in Effingham. He said so to the other, and then the others laughed and
said:

"This is the city where they drink it. They drink more here than
anywhere else in the world." Wyeth recalled a year before--but then
these people had seen only a small part of the world, as their
conversation later revealed, and, of course--but it didn't matter.

"You genemens goin' to the dance?" said the woman.

"To the dance?" Wyeth repeated. "This is Sunday!"

They smiled at him now--all of them--and then said:

"Sunday is the day of sport in this town. More dances occur on Sunday
than any other day."

Wyeth whistled.

"This is the creole city," and they smiled again.

"This gentleman is from a more pious territory," said the porter,
appreciatively. He seemed to be very intelligent.

"What kind of work do the genemen follow?" asked the hostess.

"Books," Wyeth replied.

"They don't read much down here," she said, dubiously.

"Some do everywhere--more or less!"

"They are strongly engaged in the art of having a good time here,"
remarked the porter, and laughed.

"I suppose so," said Wyeth. "And, since practically half of the colored
people of the state are illiterate, I am, of course, compelled to agree
with you."

They talked on other topics now, and Wyeth, not feeling sleepy,
suggested venturing out sight seeing. He went alone, and what he saw, he
did not soon forget.

When the door had closed behind him, and his steps died away in the
distance, the fat man winked and the woman smiled; then the pair spoke,
in the same breath:

"Books--huh! He he! Books--huh! He he!" They regarded the porter with a
smile; but he did not, strange to say, share their point of view. But
they had their say, nevertheless.

"Books--huh!"

CHAPTER TWO

_At Last She Didn't Care_

Mildred stood in the middle of the room, directly under the electric
light that filled the room with its bright rays. She could see the end
of the key, as it turned in the lock, and, in that moment, a scheme
entered her head, like a flash. Locating the direction of the door, and
facing toward it, she reached up suddenly and switched off the light.
Instantly the room was ingulfed in darkness. She hurried to the door,
and stood just to one side. Presently the knob turned and the man
entered. He stood on the threshold a moment, and she heard him say:

"Ah, the little girl is sleeping peacefully," and laughed. "That was a
devil of a dose a-whiskey that girl gave her, though! Knocked her stiff!
Darned if I don't believe she was handing the straight dope after all."
He advanced now toward the middle of the room. Quick as a flash she
stepped out, and, seeing he had left the key in the lock, she jerked the
door closed, and, turning the key, which she allowed to remain, rushed
to the end of the steps, and hurried down as fast as she could safely
venture.

It was dark outside, and no one stood about the entrance. She struck the
pavement, looked up and down a brief moment, and then hurried in a
direction that led to whither she knew not, but to escape was her only
thought. She hurried along for fully three blocks, and then turned in
another direction, and then one block in another, and paused--feeling
safe at last.

Up to this time, she was not conscious that her head was aching to a
point that was almost splitting. She placed her hand upon her forehead,
and only then was she aware that she had the paper she had picked from
the dresser, closely clutched in her hand. The words she had seen there,
made her at once forget her headache and all else.

She thought of something then. She looked at the watch on her wrist.
"Yes, thank God, there is yet time." An hour later she came back to the
place where she had stood, and continued in the direction she had been
going, looking from right to left for a lodging house.

She stopped at several places where a sign over the front advertised
rooms, but, at each one they wanted men only. She had no thought of
going back to where she had been stopping the last week; and, besides,
she knew not where she was, nor did she know the street or number where
she had been stopping, therefore was confident she could not have found
it, had she wished to return.

Upon the street, she encountered many people celebrating the event of
the coming year, and then she tried a small house that set back in a
yard, and which appeared very neat from where she viewed it. She secured
a room, and retired at once. Setting the oil lamp on a chair next to the
bed, she unfolded the paper and read the article on the front page
carefully, over and over again. It was an Effingham paper, and a date of
some time before. When she had read it, until she was convinced that she
was not dreaming, she sighed restfully as she murmured:

"At last, oh Lord, at last!"

It was the Effingham _Age-Herald_, and the issue contained the article
by Sidney Wyeth, in which he severely arraigned the leading people of
his race in that city for their disregard of the general welfare of
their people.

"I'm so glad, so glad," she whispered softly. "And to think that it came
to my attention in such an extraordinary manner!" She felt her forehead,
and winced when the heat and throb came into contact with the touch. She
made a wry face, as she recalled the taste of stale whiskey. Only then
did she become aware, that when she had turned at the sound of the
piano, someone had filled her glass with liquor. And she had drunk it
before she realized that it had been doped. She thought of the incident;
from the time she had met Miss Jones at the corner, and had been
informed of the part of the town she was in. She shuddered and drew the
coverlets closely about her, as her mind went over it again. She then
tried to recall how she had followed Miss Jones to the place where she
had met the men. And there she had drunk for the first time in her life,
whiskey, although she was not at the moment aware of it. She rose out of
the bed, as the dream came back to her; how the tornado had taken Sidney
into the air, and then the story of the hills and the Indians. She
pondered for a time, and wondered if such a thing had been the history
of the _Rosebud Country_. And Sidney Wyeth had not been caught in a
tornado, but had swept a multitude of people with his pen, in a burning
article. She read over a part of it again. The very evils he had berated
the most fiercely, were the things she had heard Wilson Jacobs deplore,
and speak of more than once. Yes, Sidney Wyeth had written the truth.
And from the way it was pictured, she reckoned that it must have created
a bit of excitement. And that was the kind of man Sidney Wyeth was. She
smiled as she thought of it.

"And I love him. Was it because of these principles, that I strangely
felt were inherent in him, that he has been my dream, which has grown
larger in my estimation, in the months I have had no word of him?" she
asked herself. "I am going to him--I am, tomorrow. Of course," she
replied to herself in the next sentence, "I am not going directly to
him.... He wouldn't quite appreciate that--oh, he wouldn't appreciate me
at all; but I love him, and am going where he is, and after that----"
she had no other words, nor thoughts. To be where he was, maybe to see
him, became the uppermost desire in her mind.

She did not, strangely enough, think any more about the Y.M.C.A. She
thought of her lover as, with a peaceful smile, she fell asleep. She did
not dream that night, but lay as she had fallen asleep, and it was six
o'clock the following morning, the first of January, when she awakened.

She lay a half hour without any thoughts in her mind, and then,
observing a window next to the bed, she raised it slightly, and peeped
out. It was not yet so very light. It was, apparently, a quiet street,
occupied by working people who were now in many numbers on the way to
their work. A boy with a bunch of papers under his arm was passing in
their midst, and then suddenly she wrapped on the window pane. He looked
up, being accustomed to doing so, and, catching sight of her hand,
entered the gate and stood under the window with an upraised paper,
while she fished out a nickel and dropped it into his hand.

She smiled with an expression of satisfaction, as she read the article
relating to the Y.M.C.A. for colored youth of the city, and was glad to
note that Wilson Jacobs came in for a great deal of praise. She laid it
aside for a time, and was thoughtful again.

