them
beautifully, too.  They sing French-Canadian and Scottish and Irish
songs and Negro Spirituals, and a lot of other things.  They are
quite wonderful I assure you and they are such dear girls.  Oh, I
just wish you could come out and see them.  Oh--I do hope you won't
really close us up.  You see they have all worked for me since they
left school, and their fathers worked for my father, and I would
hate to see them shut out from the factory, where they earn their
own living and--well--I am sorry to have taken all this time, and I
haven't really told you what I want to say."

The big blue eyes looked at them earnestly with anxiety, and there
was a suspicion of tears not far away.  "I would like to answer
questions--I believe that would be better--for you know what I
ought to have told you.  And oh! I brought you some copies of my
last statement.  Perhaps that will help you better to understand."
She handed the President a number of copies of her last monthly
statement, which Mr. Huntington passed round to the members of the
board.

"And here are some pictures of the stencilling and decorations that
we use in our nursery furniture.  People just love them.  And I
brought also some pictures of our singing and dancing classes and
all that, but perhaps you haven't time to look at them."  She laid
the pictures on the table beside her.

One of the members reached for them and proceeded to turn them over
with two members looking over his shoulder.  Soon smiles began to
broaden into grins and explode into chuckles.  From hand to hand
the pictures passed round the table and soon the whole board of
directors were delightedly commenting on the pictures before them.

"Who did this work?" enquired a member.

"Most of them were done by the girls themselves, some of the best,
however, are the work of Nickie Tempest.  He has marvellous hands,
and is wonderfully clever at his work."  No questions were asked as
to the condition of the business at Riverside as presented in the
statement.  A brief glance was sufficient for these men, trained as
they were to examine statements of all accounts for weak spots and
disturbing gaps.

"This statement, Mr. President," said one of the members, "should
be mimeographed, and sent round to every office in our company, to
show our secretaries how a monthly statement should be prepared."

"Quite right," replied Mr. Huntington.  "It is an excellent
statement, terse and complete."

"Thank you, Mr. President," said Sylvia, "for letting me come;
thank you all for letting me speak.  I am sorry I have taken so
much of your time.  But I must go.  We are really quite busy in our
factory."

"Before you go, Miss Sylvia," said Mr. Huntington, rising from his
chair, "I will ask Mr. Selby Manners, our vice president, and our
most fluent speaker to express our appreciation of your visit."

Nothing loath, Mr. Selby Manners told her what they thought of her
in words of beautiful courtesy, "And I believe Miss Sylvia, that I
can promise you that the Riverside Mills will be the last plant in
our corporation that will be closed."

The President then gave the board a brief account of his visit to
Riverside Mills.  "I assure you, gentlemen, it was one of the
happiest experiences in my life.  You would all enjoy a visit."

"Why not go out?" enquired a director.

"Oh, would you?" cried Sylvia.  "I could give you tea, and you
would understand so much better."

The directors looked at one another in amused silence.

Then the vice president said:

"I have the honor to accept, on behalf of the members, your very
kind invitation.  We shall be very pleased to visit you any day
that you may say."

"Would to-morrow do?" enquired Sylvia eagerly.

A laugh went round the table.  "Good business!" said a member.  "I
should say that to-morrow would be a very appropriate date."

"Oh, thank you very much.  You won't expect anything but a simple
tea."

"We expect a very happy time," said Mr. Huntington, as he opened
the door and showed her out.

The afternoon tea given to the Board of Directors of the Central
Canada Lumber and Furniture Corporation at Riverside Mills was an
event long cherished in the memories of the members of the Board.
They inspected the sawmill and the various departments of the
factory.  With critical and appraising eyes they noted every sign
of careful management, but the charm and grace of the young lady,
and the bright and cheery efficiency of her assistants, awakened in
the minds of the visiting directors feelings of admiration and
appreciation of the quality of work done, and of the spirit and
cheerful pride of achievement on the part of all the workers in
labour which too often is a dreary and monotonous grind.

But more than all were they delighted with the musical part of the
entertainment.  Nickie's violin numbers, too, given at Sylvia's
request, were received with appreciation.  Many of the directors
had known the little lad's father, and his pathetic handicap, his
beautiful face, the excellence of his musical performance, and his
obvious delight and pride in the work of his class, went to all
hearts.

When the president and vice president came to take farewell of
their hostess, Mr. Huntington said:  "This is a new experience for
me and for all the directors.  This spirit that we have all felt to-
day, if present in all our factories, would solve most of our
industrial problems."

"Very fine indeed," said the vice president, "and let me assure
you, my dear young lady, the last machinery to stop in this
organization of ours will be in this room."

"Some girl, eh Manners?" said Huntington, as they walked together
toward their car.

"My dear Huntington," replied the vice president, "this is indeed a
rare experience.  Unfortunately there is much that is sordid and
unpleasant in our industrial system.  To me the experience of this
afternoon is like coming upon an old English garden in the midst of
a city slum.  What charm, what grace, what sweet dignity, in that
young lady, and all combined evidently with rare efficiency and
strength."

"Yes," replied Huntington, "and her relations with that little lad
and her service to him are quite beautiful.  Did you speak to the
boy at all?"

"I did," replied Manners, "it was a deeply moving experience,
listening to the little chap as he told the story of the new life
and light and cheer and hope that this girl has brought to him.  I
knew Roger Tempest well, a man of high character, though somewhat
inaccessible.  I fancy that this girl has brought into the lad's
life a new interest, a new work to do and a new joy in service to
others."

"You have got it exactly," said Huntington.  "And my dear Manners,
when we close down this place, as I am afraid we shall be forced to
do in a few months, we must find some way by which this unit shall
be kept intact, and possibly even handed back to its original
owner."

"If we can, Huntington, if we can," replied Manners.  "But business
is a hard and merciless thing.  Still, we must do something.  This
is a rare girl.  She has a heart for her people and a head for this
kind of business.  It is in her blood.  She is a Glengarry girl
remember."



CHAPTER XXIII


The spring break-up this year was earlier than usual, and soon
after Easter the Blackwater River floated down booms of hard wood
timber safely to the Riverside Mills.  A gay and heartsome sight it
was to the old rivermen, carrying them back to days forty years
gone.

Sylvia was cheered to have such a lot of good timber safely boomed
and landed at her mill before the Company had closed down the
Riverside plant.  But, as if he had been waiting for the hard wood
rafts to appear, almost immediately after their safe arrival Sylvia
had a telephone message from the president of the Company
announcing the imminence of this fatal event.

"Come in and see me," he said.

And with sickening heart Sylvia went and found Mr. Huntington in
deep gloom.

"It is a bitter disappointment to me.  This was no merger for stock
selling purposes," he explained.  "It was a genuine effort to
reduce production costs and increase the profits to all engaged in
the work.  And now, my dear, I am about to make you an offer, the
best that can be had from the receivers.  The assets under normal
conditions would be considerable, but when a collapse like this
comes all values are shattered.  The receivers, therefore, offer
you your whole plant and outfit at a figure a good deal better than
the ratio of assets to liabilities.  They offer you the plant and
outfit at ten percent of the rated value of its assets."

"And what does that mean?" asked Sylvia.

"The figure is five thousand dollars.  It is a terrific slaughter
in values.  But value in a case like this is what is offered you."

"I would gladly give more," said Sylvia.  "It is worth much more
than that."

"My dear, you will find that under the present circumstances, if
put up at auction it would bring a good deal less.  This is not a
question of value, it is a question of buyers.  There are none."

