December, 1915 
11 
The tall boy stared at the congregation, and the congrega¬ 
tion, in deep silence, stared back at him. He wheeled quickly 
and left the pulpit. 
H ALF an hour later, in the den of one Peter Lee, the tall 
boy, taller yet in his black clericals, flung himself at his 
best friend’s fire and poked and dragged logs about boyishly 
with a savage iron trident. “I'm sick. Sick. I don’t feel 
much like Christmas. I feel like hiding my head in a sand 
pile.” 
“What’s up ?” asked Peter, grinning, as he held out the 
cigarette box. 
It’s down. I am—in the depths. I had 
at St. Wilfred’s, and I made a fool of 
were at the other place. What a fool I 
stated Lee between puffs. “What did 
They’re 
“Thanks. Up? 
to ‘make remarks’ 
myself. Glad you 
made of myself!” 
“Don’t believe it, 
you say?” 
“Great Scott, man, you don’t think I’d rehash it, do you? 
For you? It was all hash and rehash to start with. You 
wouldn’t believe a man could arise in that pulpit and hand 
out the bromides I did. My star thought was that we can 
all do something to make others a little happier. Wasn’t that 
an epoch-making idea? Ever hear that before?” 
The young lawyer’s keen eyes smiled as they contemplated 
the fire. “Bromide — of course. It’s the big beam under the 
floor of Christianity. But it would take a lot more than you, 
my son, to make me believe you put it bromidish. I’ve heard 
you ‘make remarks.’ The Bishop wouldn’t have ordered 
you to St. Wilfred’s if he hadn’t felt pretty sure, 
critical at St. Wilfred’s.” 
“I fooled the Bishop good and 
plenty this time,” remarked the 
tall young clergyman. “I hate 
it, Peter. I hate to get up and 
lay down the law to a lot of 
people who know ten times what 
I do. I feel like a fool, and I 
am a fool. I try to think that 
—that supernaturally, or some¬ 
how, I may say one thing that 
will help one person. That’s all 
that gives me the ginger to go 
into it. But if I helped one per¬ 
son this time then there’s an¬ 
other guess coming.” 
“Let the fire alone, Bill. And 
stop kicking. You mostly slam 
yourself after preaching. And 
it’s none of your business at 
present anyhow. You tried, and 
it’s up to higher power than you 
now. Come along down to the 
turkey. There’s the gong.” 
A : 
1\. emptied into the street the 
two sisters, quiet maiden-ladies 
in quiet, well-cut clothes, had 
found their way into the stream 
and walked off, outwardly se¬ 
date, alike, commonplace physi¬ 
cally and mentally. Yet in the 
soul of the younger raged a wild 
turmoil, and in her ears rang 
words which repeated them¬ 
selves : 
“If anyone wants to know 
great joy, he or she will take in 
the hand the greatest luxury, 
that one has planned for and 
saved for and looked forward to 
— and give it away.” 
What nonsense ! Alice Sefton 
resented that sentence. What 
arrogance of youth it was in that 
boy to lay down a law like that! 
Yet the words repeated them¬ 
selves. Suddenly she caught a 
sharp breath like a sob. She 
wanted to know joy. Oh, she 
Alice somehow knew how to talk 
his unconscious sentences how wise 
did! She had known so little. Contentment — yes. But that 
wasn’t enough. She had it in her to feel joy, and she had 
never had a chance. But this was nonsense, this boy’s dictum. 
Why, at that, she would give away her thousand-dollar check 
— her Brittany cabinet! Indeed she would not. Sheer mad¬ 
ness! “Give it away”-—-to whom? Some institution, some big 
charity he meant probably. Her soul rose in resentment, in 
denial. And yet the words haunted her. 
With that a voice spoke; Emily Anderson, with whom they 
had gone to school years ago, was walking beside them. “I 
couldn’t let you get away without wishing you ‘Merry Christ¬ 
mas,’ ” she laughed at them, and her fat face was rosy and 
kind. “How are you? I’m coming to see you. I want to 
see your lovely furniture, too. Hodson’s man says you have 
the best oak things in town.” 
Bertha giggled delightedly and Alice smiled gravely. “Do 
come and see them,” she said. “Not many, but they’re quite 
good, I think. Ah!” 
A boy of fifteen or so had sprung in front of the three and 
halted them. “Tante Emily, mother says do you mind if we’re 
five minutes late? She wants to stop and see somebody.” 
The manly little chap with his radiant face smiled at all 
three of them alike in overflowing friendliness to the world; 
it was impossible not to smile back at him. 
“Whose child is that?” Alice Sefton asked eagerly, as the 
lad bounded away. 
“John Erskine’s,” said kindly, careless Emily Anderson, 
with no memory at all that John Erskine and Alice Sefton had 
been engaged once. “Such a pitiful case,” she went on volubly, 
not seeing that the name had wiped the color from the other 
woman’s face. “Such a lovely 
boy, and no chance to take his 
right place in the world. His 
father’s dead — five years” — 
Alice knew that — “and the 
money was lost by bad manage¬ 
ment after, and now the mother 
is slowly dying and the boy must 
be taken out of school and put 
to work. Isn’t it too awful? 
Such a waste! Such a waste — 
that adorable child, with his in¬ 
heritance! John Erskine was 
delightful; you knew him, didn’t 
you? Brains and character, too 
—and charm. The child gets 
that pretty manner from his fa¬ 
ther. Nobody understood why 
he married that little woman; a 
good little woman and crazy 
about him, of course — who 
wouldn’t be? But there’s noth¬ 
ing to her — just nothing. I’ve 
always thought John may have 
had some real affair, you know, 
and did this on the rebound. 
Men do, don’t you know. And 
so now here’s this wonderful 
boy, and no chance for him!” 
Emily Anderson stopped for 
breath. 
“Isn’t there—anybody — who 
see to him?” Alice Sefton 
\ 1 said slowly. One must say 
!) v, something. That was enough to 
] start Mrs. Anderson again. 
“Why, there seems to be just 
nobody. Nobody!” she empha¬ 
sized. “They live out in Broad¬ 
water, and they’re staying with 
me for Christmas, you see, so 
Annie Erskine has talked about 
it to me and it’s astonishing how 
alone they are. I am so crazy 
about the boy that I’d give any¬ 
thing to look after him myself. 
But I have four of my own, and 
Henry says we just can’t. But 
if I knew where to steal only one 
thousand dollars this minute. I'd 