"Yes," she whispered to herself, "I will leave the city at once. The one
thing I so much desired, and which has kept me here through these weary
months, has been obtained." She closed her lips and planned further.

She decided to go to Effingham. She would send an expressman for her
things at Mother Jane's that morning. She would then purchase a ticket
and go by the first train. She turned to the editorial column of the
paper, and was made happy by a lengthy editorial, relating the effort
for the Y.M.C.A., and praising Wilson Jacobs further.

She did not know, however, that the editor of the paper that she was
reading, and who was one of the most ardent supporters in the Christian
forward movement in the south, had been at the Y.M.C.A. the evening
before. He had come with the others, out of curiosity, when Wilson
Jacobs had torn into the building, bareheaded and looking like an insane
man. And he had written the article the first thing in the new year.

She arose and dressed herself at seven o'clock, and slipped out of the
house without awakening anyone. It was getting light now, and she went
some blocks before she encountered an expressman that satisfied her.
She gave him the instructions, and walked about, impatiently, while she
waited for him to return. As she was waiting, she became possessed with
a desire to see the little house occupied by the Jacobs, and where she
had spent so many happy, hopeful months.

She had no trouble finding it, since light had given her an acquaintance
with her surroundings. She found that she was not far from it, and then
recognized with a start, that the same drayman she had sent for the
goods, was the one who had taken the same from the Jacobs' a few months
before. He had not recognized her, and she now gave him no further
chance to do so.

She walked until the house was in sight, and then, going around a block,
she found herself within a half block of it. Smoke was coming from the
kitchen chimney, and she knew they were astir.

"Bless them!" she murmured, as she realized how happy must be their
hearts that morning. "And that is why they are astir so soon. They do
not usually arise until nearly eight o'clock."

As she stood gazing longingly at the house, she saw Constance emerge
from the rear, and scatter wheat to a few chickens they had taken a
delight in raising the past summer. "If I could only go to her in this
minute, and feel her caress for just a moment, I would leave the city
the happiest woman in the world." She stopped when she had said this. To
realize that she was slipping out of the city like a criminal, without
greeting the friends she had there, made her feel peculiarly guilty. She
had no enmity in her heart toward anyone--not even the man who haunted
her into the position she now assumed, and whose sole purpose had been
to satisfy an animal desire. She knew she could not go to Constance, nor
to Mother Jane's--nor to anyone. She would leave the city without saying
goodbye to a soul. She turned her face away, as she recalled that she
had left Cincinnati the same way. She had no friends there, and had
avoided making acquaintances. She almost choked with guilty anguish as
she asked herself:

"Is it always to be this way? Am I forever to go from place to place
under cover like a criminal? Am I always to be without friends?" She
couldn't make answer. She could have a certain kind of friends; but she
shuddered when she realized what kind they would be. She had never told
anyone the secret.

She had no desire, strangely, to do so. Only one person among those she
loved knew it, she now conjectured. And she would leave to be near him
soon. He knew--a part of it ... and he had turned away and had passed
out of her life, when he learned it. He would never come back; he would
never forget it--and even if, through any possible chance, she proved to
him that it was all a very different problem, could he ever forgive her?
Perhaps that was what made it harder to bear. She almost believed he
would not. In reading his book, she had marked a cold, decided stand,
and she felt that, if he had made up his mind against her, which he had
apparently done, he was not likely to change.... It depended upon the
strength of his resolutions. She could never get beyond a certain point
in her dreams. But in spite of that fact, something within her longed to
be near him; to see him; not to ask forgiveness--not to do anything; but
just to be near him, that was all.

Wilson Jacobs stood on the porch at the front of the house now, smoking
a cigar in a way, she could at this distance see, he enjoyed. Yesterday
morning he could not have smoked in so much peace; but today, the future
was brighter than it had ever been for him; she felt this, and it was
true. As he stood looking about him, Wilson Jacobs was happy. He was not
happy over his own success--for Wilson Jacobs did not feel that he had
made the success--but he was happy from the fact that the young Negro
men of that wicked, criminally torn city, would soon be the recipients
of a movement that would insure a brighter future, less tinged with
degradation and vice.

Presently he turned, as though responding to a call, and entered the
house. Mildred surmised that he had been called to breakfast. She turned
on her heel, and went back to the expressman's place, and met him
returning with the things.

They were all packed. The trunk only required a rope around it, and it
was ready for the station. She instructed the expressman to this end,
and met him at the depot, where she purchased a ticket for Effingham.

She strolled outside and to a nearby restaurant, where she partook of a
hearty breakfast, for she was hungry. She returned to the station, and
waited patiently for the arrival of the train from the north, that would
take her away from the city where she had been for many months. If it
had not fallen to her lot to encounter the man who had known her back in
Cincinnati, she could have left the city with friends at the depot, and
much more ceremoniously; but she was glad that she was leaving it as it
was. When she had awakened the evening before, she had, for a moment,
felt that she could not leave it without a terrible pang of conscience.

The train had arrived, and the people were hurrying in that direction.
She joined them, and, as she was passing through the gate, she turned
for a moment, and looked into the face of the man who had sent her away
like this. She regarded him without a tremor of fright. At last she
didn't care. A moment later she entered the car.

CHAPTER THREE

"_They Knew He Had Written the Truth_"

"Yes," said the man, "I knew Sidney Wyeth well. He was, in fact, a
personal friend of mine; and, let me tell you, Madam, there never was a
fellow more interested in the welfare of his people, from a general
point of view, than the one you inquire about."

"Indeed!" she echoed, with a pleased smile.

"Yes, Madam, I speak the truth. My name is Jones," he said. "I am the
editor of the _Reporter_, and Mr. Wyeth used to drop into the office
here quite often, and talk with me about the condition of our people in
the south. He was a conscientious fellow, void of pretense, and with a
regard for anyone's point of view. Yes, Wyeth was a fellow who insisted
upon calling a spade a spade, not a hoe; but there is an element of
people here--or was, rather--before the appearance of an arraignment by
Wyeth, who had only contempt for anyone's opinion other than their own.
Oh, I'll tell you, Miss, you cannot imagine how this has been worrying
me for years. I have been conducting this paper for some time, and have
struggled to make it a good sheet; but, of course, we cannot collect
from advertising and make our paper pay, as we would like to see it." He
paused a moment, and then, making himself more comfortable, he fell into
a long conversation, in which, with much fervor, he told Mildred Latham,
whom he had observed was a careful and appreciative listener, of the
conditions Sidney Wyeth had seen and had written about.