"I am sorry, Mr. Huntington," said Sylvia.  "But I will accept your
offer.  I think we can keep the furniture factory going, and
perhaps also can do something with the mill.  Mr. Huntington, you
have been more than good to me.  I wish I could help."

"Miss Sylvia, this is a bitter experience for me, but it is a
pleasure, a great pleasure, to be able to offer you such a deal,
and I wish you all good luck with it.  Goodbye, Miss Sylvia.  It is
a joy to have known you."

Sylvia left the office with a sad and sinking heart.  The future of
the plant was exceedingly doubtful.  It was very questionable if
she could keep the business going at all.

At dinner that night the whole company agreed that Mr. Huntington's
offer was quite generous.

"I feel quite mean in taking it," said Sylvia.

Professor Hale, who was spending his Easter holidays in the city
replied:  "You will find that values will soon be mere shadows."

"Why so?" enquired Jack sharply.

"All the signs in the financial sky say so," replied the Professor.

"The world seems to be full of trouble," said Aunt Elizabeth.
"Even poor Mr. Matheson, here, has his share."

"Oh, mine are very slight," said Mr. Matheson with his usual genial
smile.

"And what are your special trials?" asked Jack.  "Not the market I
hope."

"No, not the market," said Mr. Matheson.

"No, it is his Session," said Aunt Elizabeth impatiently.  "Fancy,
they are opposing the organization of the Young Men into what they
wish to call the Canadian Christian Brotherhood.  The Session
object also to our minister going to address that Club of Mr.
Derring's, because it is a Socialist organization.  And, worse than
all, they wish to dictate to their minister what he should preach."

"Oh please," said Mr. Matheson, "let us not speak of my troubles.
I am not worrying."

"All the same it is outrageous," said Professor Hale.

"Yes indeed," said Sylvia.

"Beastly, isn't it, Jack?" said Peggy, who had come out with Jack
by special invitation of Sylvia.

But Jack made no reply.  He was apparently in no mood for
discussion to-night.

"I think I am going to be a Socialist," said Peggy gravely.  "They
are the only people, I believe, who are thinking about the underdog
these days.  That Mr. Derring, now, I do think he must be a fine
man.  Sylvia was telling me about the work he is doing there in the
west side of Montreal.  He seems to be the right kind of a man."

"Yes indeed," said Sylvia.  "Mr. Matheson can tell you about him."

Mr. Matheson's description of Dave Derring set him forth as a
strong resolute, utterly sincere man, with a passion for justice,
and with a deep sympathy for the unfortunate and oppressed of his
fellow men.

"Rather superior type of man, Mr. Matheson," said Jack in a
somewhat sarcastic tone.

"In many ways, yes," said Mr. Matheson.  "Not without defects of
course."

"And yet," said Jack, who appeared to be in an unfortunate mood,
"for thirteen years he avoids all churches, he cherishes feelings
of contempt, hatred almost, for church people.  Do you know to be
quite frank he struck me as being a man of colossal egotism, not to
say cheek?  His attitude on that famous Sunday night, to yourself,
sir, and to your people was that of an insufferably conceited, self-
righteous man.  He makes the mistake common to his sort, especially
those of the enthusiastic, socialistic type, namely of imagining
that ability to point out vices in others is a proof of the
opposing virtues in themselves.  I confess," continued Jack,
apparently throwing all reserve to the winds, "I am getting a bit
fed up with these superior chaps.  Most of them are men who because
of some defect, or more frequently because of sheer laziness, have
made a failure of life, and therefore are filled with envy and
hatred of those who by ability, hard work and self-denial have made
good.  There, that's quite a speech," said Jack with a little
laugh.  "But I'm not going to apologize."

Jack's attitude was that of a man who had flung his hat into the
ring and was ready for all comers.

It was rather unfortunate that the man to accept the challenge
should have been Professor Hale, for whom Jack had lost all
respect, and for whom he had a feeling of jealousy.  It was more
unfortunate that it should have been Sylvia who felt called upon to
back up the Professor in his position.

The argument waxed warmer and warmer until it approached the verge
of acrimony.

Finally Jack, whose nerves were on the ragged edge of a breakdown,
threw aside his customary courtesy of manner in reply to a
statement of Professor Hale's to the effect that the capitalistic
class is largely composed of men, who, because of their wealth, as
a rule are overbearing and tyrannical.

"Overbearing?" said Jack.  "Ah! take your friend Derring for
instance.  Of course, Professor Hale does not know what he is
talking about.  He labours under the disadvantage of knowing
neither the circumstances, nor the personalities, round which this
argument turns.  The rest of you who were present that night,
however, will remember the whole attitude of this man.  His
conceit, his arrogance, his air of superiority, his utter lack of
courtesy, his insufferable insolence toward the minister, were all
clearly indicated by his classifying the whole congregation
composed of respectable and decent people, among them the company
at this table, as a lot of damned hypocrites; which meant of
course, that he was the only honest and sincere man present.  This
is the sort of thing that I feel I have the right to resent.  I
might indeed, have retorted, as of course I would not, that he and
those he represents were a lot of damned bounders, to use his own
adjective."

"Aunt Elizabeth," said Sylvia with face pale and lips trembling,
"will you please excuse me?"

"Sylvia?" said Aunt Elizabeth.  "Will you please sit down."

"I cannot sit still while my friends are being insulted."

"Sylvia, you will please sit down," commanded her Aunt.  "Perhaps
you will allow me to be judge in this matter."

After a moment's hesitation Sylvia resumed her seat.

"Miss Murray," said Jack, rising from his chair, "if I may be
permitted."

"Jack, you will please allow me to preside at my own table.  At
least you can remain until dinner is over."

"As a matter of fact," broke in Mr. Matheson in a cheerfully
pleasant voice, as if the discussion had been about the weather, "I
am inclined to agree with Jack in much of what he has said."

Sylvia gasped.

"But," continued the minister, including the whole company in a
genial smile, "I always find it rather more conducive to cogency
and clarity in argument to confine the discussion to the abstract
rather than to the personal.  It reminds me of a story that one of
my professors in Edinburgh used to tell his class annually."  The
humour of the story the genial countenance of the minister, the
calmly reasonable tone of voice enabled the company to recover
their equanimity to a certain degree.

Needless to say the discussion was not resumed.

After the dinner was over Jack went to Aunt Elizabeth and asked to
be excused.  "I have an extra bit of work to prepare for to-
morrow," he said.  "Besides, I confess I am hardly fit company
these days for civilized people.  My business is rather
distracting.  It is an entirely honest business," as he continued
his head went back a little, "as was my father's before me.  It
might be for the present however, that it would be better that I
should keep away from those to whom I represent a doubtful element
in the community."

"Jack," said Aunt Elizabeth, with an air of quiet dignity, "we
shall always be glad to see you."

"Oh Jack," protested Peggy, "I wanted to hear Sylvia sing to-night,
some special songs."

"I am not singing to-night," said Sylvia coldly.  "Aunt Elizabeth,"
she continued, "Jack has his opinions and I have mine.  We cannot
expect him to change his opinions to suit us."

"Sylvia," said Aunt Elizabeth sharply.  "What is the matter with
you?  What do you mean?"

"The meaning is quite obvious, Miss Murray," said Jack quietly.  "I
am sorry I am not an economist.  I have only the theories of my
class, I suppose, and I certainly don't propose to give them up,
even if they may not agree with economic experts, no matter how
distinguished."

"Why Jack, my dear boy," began the minister.

"Pardon me, Mr. Matheson," said Jack bowing very stiffly.  "Peggy,
do you propose to go home with me?"