"The papers told about the success of Wilson Jacobs in securing a
Y.M.C.A. for the town northwest of here, and God knows how glad I am to
see that our people in the south are coming to appreciate a Christian
forward movement. We have been, in a way, steering in a direction that
got us nowhere, and that was the way Wyeth used to discuss it. We have
here, and in the town just mentioned, the worst Negroes under the sun,
and yet counted as civilized people. And it seems to have been forgotten
or overlooked, that our salvation, in a moral sense, as well as in a
practical and progressive, depends first upon our own initiative. I
cannot account for the selfishness that has so pervaded the lives of our
professional people. Last summer, in a lengthy article, a Mr. B.J.
Dickson, editor of the _Attalia Independent_, scored the physicians of
that city for a little incident, that in itself showed a mark of
narrowness that few would or could be brought to believe."

He then related the article in brief, stating that the color line had
been drawn among the colored people themselves, and became very much
worked up over the fact that most of the people who had been invited,
did not, as a rule, employ Negro doctors for professional purposes.

"I have hinted at the things Mr. Wyeth attacked in his article, and I
have, more than once, pointed to the evils in our own society; but no
one paid any attention. No, they were too self-opinionated. They could
not see their faults in a Negro paper; but, when it was brought to their
attention on the front page of one of the most conservative papers
conducted by whites in the south, well, then, it appeared altogether
different.

"They stewed and deplored, became indignant, and all that; but the truth
cannot be played with. With all the noise that followed the publication
of the article, conscience became a burden. They knew to the last one,
that Sidney Wyeth had written the truth, and nothing but the truth. And,
thanks to God, there were enough good people to say, when the demagogues
were decrying it, that it was the truth. So now, in this city, where
times are hard, and many people are out of work; but with plenty of time
to think it over, there is in evidence a decided change, and it is my
opinion, that next summer will see this new idea put into effect--at
least started."

"So, Mr. Wyeth has located permanently here?" she inquired, after a
pause.

"Oh, no," he replied quickly. "I had become so stirred, when I recalled
how much life and appreciation that article of his had inspired in the
order of existence about here, that I forgot to say that Mr. Wyeth has
left the city. In fact, he left the city immediately after the
appearance of the article."

She caught her breath, and swallowed with surprise and disappointment.
He had left the city. Where had he gone to? She was afraid to inquire.
But Jones was speaking again, and saved her the embarrassment of
inquiring.

"Yes, he left a day or so afterward. He is not likely to locate in the
south. And, moreover, his mission in these parts is not, I am sure, one
of locating or hunting a location. He appears to be one seeking the
truth about our people." He told her of Wyeth's departure to the creole
city, and then, obviously anxious to unload his burden of opinions, to
which she listened with patient interest, he continued:

"I am of the opinion that he will write a book on these conditions in
the near future. And, if it compares with his article and carries a
romance interwoven, it will meet with public appreciation. He always
spoke of his home out west with much longing, and I suppose that the
atmosphere out there must be of the progressive spirit, which makes a
difference when one is forced to tolerate the conditions of sluggishness
down here."

"How are the people here on Christian forward work?" she asked.

"They had never thought of such a thing until Wyeth wrote the article,
and it was the same in regard to a library and a park. You see, Madam,
it has been like this," he explained: "Our people have been in the habit
of accepting everything (when it came to uplift) from the white people
as a matter of course, never letting it worry them, as far as their own
efforts were concerned. Then, again, what few books have been written,
with some exceptions (novels especially, and of which our race has
produced but few) have dealt with the Negro as a poor, persecuted
character, deserving everybody's sympathy. In some manner, the authors
have been either careful to avoid his more inherent traits, or they were
so fired with their subject matter, that they forgot it.

"Yes, Wyeth brought in a couple of books he had sent for, and which were
written by the most successful fiction writer our race has known. He
read them, and pointed out that only a slight mention was made therein,
that the Negro would lie--'excuse the expression'--and steal, get drunk,
and fight, and kill and gamble to such an extent, that he would lose his
last dollar, and lie out of paying an honest debt.

"Anyone who conscientiously knows the Negro, must certainly be aware of
these traits. Why then, should a writer build a work of the imagination,
in which he seeks to reveal to the reader the white man's hatred for his
black brother, without including in the same statement, that the Negro
has inherent traits, which are some of the worst evils good society is
called upon to endure? Wyeth judged this was the reason why these books
did not sell and the authors ceased to write, since they could not work
without a living profit.

"Of course, when we allow ourselves, our thoughts, rather, to dwell upon
the white man's prejudice, we will surely become pessimists. Who is not
aware of it? But it is the purpose of the practical Negro to forget that
condition as much as possible. To allow our minds to dwell upon it, and
predict what is likely to happen, is only to prepare ourselves for
eternal misery. So far as I believe, it is my opinion that the white man
will always hate the Negro. It may be argued that it is
un-Christianlike, which is true; but the fact to be reckoned with, and
which remains, is that the white man dislikes Negroes. But, when we have
our own welfare to consider first and last, it is logical that we turn
our energies to a more momentary purpose.

"I read Derwins' first book, a work of sociology, and which met a great
sale, and thereby brought him into public notice. Then I read his late
one, a novel, in which he portrayed the evil of prejudice. Like the
other author I refer to, he built his plot entirely upon that, leaving
the fact that the Negro possesses the many vices I have mentioned to be
understood. Of all races, the Negro is the most original and humorous.
Those who know him, even the least, look for some humor. Fancy, then,
how people must be disappointed, when they purchase and read a volume
concerning that race, and find it void of humor! The work of both these
men, like works other than fiction, by Negroes, is couched in the most
select words; but the people look for what they know to be current. And
when they do not find it, they are likely to lay the book aside, and
pick up something that is more to their taste.

"And, with all due regard for the writings of these men, if you read
their works carefully, you will discover their own lack of confidence in
the race whose cause they champion. I will relate a little incident to
show this:

"Follow the romance, and you will find it invariably centered about a
white couple. Why have they done this? The answer will be, a moral; but,
in my opinion, they could not imagine a Negro character strong enough to
weave into the plot, and, therefore, substituted white lovers, because,
in their imagination, it was more fitting.

"These men have quit writing, from the fact, that it did not pay; for,
it takes a world of thought, concentrated upon a certain purpose, to
write a novel. Any man with the ability to put a great thought into
words, and to employ words that are select, in the manner these men did
in their books, could, at least should be, practical enough to do so in
such a manner as to win an audience that would pay sufficiently for
their work to maintain them. Instead of that, they have both quit
writing. They were sincere, but did the worst possible thing by
quitting. For the quitter never gains anything; and, when it comes to
championing the cause of a people, the persons who have attempted the
same, should certainly adhere to the task." He paused now, as someone
knocked at the door.

"Come in," he called.

A woman, neatly dressed and attractive in appearance, and apparently
intelligent, entered.

"How do, Mr. Jones," she cried, stretching forth her hand. Mildred rose
to go, but Jones waved her back.

"Mrs. Langdon," he said kindly, "I am glad to see you. Be seated." She
took a seat. She turned to Mildred, who looked as though she felt she
was intruding, and said:

"It is nothing private!"

She drew from her bag a few sheets of paper, and, smoothing them out,
she handed them to the editor with: "Here is a little article I have
written, in honor of the young lady who is soon to make her appearance
here in recital, as you know, and which has been well advertised. I wish
to have you publish it in your paper," and then she smiled sweetly and
affected much modesty, as she added: "It will not be necessary that you
mention the same is written by me."