"Professor Hale will take you home, Peggy," said Sylvia.

"Certainly, with pleasure," said the Professor.

"And let Jack go home alone?" said Peggy indignantly.  "Not much!
Wait a minute, Jack, I shall just run up and get my things."

"I am sorry, Peggy" said Sylvia, as they went upstairs together
"that you should have to hurry away.  Professor Hale would have
been glad to drive you home."

"No doubt," said Peggy, "but that is no reason why I should go with
him.  He'd talk my head off with his economic stuff.  That man
tires me.  Wasn't it terrible of Jack?" continued Peggy, as they
reached Sylvia's room.

"Unpardonable," said Sylvia.

"Oh, I don't know about that," said Peggy.  "Jack's nerves are in a
bad state these days.  He blows up for nothing.  He is carrying a
big load and doing big things.  I am told that old Scaiffe wants
him for a partner.  So I think there is a good deal of excuse for
Jack.  Besides that Professor is a very opinionated sort of chap."

"Professor Hale is a brilliant scholar," said Sylvia, "and
recognized as a sound economist."

"Well," said Peggy, "he is the kind of person that always makes me
mad, and just now I think Jack needs someone just to kind of cuddle
him, you know."

"Why not do it then, Peggy," said Sylvia, with a little laugh.

"Wouldn't I love to.  That is what he needs all right, and it is a
shame he can't get it."

"Oh, he's not a baby," said Sylvia.

"Well, I don't know.  He is a kind of baby.  All men are at times,"
said the worldly-wise Peggy.  "Why do you argue so much with him,
Sylvia?  Jack is in this business of his and can't get out, and you
are all against him here.  Poor Jack!"  The tenderly maternal tone
irritated Sylvia.  "Yes," continued Peggy, "Jack needs someone to
cuddle him, as I said before.  And if he were mine I'd give him all
he wanted, I can tell you, and Jack could take a lot."

"How do you know, Peggy?" asked Sylvia rather sharply.

"Well, I can tell.  There are some boys, you know, that need a lot
of it and are the better for it."

"Peggy, what are you talking about?" said Sylvia.  "Rather
disgusting, I call it."

"Oh, Sylvia, you don't know you're alive.  I bet you never kissed a
boy till you kissed Jack."

"Of course not," said Sylvia indignantly.

"There you are," said Peggy triumphantly.  "You don't know boys."

"Peggy, I am ashamed of you.  A young girl like you.  It is
positively disgusting."

"There you go again," said Peggy.  "You are engaged to Jack.  I bet
you never kissed him till he couldn't breathe."

"Peggy, you are positively insufferable," said Sylvia.

"Well, that is what he needs," said Peggy, "and if he doesn't get
it from you, he will get it from somebody else."

"Peggy, you are perfectly dreadful.  You speak as if you were an
animal.  Surely we have minds and souls."

"Oh, rats!" said Peggy.  "You don't kiss a man with your soul, but
with your lips."

"Stop this talk, Peggy.  You are almost coarse."

"No," said Peggy, "only modern.  All this hold-off stuff was all
right for our grandmothers."

Suddenly Peggy became very serious.

"Sylvia," she said, her words coming out in a perfect torrent, "I
have been talking like a fool, but it is all true, and if you don't
watch out you will lose Jack.  For God's sake, don't you want him?"

"Peggy, you are a silly little school-girl," said Sylvia.  "I am
sick of your talk.  You are all animal.  Your mind is asleep.  Of
course I love Jack.  But surely love is not an unintelligent
tickling of your nerve centres.  Love is a noble thing, but love is
not everything.  There is such a thing as conscience."

"Conscience?" cried Peggy.  "What has conscience got to do with
loving a man.  It is right to love him, and it is right to show him
you love him.  What has conscience got to do with it?  You talk to
me about animal passions.  Don't they belong to us.  What is love?
The greatest thing in the world, the Bible says so.  Animal
passions!  Come on down.  But listen to me," here she turned
suddenly and fiercely upon Sylvia, and with sobs choking her
utterance she continued.  "Listen to me.  That boy wants you.  He
wants your love, and you talk economics.  You don't deserve him and
you will lose him if you don't hold him by your love.  He wants to
feel your body in his arms, your lips on his lips.  Economics?
Damn economics!  There!  You made me swear, and I promised mother I
would never swear without telling her.  But if it's got to be love
or economics--I am going to say it again--damn economics!"

"Peggy, you are a silly girl, I think we had better stop talking
about this," said Sylvia, and led the way downstairs.

"My dear Peggy," said Jack, "have you the very least idea of time."

"Yes, if it is a good time, Jack.  Poor Jack he is tired and
worried," she said to Aunt Elizabeth, "but I will look after him,
smooth out his wrinkles, kiss away his scowls and put him to bed a
sweet and dimpled baby.  Come along Jack, darling."

In spite of his wrath, Jack grinned at her.

"I know well what you want, Peggy."

"What?" said Peggy with a daring look in her eyes.  "So do I!  I am
going to drive and Jack can go to sleep if he wants to very much,
eh Jack?"

Aunt Elizabeth could not forbear a look at Sylvia's face.  What she
saw there startled her.  Cold as ice it seemed, but behind the ice
a gleam of fire.

"I think I shall go right up to my room, Aunt Elizabeth," said
Sylvia.  "I have some papers to look over.  Say good-night to Mr.
Matheson and Professor Hale for me."

"Very well, Sylvia," said her Aunt, looking as if she longed to
take her in her arms but dared not.  She met the Professor in the
hall and gave him Sylvia's message.

"Good-night, Miss Murray, I quite understand," he replied.

"Love is a terrible thing," said Aunt Elizabeth going into the
room.  "Terrible yes, but after all the greatest thing.  Yes! but a
terrible thing.  Look at these two young people for instance."

"The trouble is not their love," said the minister, "but the denial
of love, the thwarting of love," he added with a voice of infinite
sadness.

"Yes, you are right.  Oh! you are very right," said Aunt Elizabeth.
"It is the thwarting of love.  Pride will do it, or ambition more
frequently, or anger, or jealousy.  Oh!  I know it well."

The minister sat with his eyes quietly resting on her face.

"May I tell you?" said Aunt Elizabeth in a low voice.

"It might be good," he said.

"I loved her father, we quarrelled.  I thought it was for
conscience' sake.  I know now it was pride and self-will, and with
it all a foolish jealousy.  He married my sister, my only dear,
dear sister who loved him.  There, that is the story of my life, a
common story," she said with an attempt at a laugh.  "But if it was
my fault, and it was, oh yes, all my fault, I have paid the price
in full."

"But love was yours, the greatest joy is in loving.  No matter what
comes of it--nothing--nobody can ever deprive you of that.  That is
my experience," said the minister.

Together they sat in silence.

"You have told me," he said.  "May I tell you?"

Aunt Elizabeth nodded.

"Twenty years ago I thought I loved.  It was merely a thing of the
eye.  She was a girl of rare beauty, and sweetness and grace.  It
was before I entered college.  We couldn't wait.  We were married,
I twenty, she seventeen."

"She died," said Aunt Elizabeth.

"No," said the minister, a deep pain in his voice.  "For eighteen
years she has been in a home for the incurably insane."

"Alive?" cried Aunt Elizabeth, sitting sharply erect.  "Your wife!"
Then her hands went suddenly to her face.  "Oh!  My God!  My God!
have pity."

"Do not grieve for us," said the minister.  "We both found out very
soon that we had never known real love.  We remained good friends
and good comrades for two years.  She lost her first baby.  She
never recovered."

Aunt Elizabeth sat, her face tortured with pain.  "Oh, why didn't
you tell me--long ago?" she said.  The hopeless agony in her voice
startled the minister.  "You should have told me long ago," she
said.

He made no pretence at understanding her.  "We may still have love,
Elizabeth," he said taking her hand in his.

She looked up quickly into his eyes and read their message.

"Oh, Mr. Matheson--Malcolm," she cried giving him both her hands,
"is it indeed true, and can it be right that we should love?"

"Right?  Love is never wrong.  Even if it must endure all things.
Love suffereth long."

Long they sat at the fire talking over the wonder and the gladness
of the thing that had come into their lives.

"What shall we do, Malcolm?" she said at last.

"We shall just love each other in the meantime.  This to me is so
wonderful that it is joy enough to go on with."

"Not for me, Malcolm," whispered Aunt Elizabeth, and her arms went
up about his neck.  "Oh, I am a foolish old woman, but my heart has
been starved for love all these years.  I want you, Malcolm, I want
to see you every day and all day long.  I want to feel that it is
right for you to hold me in your arms.  Oh!  I am a fierce and
terrible lover, I warn you."

"It is the only love that is worth while," said the minister.
"A love that gives all and demands all.  But in the meantime
Elizabeth, we shall be patient till we see the way a little more
clearly.  I had never dreamed of this joy coming to me, hence I
have never thought of the possibilities.  But something we shall
work out.  In the meantime we must be patient."

"Oh Malcolm, I am ashamed to say it, but it must not be too long."

"Ashamed?" said the minister.  "We are both at the best time in our
lives.  We love each other.  There is no shame in that.  I promise
you we are not going to miss any of the joy of loving for the rest
of our time together.  In the meantime, like the soldiers in the
trenches, we must just 'carry on.'"



CHAPTER XXIV


Sylvia slept little that night.  Gentle as was her disposition, she
had much of her father's stubborn will and with it his sensitive
Puritan conscience.  All night she fought a desperate battle
against conscience.  Her two years' experience of industrial life
and business affairs had made questions of economics, not mere
theories, but life itself, and that life not only her own, but of
all those for whom she could not escape responsibility.  With her
hereditary instincts and her life-long training, there never was
any doubt as to the issue of the conflict.  Her principles she
could not surrender, though her heart might break.

In all this struggle she was quite fair to Jack.  She could not
escape the feeling that she had been unreasonably impatient and
harsh with him at dinner.  But she could not escape, either, the
clear conviction that Jack's attitude was not, as she had once
thought, a thing of mere temperament, but a habit and a principle
of his very life.  She could not ask him to surrender his
principles any more than she could bring herself to surrender hers.
They were both tied to the wheel of fate, from which there was no
escape.

During the days that followed life was to her one bitter and
unceasing conflict.  She was too proud to fly any flag of distress.
Fortunately the days were filled with business interests and grave
problems connected with the very existence of the plant.  The
negotiations for the transfer of the Riverside Mills to herself
took up every spare moment of her working hours, and indeed of her
rest hours as well.  Her nights, however, were her own.

Throughout this period of heart struggle and business anxiety the
presence of Professor Hale was to her a great source of comfort and
strength, and with his aid the details of the transfer were in due
time completed in early summer.  The lumber camps were closed up
and the men paid off, with a month's pay for very worker.  Roderick
Macdougall was retained for service in the sawmill which must be
kept going until the hard wood logs were turned into lumber.  But
her old love for her work seemed to have evaporated.  She longed to
be free from the responsibility and from the toil of the whole
business.  But it would be like running away from the front line on
the eve of battle, for she could not avoid accepting Professor
Hale's opinion that a period of industrial depression was steadily
drawing near.  From her experience of the past six months she could
see no prospect of a market for the products of the plant.  The
furniture factory, it was just possible, might be able to carry on,
and work in the tannery, strange to say, under old Sandy Brodie's
care seemed to be meeting with distinct success.

For the past few months all communication with Jack had ceased.
True, he drove out once a week, sometimes alone, often with Peggy,
who apparently was always eager to accompany him in these trips, to
visit Nickie.

Jack had suggested that the people of Hilltop House should be
relieved of the responsibility of Nickie's care.  But both Aunt
Elizabeth and Sylvia pleaded that no change be made, not only for
their sakes, but for the sake of the boy's health and enjoyment.

"Why take him away from us?" said Aunt Elizabeth.  "He is no
trouble to us.  He is like sunlight in the house and you can see
that he is growing stronger every day; and he is quite happy."

"But it is not fair," said Jack, "that my brother should be a care
to you.  I know that he is growing stronger every day.  What you
are doing for him I don't know, but you are making him over inside
and out."

It was Nickie himself, however, who settled the matter.

"I am going to stay with Sylvia," he said in a voice of definite
decision.  "I like Sylvia and I think she likes me too."

"Nickie, darling," cried Sylvia, "you know I love you."

"Well that seems to settle it," said Jack.  "Love after all should
settle things.  Besides I can see quite well it would be a rotten
change for him to come home with me.  It is like a cemetery there
now.  If Aunt Arabella and Peggy had been at home it would have
been different.  Indeed they both were anxious he should come to
them, but they are doing Paris at the moment."  The sadness in his
voice, and in his eyes awoke in Sylvia's heart an intolerable pain.
It took all her fortitude to refrain from throwing her principles
to the winds and herself into his arms.

Jack's next words, however, steadied her.

"Then too," Jack continued, "the financial situation in the city is
perfectly appalling, the pace is tremendous.  I am driven day and
night.  What is coming God only knows.  One can hardly keep sane.
Meantime it is a great joy to me to know that Nickie is with you
here.  And I wish you both to feel that you have the whole
gratitude of my heart for what you are doing for the lad.  Well
good-bye--you lucky, lucky boy.  Be sure now you obey Aunt
Elizabeth."

"I do what Sylvia says," said Nickie stoutly.

"Oh yes, he is Sylvia's boy," said Aunt Elizabeth.

After he had gone, Sylvia went upstairs to her room to fight once
more the bitter fight.  "Oh," she groaned, "is it worth while after
all?"  But there was her terrible conscience.  And besides every
day was bringing fresh proof that a great and terrible crisis in
the financial world was rapidly approaching.

During these days Sylvia made frantic, but vain efforts to get into
touch with Jack.  His firm though badly shaken was still able to
weather the storm, but as to his private speculations no one seemed
to have much knowledge.  Tom Foster's firm, Chamberlain, Jessop and
Foster, came down to utter ruin with a crash.  A cable brought his
mother and sister hurrying home from Europe.

One morning, the latter part of July, Mr. Timothy Brady drove up to
the door of Riverside Mills, and entered the outer office.  He
still carried his jaunty air, his Corona cigar still hung in the
corner of his mouth, his hat had still its gay tilt over the left
ear.

"Ah, good morning, young ladies," was his salutation.  "Nice quiet
corner you have here."

"Oh, Mr. Brady," cried Sally springing excitedly from her desk.
"How is International Nickel?"

"Say, didn't you unload when I told you, young lady?"

"Oh, I was just going to, but--"

"Listen to me," cried Mr. Brady.  "That telephone book.  Who is
your agent?"

"Well--well--Bartie Bingle used to look after my business, but
recently Mr.--Mr. McGarrick has been--"

"Get him--get him at once!  Here let me have that telephone book.
What's his number?"