"But I wish you to have all that is your due, Mrs. Langdon," he
protested.

"Oh, very well, then," she said, and rising, with a few more words, she
took her leave.

Jones glanced over the page, and then started. "Excuse me just a moment,
Miss," he begged, and read the pages which were neatly written and
punctuated. When he had finished, he smiled and said, under his breath:
"That is certainly nerve."

Mildred regarded him curiously. He looked at her, and handed the
manuscript across the desk, saying: "Please read it."

She obeyed, and when she was through, said: "It is a nice eulogy," and
then her face showed the wonderment because of his expression of a
moment ago.

"Yes," he agreed, "it _is_ nice, but take a glance at this," and
forthwith drew from the top of the desk, a pamphlet with the picture of
an attractive colored girl thereon.

Mildred observed the picture, and then read the article on the other
three pages. When she saw the editor's face again, she understood, but
she didn't say, in fact, she didn't know what to say. The editor
continued:

"These pamphlets are scattered all over town. Can you imagine a person
with her appearance and obvious intelligence doing such a thing? And
yet, this office is the recipient of many such instances."

The article had been copied from the three pages of the pamphlet he had
handed her, and which were scattered all over the town.

CHAPTER FOUR

_The Woman With the Three Moles_

She was now in the creole city. Before her lay the wide street that
Sidney Wyeth had followed; but it was lighted by the sun, for she had
arrived in the morning, whereas, he had come at night. She traveled with
only a handbag to encumber her, and, therefore, did not take a car, but
walked leisurely up the broad highway.

The street, she at once observed, was very wide; it was so wide that the
buildings appeared very low that lined the sides. She counted the
stories of one building, and found that it was not the wide street
alone, for the buildings were not high after all, not nearly so high as
any of the towns in which she had been. She wondered why they were not;
and, of course, it did not occur to her, that the city was built over
water that was only a few inches from the surface, and which, in fact,
seeped and stood upon the top whenever it could. Keeping the water below
the surface, in short, had been this city's problem ever since its
location. And it is no wonder, for, if anyone takes notice, the water of
the mighty river (that makes it possible as a port and encircles it
largely) is very often above the town. At several times in the history
of this city's existence, these waters have become so high, that they
threatened for days to spill over, and, therefore, submerge all the city
in a few minutes. But our story is not concerned with the possible
submerging of the town; we are concerned in following Mildred Latham, as
she walked curiously up one side of one of its broad highways.

She wondered, as had Sidney Wyeth--and as perhaps anyone else given to
observation would wonder--that it should build some streets so wide, and
at the same time make others so narrow that they were not adequate for
an alley. The buildings, as she saw them, with few exceptions, were old;
only a few had, apparently, been erected in the past ten years; while
over most of the sidewalks were sheds.

As she continued her indefinite wandering, she observed many
curiosities, not to be seen in other cities. "But, of course," she
murmured, "this is the creole city, and is known to be much more
historical than the rest of our country."

There are not so many colored people encountered on the streets as in
other southern towns; although, viewing its last census of five years
before, there should be now not less than one hundred thousand of that
race within its limits. She saw many, however, and looked at them
curiously. Here and there was one that looked like a creole; while most
of them, were the usual kind.

Never had she seen so many cars on one street, as she saw on the four
tracks that ran down the middle of this one. They were arranged with a
curbing to protect, or keep slim-footed mules out of their way, so they
had to avoid the pedestrians only. Many police protected at every
intersection; but withal, she was nervous as she hurried across, at the
beckon of one who wore the bluest uniform, and a white hat--no, it was a
helmet.

She had arrived at Basin court, and did not know that she was within a
few doors of the man she loved. She gazed about for a time, and then
went on her way. She came, presently, abreast of a man--a colored
man--and he was neat looking and intelligent. She paused with some
constraint, and said:

"Could you advise me, Mister, where I could secure lodging? I am a
stranger, and--I do not know where to go."

He looked at her keenly for a moment. Then his eyes glanced away and
down a street that intersected. On either side of that street were
houses--small houses that made a specialty of a room to the front, and
these rooms contained--but we have not come to that. And then he looked
at her again.

His eyes wandered back down that other street, and he thought for a
moment. He looked at her again, and then spoke. This girl might be
stalling--so many of them did--but still she was intelligent, and that
made a difference.

"I could not, Madam, I regret to say, for I do not live on this side. My
home is in Tunis, which is across the river. That is why I do not know."

"Oh," she said, and her tone was sorry, "you do not live on this side?"

"No, ma'am. You are a stranger here?" He eyed her keenly again.

"Yes, sir. I have just arrived," and she told him also, that she sold
books.

Her tone was pleasant; her words were correct; and she said them in such
a way that he forgot his suspicion, and then showed her forthwith much
courtesy.

"Indeed," he commented. "I wish I knew a place; but I am not so often on
this side, for I am a physician, and my duties keep me mostly over
there; but if you had happened to be wishing to stop over there, I could
place you." She thought quickly.

Sidney Wyeth was on this side, undoubtedly. She might at any time
encounter him. And she didn't know why, since that was what she had
hoped for; but she rather feared to encounter him right now. She had no
room or place to go, and, as she meditated, she could not see any reason
why she should not as soon be on the other side as on this. She liked
quietness. So she said:

"I had not decided whether I would stay across the river or here,
though, of course, I expected to stay on this side. I would, however, as
soon be on the other side, I think."

"In that event, then," said he, "you can accompany me home, for my
wife--we are recently married and she is a stranger and would be glad of
companionship--has a room, and it is for rent. So, when you have seen
it, and in case you are satisfied, you could have it. The charge, I
think, furnished, is seven dollars a month."

"That will be nice," she said, and was beside him. "I am sure I shall be
satisfied."

"Thank you," said he, "I am going over now, so if you are agreeable, we
will catch a ferry forthwith."

They now walked back down the broad highway, at the end of which could
be seen the stacks of many steamers. He pointed out, very kindly, sights
of interest and explained them.

"Now, here," he said, "is a store. The family who own it are rich, as
rich as any in the city, and it is said they are part Negro; though, of
course, they do not admit it. The city, you will find, is a historical
old place in many instances." And as they walked down the broad highway,
he told her a great deal that was so interesting, that it made the
distance which had seemed a long way an hour before, appear real short.
They went up to the river, and boarded a ferry.

It was a nice ride to the other shore. Once in the middle of the river,
which was very wide at this point, the creole city rose and stood
outlined in all its splendor. The waters near either shore were
decorated with many river steamers, and as many, if not more, ocean
liners. Great docks, grim and dark, opened their roller doors along the
banks; while the steamers before them swung great loads of freight in
their cellars.

"Miss Latham," said the doctor, when they had arrived at the house,
"this is my wife, Mrs. Winnie Jacques."