Mr. Brady took hold of the telephone, got his man and began to
speak.  "Mr. McGarrick, I'm speaking for Miss Sally Long.  Yes,
she's right here.  I am acting for her.  Brady is speaking, you
know me.  She wants to sell International Nickel.  Do you get me--
no, no.  Now look here young man, can you take an order or not?
Yes!  She's right here.  All right speak to her."

Covering the phone with his hand Mr. Brady spoke in a low, almost
savage tone to the girl.  "Tell him not to wait one minute, every
minute is a point--Don't argue with him--order him to sell."

As the result of an excited and somewhat heated conversation Miss
Sally was relieved of her holdings of International Nickel.

"You got anything, Miss Frances?" asked Mr. Brady.

"I am in Imperial Oil," said Frances faintly.

"Sell!" said Mr. Brady.  "Don't wait a minute or you'll be sorry."

In a few minutes Frances too had got rid of her holdings in
Imperial Oil at what was considered that day ruinous figures, but
which two days later proved to be an exceedingly fortunate sale.

"Now," said Mr. Brady, "can I get to the Lady?"

In a moment he was in Sylvia's office.

"Good morning," said Sylvia, rising from her desk and turning
anxious blue eyes upon him.  "Have you got any word of Jack?"

"Steady on, my dear, steady on!" said Mr. Brady in a quiet voice.
"Jack is all right.  I saw him yesterday.  I gave him your message.
He is a dandy that boy, cool as a frigidaire ice pan."

"How was he looking, Mr. Brady?"

"Well not as fit and rosy as one would like, but his hand is as
steady as a crook's on the butt of a gun, so don't you worry about
him."

Sylvia sat down without a word.

"Say, Miss Sylvia, you want a drink.  I have got a flask right
here.  What about a nip, eh?  First aid you know.  No?  All right."

"How about you, Mr. Brady?  Has the market hit you?"

"As you see, Miss Sylvia, clean as a baby."

"Everything gone?  Surely not everything?" asked Sylvia.

"Every--little--thing," said Mr. Brady with a cheery smile.

"Mrs. Brady will have her house," said Sylvia anxiously.

"She had, but she put it into Canada Breweries.  She's got the
froth now."

"Oh, Mr. Brady, how terrible.  What are you going to do?"

"Sell fanning mills for you, if you will let me," replied Mr. Brady
gaily.

"Mr. Brady," said Sylvia in a hesitating voice, "you bought my
stock.  I knew you were paying too much.  I'd like--oh--won't you
let me give you some of it back," she concluded rushing her words
eagerly.

Mr. Brady turned his face away, rose, walked slowly to the window,
stood studying the landscape a few moments, coughed, walked slowly
back to the desk, sat down and leaned forward with his hands on his
knees, tears quietly running down his cheeks.

"Say, Miss Sylvia, I am nervous these days, I haven't been used to
the kind of thing you're giving me."  He pulled out a silk
handkerchief of a delicate shade of green and wiped his eyes.
"Miss Sylvia, them's tears.  Did you notice 'em?  Do you know, I'd
like to kneel down and kiss those little shoes of yours?"

Sylvia too, was wiping her own tears away.

Mr. Brady continued, "I have been fighting bulls, bears and
wildcats the last two months.  I took my mauling, and none of them
ever heard a whimper out of Tim Brady."

"I am sure that is true," said Sylvia, "I know you are a brave,
good man."

"My dear, my dear," said Mr. Brady hurriedly, "stop it!  I bought
your stock at $52,500.00 and sold it for $65,000.00 within a month,
and I guess he made something out of it."

"But I would like to do something," said Sylvia with pleading eyes.

"I say," said Mr. Brady throwing up his hands.  "Will you drive me
out av this office?  But thank the Blessed Mother Mary that there's
women like yourself left in the world.  I can go out and meet the
divil himself now with a smile, and so I can."

There followed a silence of a few moments, then Mr. Brady proceeded
once more.

"Miss Sylvia, it is a bold thing I am doing now and you will
forgive if it is too bold.  It is about that boy of yours.  You
need not shake your head at me.  He has cleaned up a lot of money.
He is a clever lad, you hear me.  But the consequence is that there
are lots don't like him and some would do him harm, real deadly
harm.  I told him about it.  I wanted him to get away for a few
weeks.  He could go quite easy until the first heat is over, but he
laughed at me.  Now couldn't you or that young kid he's playing
around with, get him out of town for a few weeks, that's all?  I
wouldn't have told you if I didn't know what I was talking about.
It is terrible times we are in anyway."

When Mr. Brady had taken his departure, Sylvia sat with her head in
her hands.  It was indeed a terrible time.  Ruined men with
vengeance in their hearts were on the trail of those who had been
their undoing.  She had heard rumors of Jack's successes.  All
successful men in these days had their enemies, sometimes rightly
so.  After long pondering she took up her telephone and called
Peggy Foster.  Peggy was resourceful, and Peggy was going about
with Jack everywhere these days.

Peggy did not take her message lightly.

"Things are surely awful just now in the city," she said.  "Every
man is carrying a gun.  Jack has one in his car in a pocket right
before him.  And I have heard that there are men following his
trail.  He knows it too, but he laughs at them."

"Well Peggy, I was desperate so I thought I'd call you.  I don't
see Jack much nowadays."

"More fool you," interrupted Peggy crossly.

"And you are going about with him a good deal," continued Sylvia.

"Every chance I get, you may just bet.  If you don't want him, I
do!"

"Please Peggy, not over the phone."

"Oh, I can't stand your silly nonsense," Peggy said angrily.

"But Peggy," Sylvia went on, "I hear you have brought a grand man
from overseas with you."

"So I have, and he is a dandy.  But my Lord! if Jack would only--"

"Oh Peggy please--"

"Oh go to blazes!" snapped Peggy and slammed down the telephone.

In half an hour Jack called Sylvia on the phone.

"Peggy has just been telling me some fool stuff, which she said she
had from you.  She made me promise to call you up about it, and get
what particulars you might have."

"Oh, she made you promise?"

"Well, you don't think I would take it so seriously as all that on
my own."

Sylvia repeated to him Timothy Brady's message.

"Oh--oh Tim has it all right, I know all about that.  I am not
worrying."

"But do take care, Jack," begged Sylvia.

"What difference does it make to you, particularly?" enquired Jack.

Sylvia made him no answer.

"Hello--hello--" came over the phone.

"You should not hurt me more than you must, Jack."

"Hurt you!  Of course I can't hurt you very much.  I saw Professor
Hale the other day and I gather things are going very nicely.  May
I not congratulate him and you."

"Good-bye," said Sylvia, and shut off.

It was true that only the previous night Reggie Hale had told her
that his engagement with Pearl had been broken off, and had asked
her if there was any hope for him.

"I am afraid not, Reggie," she had said, but with some hesitation.
Which answer, to her surprise, had apparently somehow cheered him.

Within ten minutes after her conversation with Jack, Peggy was on
the telephone again.

"Just to say, Sylvia," she said in a bitter tone, "that you are a
heartless fool, and it would serve you darned well right if you
married that economic blizzard, Reggie Hale.  That's all!"  The
telephone was banged to her ear.

It was still early in the afternoon, but Sylvia had received so
many shocks during the day that she closed her office and went
home, weary in body and mind and sick at heart.  She let herself
quietly in and opened the door of her Aunt's room.  With a gasp she
stood paralyzed.  As she entered, her Aunt Elizabeth sprang from
the lounge from beside the minister, her hair dishevelled, her
cheeks aflame, and on her face a look of dismay.

The minister rose slowly and calmly looked at Sylvia.