They greeted each other, and murmured many words, and, when the
introduction was over, Mrs. Jacques turned and asked Mildred to follow
her. As she did so, upon her neck, which rose above the loose kimono she
wore, was a mole; to the right of it another. Almost midway between the
two, but an inch below, was another. And now Mildred Latham gave a
start, then she swallowed hard. _Where had she seen the moles
before_--the three moles? Only one person in the world, she was sure,
possessed them. She followed the other to a room, and that night she
didn't sleep.

The next morning she kissed the other, before she left, but Mrs. Jacques
didn't know why. But she watched her strangely, as she walked toward the
ferry.

CHAPTER FIVE

"_Hello, Brown Skin!_"

He came abreast of a depot; it was new, with an imposing front, over
which was inscribed TERMINAL STATION in arched letters. It seemed quite
a long way back to the colored waiting room, and the station was very
narrow. It ran back several hundred feet, where four or five tracks
received the incoming and outgoing human traffic. The station, like the
one he had come into a short while ago, was filled with men and women,
obviously idlers. He lingered only a few minutes, when curiosity led him
further. He left the station from the side entrance, and found himself
upon a very narrow street. He paused, and as he did so, strains of
ragtime music came to his ears. He was curious to see where it came
from, and to hear it closer. He crossed the street, and found that it
came from a place--a cabaret--but for white people only. He turned away
and went down the street, where something odd caught his attention.

He stood where the walks intersected, and gazed to his left. Yes, it was
a _feature_. On either side of the street stood a row of one-story
houses. Lights were bright, as bright as day, on either side, which fact
filled the narrow street with light also. He passed down one side; and
there were multitudes of men sauntering, as he was--but there were no
women, excepting in the one-story houses. They stood behind open doors,
some of them, while others sat in chairs before a grate fire; but one
and all, he noted, were thinly dressed and smiled on everybody--but
himself (for, you see, they were white women)--with amorous eyes.

"Come here dearie," said one--and many others said the same. "I have
something to tell you." "Indeed," he conjectured, "but secrets appear
to be the fashion here."

He walked to the end of that block, and where that street intersected
with another. And before him, on eight different sides, was a myriad of
the same. Women, thinly clad--and it, you understand, was the month of
January....

It was a sight to be indulged; a pastime that was diverting, to say the
least. And, since so very many others--men--were seeing it, why then not
he?

He saw it--at least a large part of it.

He strolled another block, and the same sight met his eye; but, as he
got further away from the station, the lights grew dimmer; the women
fewer, but plenty, at any rate.

Now he had reached a place where the crowds had not penetrated--only
stragglers lingered like himself--and where the women were of another
race, for now they were colored.

"Hello, Brown Skin," they greeted him, and he smiled back, but didn't
stop--not even to hear the secret that almost everyone had to tell him.

"You are sure some brown, kid. Just come here a moment. Don't be afraid,
I won't eat you."

"Indeed," he said to one who was very small, and could smile with more
effect than the others. "But I'm afraid." And he laughed aloud as he
went upon his way.

He had stopped now. He had to; for, before him was a brick wall--no, a
brick fence. It was painted white and was about eight or ten feet high;
while inside raised something sinister. "Gee!" he exclaimed. "But that
is a sight one does not appreciate."

He turned now, and passed down a side street, which was occupied by the
same. But he couldn't forget what stood grim and determined on the other
side. It had been there a long time too--before, oh, long before these
women had. Yes, and it would be there long after they had passed away,
and others, not yet born, had come to take their places. And as he
passed down the street, under the subtlety of those night smiles, that
place seemed to say--kept on saying:

"Play on she cats! Oh, play on! Hell's got your soul; but I'll have the
rest by and by." He turned the next corner and walked another block, and
lo! There stood another! "Kick high little girl; sin as you please;
Hell's got your hearts, but I'll have what's left--I won't say how
soon...."

"The devil!" he exclaimed. "This is the worst place for cemeteries I
ever knew. I'm going away from here, to my room." And he went.

"Where do the wealthiest of the wealthy white people live?" he inquired
the next morning, when he had arisen, and dined at one of the Chinese
cafes.

The others regarded him now with a question in their eyes. "Yes," he
repeated, "where do they live, for it is to their servants I prefer to
try to sell the book, for which I am agent."

They caught his logic then, and replied:

"Take a car at the next corner, ride until you come to a park that is
called d'Ubberville. There you unload, and find yourself in the midst of
the wealthiest of the wealthy."

He went down to that street, which was the aforementioned wide street.
All that money could buy, was on sale along its broad highway. He sought
a bookstore, where he wished to make inquiries, and, of course, found a
number. He strolled about, making inquiries, until his watch said it was
time to return, and go forth in quest of that part of town, where he
wished to begin his work.

It was certainly a long way to his destination. Indeed, he made
inquiries of the conductor, until that one told him he would tell him
when they arrived at the place where he wanted to stop. So, he sat in
patience after that. He allowed his eyes to feast upon the splendor and
magnificence of the beautiful buildings. Yes, they were elegant homes;
they were the finest homes; and they were beautifully arranged, not to
say artistically, on either side of the street, which, while not the
same, was another one just as wide. So wide, indeed, that the middle
was converted into a lawn, on which many palms reared their graceful
foliage.

"The creole city," he murmured. "For a long time I have wished to see it
as it really is; to know the people and to learn of the many things and
wonders it is said to contain."

"Here you are," said the conductor at last, and Sidney Wyeth alighted at
once.

"Whew!" he exclaimed, standing entranced, as he looked all about him.
"_Such_ homes; _such_ trees--such _everything_." And then he walked in
the direction his face happened to be turned. He was slightly nervous
for a time, but presently, with a bold front, he turned into the most
insignificant of the many houses, and rapped quietly at the back door.

"Come in," someone called, and he knew the voice belonged to one of his
race. He had many times thought it strange, but it was always easy to
determine the Negro by his voice alone.

He entered, and looked at the owner of that same voice. She was a stout,
brown-skinned woman; and there was another also, but she was black. One,
the large woman, was the cook, for she worked over the stove, while the
other was obviously the washer-woman, for she was ironing.

In his talk, he told the story of the book, and filled them with
enthusiasm, to a point that both subscribed. He said he was just
commencing, and was glad they had favored him with an order. He thanked
them again, and, turning, he left and betook himself across the street,
where he encountered another brown-skinned woman, but she failed to buy.
And the excuse she gave for not doing so, was one he always regarded.
She was not able--having other irons in the fire. He left her, went
across the street on another corner, and entered the rear of the
smallest house he saw on the street. He was turning to go, when another
brown-skinned woman put in her appearance. She was beautiful, he
thought. And she could smile until he--well, she smiled. She said she'd
take one, to be sure, so he wrote down her name, and asked her about
herself. She was married, and laughed tantalizingly, though he had not
asked her that. He left presently, by the way he had entered, and went
to another house, and still to another, until the watch said five; then
he betook himself to a car line. It was not the one he had come out on,
and soon he saw other homes, which showed the creole element.