"You might as well know now as later," he said, "we made up our
minds indeed to tell you to-night: your Aunt Elizabeth has done me
the great honour of consenting to be my wife."

"Your wife?  Aunt Elizabeth?"

"Are you very sorry, Sylvia, dear?" Aunt Elizabeth murmured.

"Sorry?" shouted Sylvia.  "Why I never imagined--"

"I know--it seems silly for old people like me," said Aunt
Elizabeth twisting her fingers like a child caught in the preserve
closet.

"Old people?" exclaimed Sylvia.  "What nonsense!  You are the
youngest thing in this house.  Why you darling, it is perfectly
glorious!"  And Sylvia rushed at her Aunt and catching her in her
arms kissed her again and again.

"What about an old fellow like me?" asked Mr. Matheson humbly.

"Old fellow?  Old fiddlesticks!  Why it is the jolliest thing I
ever heard of in my life."  Sylvia ran to him and gave him her
hands.  The minister drew her into his arms.

"It is awfully good of you to be so glad," he said and kissed her.

"Why, Uncle Malcolm," she cried with a little rapturous giggle, "it
is perfectly, gloriously splendid.  Isn't it just?"

"Gloriously splendid," said the minister, "at least for me."

"And for Aunt Elizabeth, and for me too.  Oh, I am so happy about
it dear, dear Auntie.  Now then," continued Sylvia, "we'll have the
biggest and bestest dinner ever.  What a shock to poor St. Paul's
and to all the old maids and widows."  She danced delightedly about
the room.  "Well I must say," she continued, "I sometimes thought
of it as possible, and even wished for it, but never imagined it
could really come off."

"Why Sylvia, you never guessed it?" Aunt Elizabeth appeared
horrified at such a possibility.

"Well, not exactly guessed.  But lately I had my suspicions.  I
caught a look in your eyes now and then."

"Never!  My eyes?  You never did.  Oh, how dreadful!"

"Yes, and in the minister's too," said Sylvia.  "Though he was more
guarded.  But do tell me how it happened."

"Sit down Sylvia, please," said the minister.  And he proceeded to
tell the story of his marriage and of the calamity that had
befallen his girl wife some twenty years ago.  "And," he added, "I
was on the point of arranging for a legal separation when only
yesterday a letter came bringing news of my poor wife's death, a
happy release after twenty years of misery."

After a few minutes' silence Aunt Elizabeth said:  "And Sylvia,
there is something more to tell.  There is a little congregation on
the West side of Montreal of working people, you know, where Mr.
Derring's friends are, and they want Malcolm to be their minister.
Malcolm is thinking about it.  It might be good to get away from
St. Paul's."

"Of course, it would," cried Sylvia.  "I am sick of St. Paul's."

"There, I told you, Elizabeth," said the minister, "that Sylvia
would like it."

"Now for our announcement dinner," cried Sylvia.  "Come Auntie,
let's get it going.  Just ourselves, eh?"

"Well, perhaps Professor Hale," suggested Aunt Elizabeth timidly.
"He is an old friend, and really he is a fine man and doing so
well.  Malcolm has seen his new book and he says it is very well
done."

"No!" said Sylvia sharply.  "Just our own selves."

After some minutes of quiet thought in her room, however, Sylvia
said to herself.  "Why not?  It is their party, not mine, poor
dears.  Aunt Elizabeth would like to have Professor Hale."  She
caught up her private telephone and called a number.  "Professor
Hale can you come over to-night for a quiet little dinner.  It is
Aunt Elizabeth's special invitation.  Oh, I have a great bit of
news for you.  Can you come?"

The Professor could certainly come.

"Now," said Sylvia to herself, "what about Peggy?  No, she couldn't
come alone.  No--oh no--that would never do."

With a little moan she threw herself face down on the bed.  "Oh, I
am dead tired of it all," she groaned.  "I must get away for
awhile, I can't stand much more of this."

It was a glorious dinner.  Aunt Elizabeth and the Professor kept up
a continuous stream of gay chatter.  The minister was in his best
form full of humorous tales and clever conversation.  Sylvia took
the opportunity of laying before them what she had long pondered
and recently discussed with her staff and some of her workers.  It
was a plan for transforming the Riverside Mills Company into a co-
operative concern.  The main features of the Company would be (1)
Control should go with all factors of the organization, capital,
management, labour and the consuming public.  (2)  All profits
should be equitably distributed among all four factors.  (3)  The
insurance of life, health and work should be borne by the company.
She had talked over this plan with her staff and the workers, and
almost all of them were eager to try the experiment.

After the dinner Professor Hale, acting as secretary for the dinner
party, set down in the logical sequence the outline of the
constitution.

After the company had all gone, the old weariness came back upon
Sylvia with redoubled force, the old heartache, the old despair.
"They say," she said to herself, "that time cures all heartache,
but look at Aunt Elizabeth.  She has carried her sorrow for twenty
years."  The prospect almost drove Sylvia to despair, till from
sheer weariness she fell asleep.



CHAPTER XXV


The extreme gravity of the situation in the financial world made
Sylvia hesitate to launch her new scheme of a cooperative company.
By Professor Hale's advice she determined to postpone final action.

"These crashing securities do not represent only paper losses,"
said Professor Hale.  "Money which has been flowing in little rills
into the stock market has mounted to the enormous figure of two
hundred and twenty million dollars.  This, mind you, is new money
which has come from working people, from washwomen, day laborers,
shop girls and clerks, as well as from the professional class,
merchants and manufacturers.  All this means an enormous reduction
of purchasing power in the country.  Then, too, the heavy losses of
stock holders in great financial concerns will further reduce this
purchasing power.  For instance, I understand the stockholders in
International Nickel lost over six hundred million dollars, in
Imperial Oil five hundred and fifty millions, in Brazilian two
hundred and sixty millions, in International Petroleum two hundred
millions, and so on.  No wonder that manufacturers can find no
market for their products.  I think it would be wiser for you to
wait a little while, and meantime you might have a talk with your
own working people.  See what the rank and filers think."

Sylvia took his advice and decided first to visit Sandy Brodie.

She found him busy at the vats in the tannery.  "I'll just come out
and talk to ye," said Sandy.  "It's no that refreshin' in here."

"What a lot of skins you have, Sandy," exclaimed Sylvia, as they
entered the storeroom, "and what lovely leather.  You surely will
have no difficulty in selling these."

"Ay! it is sound leather, none better for a' their chemicals and
new fangled methods, indeed none as good.  Give us time and we'll
get our market with those that know."

"Well, I do hope so, Sandy," said Sylvia, "because I am thinking of
making a change in our organization here.  You remember I spoke to
you about it some time ago."

"Ay, I remember," replied Sandy.

Thereupon Sylvia laid the details of her plan before him to which
Sandy listened with keen and intelligent interest.

"What do you think of that now, Sandy?" she asked.

Without an instant's hesitation Sandy made answer.

"Ay, it is a gran' scheme, Miss Sylvia.  But like a' things that
have life there is one thing that is important."

"And what is that, Sandy?"

"The heid.  Gin yersel' were at the heid the plan micht be a gran'
success, but the question is can ye git a heid, a manager?"

"Well," said Sylvia, "I was thinking of James Macdonald."

"Ay, Jimmy's a fine honest hard workin' lad, but will he put the
hairt into it?  Can he handle yon singin' lassies?  Will he haud
Mac your engineer back from the drink?  Ye ken weel Mac stays sober
because his manager visits his sick wife.  Will Jimmy do it?  And
will a' the lot of them haud together when Miss Sylvia is no here
at the heid?"