That night he went rambling; he couldn't seem to be still. There was so
much to be seen, and it had a peculiar fascination for him. He went in
the direction he had gone the night before, and met crowds of people. He
strolled until gay music arrested his attention. About an electric
entrance, from which the music came, stood colored men. He got a peep
inside, as some one entered, and saw that the occupants were Negroes, so
he entered.

A waiter showed him a seat by a table. Around the room were plenty of
others; there were women and men, and others came and went all the time.
The music had ceased when he entered; but, 'ere long, it struck up, and
the room was filled with the strains. Couples arose and stood face to
face, and did what he had never seen, as he recalled. The music played
was a two-step; but they did not two-step--at least not the way he had
done it years before. They made only one step where he had made two.
Across the table from where he sat, a girl smiled upon him invitingly,
as much as to say: "Let's dance!" He was tempted, and then he recalled
that they had begun this dance since he had quit some years before. So
he kept his seat, and she smiled upon another. He escorted her, and they
joined the dancers. A hesitation, they called it, and he was positive he
would--could never learn it.

Presently the music stopped, and the couple returned to their seat.

"I know you are going to buy me a little drink," she said, whereupon the
man said "nix" and left. She glared after him, and called him "cheap."

Wyeth was glad now he had kept his seat. He didn't like bold women, even
in a cabaret, and this was the first one he had ever entered.

It was a place for amusements, he soon saw, for, between dances came
songs by many girls and a man or two, while clever dancing and "ballin'
the jack" was a feature; and it attracted to the performers many
nickels, that they did not hesitate to pick up 'ere they had fallen, and
"balled" again and again, until it seemed their legs must sure be tired;
but you see, they were accustomed to that.

"Some town," he said to himself, when he took his leave. "A good place
to forget, to live?" Well, it seemed that way.

CHAPTER SIX

_"Who're You!" She Repeated_

And now we arrive at the end of the pilgrimage of Sidney Wyeth. He had
ceased his critical observations, and had secured a room on the fifth
floor of an office building, that was owned and controlled by a Negro
lodge. He began an effort toward the distribution of his work, that he
believed would be successful now, since he had learned, by contact, the
art of reaching his people.

He placed a large desk in the office, and put a carpet on the floor; a
large table for wrapping purposes to one side, while upon the door and
the windows he had an artist painter inscribe the letters:

     CRESENT DISTRIBUTORS COMPANY

"Now, then," he said, "if I can induce someone, here and there, to go to
the people and follow the instructions I will cheerfully give, I think
_The Tempest_ will be placed into the hands of many people. And to that
end, I shall bend all my energy."

And thus he began work permanently. He decided to canvass every
afternoon, and to attend to the office and correspondence in the
mornings, until such a time, when it would not be necessary to do so.

He filled the country again with circular letters; but before he had
completed this task, he felt an illness pervading his usual healthy
physique. "Biliousness," he said. "It'll be over in a few days," and he
went to work much harder, in an effort to forget it.

For days he held it in check by the effort he put forth. But, as the
days came and went, it became harder. He didn't go to a physician, but
waited. But before many days had passed, however, he became conscious
that it was more serious. So there came a day when he felt strangely
sick; when he laid down, everything about him swam; he felt dizzy, but
withal, he kept up the fight.

"I won't give up to it, I won't!" he declared. And he earnestly tried to
overcome it.

He arose from his desk, and, despite the fact that his knees trembled
and his whole frame quivered, he went into the street. He felt a mad
desire to see this city, although he had been seeing it every day. So,
to the wide street he went, and boarded a car that took him around a
belt. It brought him back to where he had entered, and the route was
twelve miles long. It led him through the district where he canvassed,
and which was occupied by the richest. He saw their magnificent homes
this time, strangely. At times his eyes would close, despite his effort
to keep them open. And then, when he awoke, it was with a nervous start,
and he was surprised each time, to find himself aboard the large cars
that thundered along between rows of the finest houses in the city.

He could not interest himself in them now; they appeared dull and
without life. The car came down, and went through the business district
before it came back again into the wide street. He got off, and almost
fell in doing so. He stood for a time, at a loss to control himself. He
wouldn't go to bed, that was sure; but where to go, he could not think
for a time. Then it occurred to him to see that place--that place where
a thousand and more women, vandals, were hurrying life to its end.

So he walked in that direction, reeling at times, until some regarded
him as if he were drunk. He passed down a street that was called
Bienville. In that neighborhood it was the broad highway. And it was
crowded. It was then about nine o'clock, and the sidewalks were filled.
The girls were merry--they were always merry, apparently.... They called
to him as before, that is, a part of them. The others--well, the color
line was drawn here too, and white men came first.

"Hello, Brown Skin," smiled one he had not seen before, and winked. He
regarded her for a moment strangely. She took it as an evidence of
encouragement. She beckoned to him vigorously, and _promised_ so very
much. He turned, and before him rose one of the ghostly, silent
places--the cemetery. It aroused him, for a time, from his apparent
lethargy. He looked at it, and thought how strange it was this city had
so many. And they were always silent--waiting, waiting, waiting.

He shuddered and moved away from it, and in a direction that he had not
been. On all sides the girls were gay that night. He went around a
block, ignoring invitations. His brain was clear for awhile, and he
thought: "Who located such a place?" A place where each day someone died
and went to hell! But, as he thought the more, he concluded that dying
was not necessary. It was a living death....

"Come in, Brown Skin, not a man has been here tonight." He looked up,
and in the doorway stood a woman. She was tall and slender, and brown.
She smiled with an effort, he could see, for, in truth, the woman was
hungry.

"I'm hungry," she faltered, "and that's on the square. The landlord took
every dime I made last night, for rent this morning. Not a bite have I
eaten this day. Every day he calls early for his rent. Business is
rotten--everybody's broke; but he must have his rent, or out into the
street I go." She paused and looked tired, and then went on: "I'm so
weak. I'd slip out of this hell hole, and try to make an honest living,
but I have no clothes, and besides, I'm afraid that while I was gone, he
might come along and turn the lock, and carry the key with him. And too,
the bulls are filling the streets tonight, and fly cops are everywhere.
So I might be arrested, and go t' jail. I don't like that place up
there." And she sighed a long drawn, weary sigh.

"Why would you be arrested?" he inquired, speaking for the first time.

"Why would I be arrested?" she exclaimed. "You must not know the rules
of this district," she cried. "Why, we are not allowed to leave it. When
we enter this, we agree to stay!"

"To stay?" he echoed.

"Yes," she replied. "To stay...." He followed her gaze. She was not
aware of what she saw, no doubt; but he was. Before her gaze rose gray,
grim and sinister, one of those places--the abode of dead things. Yes,
and it was waiting, silently waiting. He turned and regarded the woman.
She was quiet. A man came by crying:

"Hot sandwiches--hot tamales--five cents apiece!"

He saw her gazing at them with eyes that were dry, but hungry.

"Here," he cried, "with your sandwiches." And then turned to her:

"Take as many as you want. All you can eat tonight, and some for
tomorrow!"

Her eyes widened. She beheld him now with wonder. "Do you mean it?" she
whispered, in a subdued voice.

He nodded, and handed the man a half dollar.

She ate ravenously, while he watched. Presently he started, while she
watched him strangely, as if he were something unearthly. He turned
suddenly, and came back to where she stood. He ran his hand into his
pocket, and drew forth three silver dollars. "Here," he said, and a
moment later he was gone.

She stood transformed, and then, dreamlike, she cried after him:

"God bless you!"

Back toward his room he now walked, and at times stumbled. But all the
way the words of that woman rang in his ears: "God bless you!" "God," he
murmured, "do You know these people? Are You acquainted with these women
who are sinning? They don't know You! Their souls are burning now in
hell!" He didn't know the direction he was going, nor did he hear the
invitations; but soon he came to one of those walls, and looked up. Yes,
they were inside.... Those who had known this life in the infinite long
ago. And they were waiting for those others....

"Brown Skin," he now heard, and then much gayety followed; but he looked
up and saw the others, who were likewise waiting. "Sin on little girl.
Satan's got your soul, and you'll burn in hell some day."

He went a block where, on one side the gray silence greeted him, while
on the other gay life was the order.

"Come in boy, I've something to tell you." But Sidney Wyeth made no
answer; all the while he could feel that silent spectre, the grave. And
it seemed to say: "We are waiting, waiting, waiting."

He went now in the direction of his room, and as he went along, the gray
court kept telling him: "These are mine--all of them. And, do you know,
they come to me each day. Oh, they are gay--now! The devil's got their
souls, but I always get the rest. Meanwhile I am waiting, patiently
waiting."

Gay music came from the doors of a cabaret, and he saw it was for
colored people. White people were not allowed within. He entered. The
accustomed crowd lined the walls. The same girls came each night--he now
saw. They welcomed those who wished for drinks, which came at fifteen
cents apiece; a half of which they received at the end of the night, and
that was how they lived.

He avoided them. On the floor were the dancers. The music was inspiring,
and "balling the jack" was the order. A rain of nickels came down upon
them, and they quit only when they were exhausted.

He was awakened by a waiter, at the table where he had fallen asleep. So
he ordered a drink, gulped it down with an effort, and took his leave.
He emerged, and had walked a few steps, when someone touched him. He
looked down into the face of the woman who had been hungry.

"Who're you?" she said. "_Who're you?_" she repeated, "to feed a
starving wench and ask nothing. Don't look at me so strangely. I
followed you. I saw you enter there. I would have followed you in; but
they don't allow _us_ in there.... They don't allow us anywhere but--oh,
well, I didn't come to tell you my troubles. And then," she added, "I
wouldn't wish to disgrace you by having others see; but won't you come
back?"

He gazed down into her eyes and saw the truth therein. "A lost soul....
Yes, a lost soul." And then something within him seemed to burst. The
world about him became a maze of darkness, and he knew no more.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"_At Last, Oh Lord, At Last!_"

Mrs. Ernestine Jacques very soon became devoted to her roomer, Mildred
Latham. She told her husband as much when she had been in the house a
few days.

"She's a delightful girl, a fine companion, and I am glad she made
inquiry of you in regard to lodging."

"I am pleased to hear it," said her husband. "I am glad to have found
you a companion, and now you won't miss me so much, will you?"

"Of course, I will," she pouted. "I didn't mean that," she said. "But
women, you know, seem to require friends, even when they have the best
husbands in the world."

We leave them at this point, and return to the subject of their
conversation, who had begun a canvass in the sale of Wyeth's book, and
had met with success, which is neither unusual nor strange, since it
depends upon the efforts of the worker.

She estimated that he would confine his work to the aristocratic
section, where the multitude of servants were, so she decided to try the
colored people in their homes, to begin with. Therefore, from one she
learned of others, until she had a list of people whom she worked among,
and with excellent results. She became an attendant of the Methodist
church, where she met many, and made acquaintances that increased the
success of her work. And thus her life flowed serenely along, uneventful
for many weeks. But she had not seen or heard of the one she sought,
although, in the course of time, she came across the book, and knew it
had been bought from him.

It rained at times, until whole days were lost, for it was too wet to
enter nice homes. She stayed in her room at these times, and talked
with Mrs. Jacques as little as possible, although she longed to do so
very much. She was glad to see, as the time went on, that the two were
devoted to each other. Dr. Jacques was a good man, and was even a better
husband.

"Some day," she sighed, "maybe I'll be like that." She pondered now for
some time.

Mildred had reached no decision, as yet, in regard to her plans. She was
nervous, at times, on the street, fearing she might meet Sidney. She
worked hard to occupy herself, and thus it went along, until she had
gotten her work well under way.

"Have you ever been up in the Perier building?" a lawyer, who purchased
a book, inquired of her.

"No, sir, I have not. Where is that, and are there colored people about
it?" she said.

"Yes, ma'am. It is a building occupied and owned by Negroes. There are a
great many people located in it who would buy the book, I am sure," he
informed her. "I would advise you to go."

"I thank you ever so much, indeed," she cried gratefully. "I shall go
there tomorrow."

The next day was a beautiful one; the air was fragrant with the perfume
of roses, and the birds sang, seemingly, everywhere.

"A storm of some proportion will reach this place before night," said
Dr. Jacques. "A day that begins as this one, always ends that way!"

"My husband is a weather prognosticator," commented his wife,
humorously. Mildred smiled knowingly from across the table.

"And you have been very successful with your work, Miss Latham?" said
he, surveying her appreciatively.

"Oh, very much so. But it has been so elsewhere." She told him of her
work in the city she had just left.

"It was a strange coincidence," said he, "how they came to secure the
Y.M.C.A. in that town. I keep myself pretty well informed regarding
uplift among our people, and it was truly a delight when I read, that,
at almost the last minute, money that was lacking, but necessary to
fulfil the requirements, was brought to hand.

"It was too bad Grantville failed in the effort to secure theirs. And
they wanted it so badly," the doctor continued. "I attended school in
that city, and always have a warm spot in my heart for the place."

"Well, dear," said his wife, "how did they come to fail in the effort in
Grantville, and succeeded in this other town? I understood you to say
that Grantville had a much more intelligent set of colored people, and
more progressive."

"So it has! So it has!" he said quickly; "but by some strange
coincidence, the money necessary to complete the arrangement, was
brought forward at almost the last minute. Otherwise, they had
acknowledged failure."

"I wonder where the money came from?" she mused.

"I suppose I must be going about my work," said Mildred, rising. "I am
going to canvass the Perier building today. I have been told there are
many offices occupied by persons who might buy."