"But, Sandy, surely we can get a good man as manager."

"Lassie, lassie, there's many a guid manager with a fine heid for
figures and gran' organizing powers, but to haud him fast to this
kind o' wark, that's the question.  The passion for siller, ye ken,
is gone from this concern.  What ye need is a man wi' a passion for
the people, as in yersel', Miss Sylvia.  That will do it.  But
where will ye get that passion in a man?"

"And can no man be got with a passion for the people, Sandy?" asked
Sylvia.

"Ay, that is the question ye'll need to find an answer for."

With a sinking heart Sylvia next called on James Macdonald.

"It seems a fairly reasonable scheme," replied James Macdonald,
when Sylvia had placed the details before him.  James was sitting
at the desk opposite her, the papers in his hand.  Suddenly he laid
the papers down and looked at her, a burning light in his eyes.

"Where would you be in this scheme?" he asked.

"I propose to retire," she said.  "I might be president of the
company or something like that, but I am rather tired just now, and
I thought--"

"Count me out," said James Macdonald.

Sylvia looked at him in amazement and dismay.

"Why, James, you believe in the co-operative idea?"

"I do, no matter about that.  Count me out!" said James
emphatically.

"I thought," said Sylvia faintly, "you might be our manager."

"Your manager, and you out of it."  A grey pallor crept over his
face.  "Why do you think I have stuck to this plant these three
years?  I have had plenty of offers.  Why did I stick here?
Because you were in it.  The whole plant could have gone to blazes
but for you, Sylvia.  It was you--oh---I know I'm a crazy fool--I
know it is a bit of ghastly presumption, but there it is.  Until
that young stock gambler came along I had a faint hope, but since
then that hope has gone.  Even then I could not tear myself away.
The chance to see you every day, to hear your voice now and then
through the plant, to catch a glimpse of you going in and out, that
held me--that held me here."

He rose quickly to his feet, a fierce hungry light in his black
eyes.

Sylvia rose in terror for what he might do next.

"No!  Don't be afraid," he said slowly, with a pitiful smile.  "I
could easily die for you, but never could I harm a hair of your
head.  Now I am going."

"Where, James?" she said in a trembling voice.  "Oh, James, you
have been so good to me--so good to me."

"Good?" he laughed bitterly.  "Good?  No, selfish.  It was the
breath of life to be near you.  Good-bye."

"Where are you going, James?"

"Where?  I have not thought.  As far away as the world will let
me."

And without another look at her he walked out from the office and
from her life.

In a kind of blank despair, and with an overwhelming sense of
defeat, Sylvia went to her minister and told him her trouble.

"Take a little more time, Sylvia, my dear.  Sandy Brodie is right.
The key to success in the co-operative movement is a driving
passion, in the man responsible for its direction, for service to
the people.  Never fear, your man will come.  There are such men,
but you will need to be patient."

"Oh, I am weary of it all," said Sylvia.  "I am weary of
everything."

"You must just wait," said the minister.  "Meantime I would like
you to drive me out to the west side to-night.  I have a lecture on
The Substitute in Modern Industry for the Profit Motive, and your
Aunt Elizabeth would like to come along."

"Oh, all right," said Sylvia, "I will drive you and I will chaperon
you and Aunt Elizabeth."

"Professor Hale assured me he could find a man," continued Sylvia.
"But I'm not so sure.  Professor Hale is a dear.  He is very
clever, but I am not so certain that he quite understands men."

"Yes, Professor Hale is a fine man, and an able man," said Mr.
Matheson.  "And he is eager to serve you."

"He would like to," said Sylvia in a very low voice.  "He would
like to," she repeated, "and perhaps it might be as well."

"Again, Sylvia, I would say--wait! wait until you are very very
sure.  Twenty years of suffering are at the back of my very earnest
prayer that you wait," said the minister in a tone of grave
solemnity.

And Sylvia resolved that so far as Reggie Hale was concerned she
would wait till she was much surer than she was now.



CHAPTER XXVI


The following morning Sylvia was late in appearing at her office,
and soon after her arrival she was surprised to see a large and
very handsome Rolls-Royce drive up to her office door, and more
surprised to see Peggy spring from the front seat and come into her
office.

Without a word of greeting Peggy cried:

"Oh, Sylvia!  There is the most awful trouble!"

"Why, Peggy, what is the matter?"

"Jack is nowhere to be found.  He is not at his office--not at home--
he has been out all night--He drove me home last night at nine
o'clock--no one has seen him since--I'm sure they've got him at
last.  Last night we had--oh--a perfectly lovely time--Jack was so
awfully good to me--just treated me, not like a little girl, but as
if I were quite grown up--oh--he was perfectly darling--and I was
sure he was going to come right across."

"Right across?" echoed Sylvia.

"Yes, you idiot--with your darned economic stuff you've lost him
anyway--and I was sure he was going to--well, settle it right there--
And I did my level best to--I just--oh, you don't understand--
you'd be shocked--and I guess Jack was too--I certainly made him
breathe quick.  I thought it might be my last chance--and he has
been so lovely to me these last days--you know--no, you don't know--
what do you know about it?  You economic frost.  But Jack knows,
all right, so I just went right out after him.  Perhaps I hit him
too hard.  Oh, it was sickening--after he got his breath again he
looked at me with that funny smile he can give you--as if I were a
nice, but naughty little baby--Well, he looked at me with that
smile--I could have smacked him--and what do you think he said?--I
don't care what you think--he said:  'Say, kiddie!  Your technique
is very smooth, but I suggest you change your lipstick'--Oh--oh--I
could have slowly strangled him to death just to see that horrid
little smile fade off his face.  He took all my kisses like a baby
taking candy--but he wasn't giving me anything--he was thinking
lipstick.  Why do I tell you all this now?  I'll tell you--I want
to hurt you.  He's gone!  He's gone because you didn't care a darn
whether he lived or not.  And you sit smiling there--I suppose you
have been freezing up to that economic iceberg of yours.  Well I
hope to God you freeze together--And you smiling there--And nobody
knows where Jack is."

"Well, you see, I'm very happy, Peggy," said Sylvia.

"Happy," cried Peggy--"and Jack--but you don't care for Jack--
What's all the glee about, anyway?  Engaged, I suppose!"

"Yes, I'm engaged.  And I'm very, very happy--" said Sylvia
joyously.

"Ugh, I am wasting my time--Here I've come on the chance you might
know where Jack was.  Well, I've kept poor Alistair out there long
enough.  Good-bye--" said Peggy turning toward the door.

"Come up to the house, Peggy.  You haven't seen Aunt Elizabeth
since--"

Peggy paused.  "Oh--yes--Aunt Eliz--lovely isn't it?  It is good
some love affairs go right.  Yes, I will go with you--I'll drive
you up--Alistair is really a very nice boy."

Alistair, when he saw Sylvia, sprang from the car and greeted her
with a bow, and an expansive smile.  During the drive to Hilltop
House he could do no more than remark that it was a lovely day--
that this was his first visit to Canada--that the St. Lawrence was
a very noble river--that he did not know how long he would stay--
which, with appropriate intervals for breath took up the time till
they were at Hilltop House.

While the young ladies rushed into the house, Alistair preferred to
remain in the car.  "He's awfully shy," said Peggy, "but we'll
teach him a few things, I guess."

Aunt Elizabeth met them with smiles and blushes.

"Look at the young thing," said Peggy, "with her blushes.  Say,
she's knocked off twenty years.  Well, you darling Auntie," she
said, folding her in a maternal embrace.  "You clever kid.  You
could give us all pointers.  There must be something in the
atmosphere of this home--ministers and professors.  Well--I don't
know--As to professors everyone to her taste.  I confess I can't
get terribly het up about that."

"Peggy ran out to tell us," said Sylvia, "that Jack is not to be
found.  He is not at home--"

"No," interjected Peggy, excitedly, "and you know we were warned
that they were going to get him."

"And they very nearly did," said Aunt Elizabeth.  "Poor Jack.  If
it hadn't been for Sylvia and Malcolm."

"And Aunt Elizabeth," cried Sylvia.  "Oh, she was funny!"

"Funny?  Jack?  Are you all crazy?" said Peggy.  "Do you know where
Jack is?" she demanded of Sylvia with a look of dawning suspicion.

"Not exactly," said Sylvia, "but we had word from him, and he is
all right--Well not quite all right--They nearly got him--but he is
recovering," said Sylvia giggling.

Peggy looked from one to the other.  "Well, I'll be darned.  I
believe he is in the house.  Say!" she shrieked at Sylvia--"it's
him and not your darned old iceberg after all.  Oh, you little
devil--you certainly took me for a ride--I'll shake the liver out
of you."  She caught Sylvia by her arms and shook her till she
could not get her breath.

A door opened quietly upstairs.

"Well," Peggy continued, "since Jack is all right, I am going.  The
altitude is too high for me here."

"You won't see Jack?" said Aunt Elizabeth.

A hot blush came to Peggy's face.  "No!" she cried decidedly.
"Certainly not!"

A genial smiling face beamed at them over the balustrade upstairs.

"Run up and see your Uncle Malcolm," said Sylvia, still convulsed
with giggles.

"You bet I will," said Peggy running up the stairs two at a time
followed more slowly by Sylvia and Aunt Elizabeth.

The minister came to meet her at the head of the stairs.

"Well," exclaimed Peggy, when the minister had let her go.  "You
certainly are the quick thing--or you've had a mighty good
instructor."

At this point the bedroom door opened.  "Oh, I say!" said a voice.
"Can't I get in on this?"

Peggy made a dash for the stairs, but Sylvia was too quick for her.

"Come, Peggy, you must see Jack," she said.

"All right," said Peggy.  "Go on."

They all trooped into Jack's bedroom.  Peggy took one look at him
and went into a scream of hysterical laughter.  And small wonder.
An ample dressing gown of grey lamb's wool of the minister's
enveloped his form, but shyly peeping out at breast and neck were
the pink frills of one of Aunt Elizabeth's nighties.  About his
head was a bandage with ominous stains showing in spots.

Peggy's hysterical laughter subsided at the sight of the stains.

"Oh, you poor boy," she said in broken tones, as she came slowly
toward him.  "They very nearly got you--They might have got you."

Jack drew her toward him, and kissed her.

"Yes, Peggy," he said quietly and kissed her again.

For a single moment she lay upon his breast struggling to regain
her control.  Then she flung herself from him.

"Tell me," she said.

"Well, it was Sylvia," began Jack.

"Nonsense, it was Mr. Matheson--Uncle Malcolm," said Sylvia.

"Not at all," said the minister, "it was Sylvia and Aunt
Elizabeth."

"You are all mad," said Peggy angrily.  "Will someone please give
me some coherent account of what happened?"

"Well," said Jack, "I'll tell you what happened.  I had been
visiting Nickie.  I knew he was to be alone."

"We were down at the west side at a lecture that Uncle Malcolm was
giving to his socialist friends," explained Sylvia.

"And," continued Jack, "I was just getting out of the town on the
highway, when a car came honking behind me, and in passing crowded
me into the ditch.  I was properly mad.  Two men jumped out and
came running.  I had opened my door to meet them when one of them
dealt me a blow on the head--a black jack--it turned out to be.  I
fell back into my car.  The other reached for me trying to drag me
out, but I caught him a kick that sent him back.  The other came on
and struck me again--and after that I don't know much of what
happened."

"Now, it is my turn," said the minister.  "We were driving along
the highway at a moderate pace--Sylvia driving--when I saw two cars
on the road side, and two men moving about them.  'That's Jack's
car,' cried Sylvia, throwing on the brakes, 'and they are at Jack.'
She was out of the car like a streak, her aunt shrieking at her to
come back, and tearing open the door of Jack's car, disappeared
inside.  I thought I'd better see what she was doing."

"My turn," said Aunt Elizabeth.  "When Sylvia dashed out in that
reckless way--What could a girl do with two men?--Malcolm was out
like a--like a--like a--"

"A thunderbolt," said Jack.

"Exactly; and rushed like a crazy man right at the fellow.  I heard
a shot, a crash of splintering glass, and a cry from the car, so I
rushed out.  There was Malcolm and one of the men struggling on the
ground.  I heard another bang--I thought they were shooting at him,
so I just jumped in and caught the man on top round the neck and
pulled him back with all my might."

"It was me!" said the minister chuckling.  "She nearly strangled
me.  Now it's Sylvia's turn."

"Well, as soon as I saw Jack's car I at once remembered what Tim
Brady had told me, you know, Peggy."

"Yes, he told me too," said Peggy.

"So I sprang into Jack's car at the far side.  The man was trying
to pull Jack out by the legs, and Jack kicking feebly.  All at once
I thought of what you said, Peggy, about Jack's gun in the case.  I
looked, and sure enough, there was the case.  I snatched the gun
and pulled the trigger--there was a crash and a cry--I guess my aim
wasn't very good."

"Thank Heaven," said Jack.

"So I just pulled again," continued Sylvia.  "The man who was
attacking Jack fell back.  Once more I pulled, and both men started
to run away."

"And she just kept pulling the trigger," said the minister, "so I
dragged Elizabeth down beside me and lay as flat as possible to the
ground."

"Yes," said Aunt Elizabeth, "with his arm around my neck, almost
choking me."

"Yes," said the minister, "and she crying in my ear, 'They are
killing her!  Let me go!'  Then there was silence, and looking up I
saw the car moving off down the road with Sylvia still firing at
it.  Fortunately her ammunition, by this time, was soon spent, and
we were safe.  Jack was a horrid sight--a mass of blood--and that's
all."

"And about enough too," said Peggy, who with pale face and quick
breath had listened to the tale, which, punctuated with shouts of
wild laughter had come in turn from each member of the party.
"Well, you may laugh," Peggy continued, "but I can't see the joke
myself.  Only I wish to God I had had that gun."

"Thank God you hadn't," said Jack.  "There would have been at least
two dead, but highly respectable gangsters on the highway, and an
awful mess in the papers next morning."

"Well, I'm blowed!" exclaimed Peggy.  "And what about your old
conscience and the stock market game?"

"The stock market game?  I have decided that I have all I can do to
look after my own conscience without taking care of Jack's.  Jack
will look after his own, I guess," said Sylvia smiling at Jack.

"The stock game?" said Jack.  "Well, they have cleaned me out all
right.  I'm an engineer now."

"And where are you wounded, Jack?" asked Peggy.

"Oh, it is nothing very serious," answered Jack.

"A deep cut in the head that took six stitches," said Aunt
Elizabeth, "and an arm dislocated and bruises all over his body.
Ah! it was God's mercy that we were not all killed."

"And are you suffering much?" asked Peggy.

"Well, there are some slight pangs, I confess," replied Jack.  "But
after all it was worth it."

"Worth it?" exclaimed Peggy.

"Yes, Peggy, it was worth it--and worth a lot more.  You see I have
got Sylvia again."



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The Girl from Glengarry by Ralph Connor




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