"Most assuredly," said the doctor. "There are many I am sure." He was
thoughtful a moment, and then continued: "Our people in this town are
not possessed with that race spirit which it is claimed Negroes have in
other cities. They are accused of lacking unity; but, in spite of that,
when one applies himself to the task with patience and fortitude, enough
of the spirit can be aroused to make work like yours remunerative. But,
nevertheless, I am often distressed when I realize, that we haven't a
first class local race paper here; for, without one, it is impossible to
reach the people--the colored people--through advertising, unless a high
rate is paid in the columns of the white paper, and that is not
practical."

"Are you much acquainted in the building?" Mildred inquired.

"Oh, yes, I know everybody--that is, almost everybody. The last time I
was over there, I observed that an office had been taken by one who is
a stranger to me; and I observed, also, that he appeared to be studious,
so it might be worth while to see him too."

She thanked him, kissed his wife, and a few minutes later, her steps
died away in the distance.

"Dear," said Mrs. Jacques, "don't you know that she reminds me of
someone I knew a long time ago. But who it was, where it was, I do not
know; but I always feel queer when she kisses me."

"You're becoming fanciful," he smiled, lighting a cigar.

They talked about other subjects, and Mildred was, for the time,
forgotten.

"A story of the northwest, by a Negro pioneer, eh?" said a man, upon
whose office door was written: _Real Estate, Loans and Renting_. "M-m.
Looks like a good book. Negroes don't write many books, although there
are a great many that come the rounds about Negroes, but gotten up by
whites with a sketch about Tom, Dick and Harry, and exaggerated
estimates of the Negro. So, in view of the fact, I guess you may put me
down for a copy, and deliver it next week."

"Thank you, sir," she said, as she wrote his name, and the date of
delivery.

"Having much success?" he inquired.

"A great deal, I am glad to say," she replied pleasantly.

"Glad to hear that. There are always readers to be found, if one looks
for them; but, on the whole, the people of this town have not much of a
literary turn of mind."

"Indeed!"

"No, it is such a care-free, happy-go-lucky place, that not all the
people who should, try to concentrate themselves in reading." He was
quiet and thoughtful for a moment, and then said: "Have you tried many
of the school teachers?"

"A great many," she said.

"And how did you find them?"

"Well, just fair. I sold to a few of them."

"A few of them, eh! It would seem they should welcome the fact that
Negroes are beginning to write books."

"Obviously, yes."

"And the preachers?"

"They buy; but some of them dislike to, so much so, that I have
dispensed with going to them."

"And the physicians?"

"They are very nice." She didn't say how nice, and he didn't ask, so it
ended there.

She went from one office to another, and almost all purchased. Some out
of real interest, while others subscribed merely through courtesy to
her, and from the fact that it was rare to meet colored people selling,
or trying to sell anything.

She had completed the third floor, and was ascending to the fourth, when
the then overcast skies became darker and rain began falling fitfully.
She made all the offices on that floor with her usual success, and
started upon the fifth. Twilight was gathering, and, with the darkness
from the clouds, lights were soon aglow.

She had made the fifth and was just passing to the elevator, when she
chanced to spy an office that she had overlooked, and, in that moment,
she recalled the doctor's statement about the stranger. The office was
at the end of the hall--a hall that was not much used, evidently.
Mildred observed, as she approached, that the door was slightly ajar.
She knocked lightly, and then, receiving no invitation, pushed the door
open and entered.

A man sat at the other side of the room, and he seemed to be sick, or
asleep--at least he lay with face downward across the desk, at which he
sat. She approached him, disregarding his apparent lethargy, and when
she had offered a greeting, and he had raised himself slightly, she told
him the story of the book.

He was sick, she soon saw, and she felt sympathetic. She bathed his
head--his forehead--with a damp towel; then she inquired if he felt
better, and looked for the first time into his face.

"At last, oh Lord, at last!" she cried, in a subdued voice, as she
bounded down the steps. "I have found him, I have found him!" She walked
hurriedly on her way to the street, and did not wait or think of the
elevator that would have saved her strength. When she was on the street,
she hurried through the rain--for it was pouring now--and did not stop
until the ferry had been reached.

Once aboard this, she hid herself in the darkest place she could find,
and there, as the paddle of the propeller came to her ears, she cried:
"Sidney, my Sidney, I have found you. And never, never, until the end of
the world will I be far from you--Oh, my love!"

CHAPTER EIGHT

_"Well, I'm Going!" And She Went_

"Typhoid-pneumonia," said the physician, rising from over the patient,
who had just been brought to the hospital.

Sidney Wyeth, unconscious, was carried at once to the section of the
great hospital reserved for patients with contagious diseases.

"What do you think of it, doctor? Is it a serious case, or just a light
attack?" inquired one of the assistants, who was making a specialty of a
study of fever.

"Serious," was the reply, "very serious. He will be lucky if he is able
to pull through."

"I just missed you, Miss Latham," said Dr. Jacques, coming in a few
minutes after Mildred had entered the house.

"Indeed, I am sorry! We could have come over together," she exclaimed,
smothering her excitement for the time, and smiling regretfully, when he
had told her that he was in the Perier building just before she left.

"Were you very successful with the people in the building?" he inquired
pleasantly.

"I received eleven orders there today."

"Too bad the young man, the stranger, took sick. You might have gotten a
dozen," he said.

"Who took sick?" she inquired, with a start.

"The young man I spoke to you about this morning," explained the
physician. "He was carried from the building shortly after you left,
with a serious attack of typhoid-pneumonia." He was standing with his
back to her when he said this, and, therefore, did not see her start and
open her mouth. She swallowed the exclamation, and he was no wiser.
Hurrying to her room, she entered, locked the door, and sat down with a
wild look in her eyes, plainly frightened.

"Sick," she mumbled. "Typhoid-pneumonia. Oh, merciful God!" She was
silent then for a long time. Outside, the rain continued to fall, while
in the other rooms she could hear Mrs. Jacques singing softly, as she
busied herself in the preparation of the evening meal.

"If I had only known," Mildred whispered to herself. And then she was
compelled to dismiss what she was thinking of, as being impractical. She
continued to sit and meditate, until she was called to supper by
Ernestine. She arose and bathed her face, realizing it would be
advisable to appear unconcerned, for, as she now estimated, she would
dislike to be questioned.

When the meal was over, she inquired of the physician where the patient
had been taken.

"To the charity hospital," he replied.

"I see," she said calmly. "Is that a good place?"

"Oh, the best in the south. The Sisters of Mercy have it largely in
charge, and they give the best possible care to all patients--black or
white."

She went to her room, slightly relieved, and fell at once to planning.

The fact that he had taken an office, was self-evident that he was
preparing some extensive campaign with regard to his book. As it stood
now, whatever he had been arranging would stop at once.

It was late that evening when she retired. But, before sleep came to her
eyes that night, she had decided upon a course of action.

Mildred arose early, dressed, heated some tea, and ate a light lunch.
Then she threw on a dress, hurried out of the house and down to the
ferry. An hour later, she was at the hospital.

"I called, beg pardon," she began, "to inquire about a patient who was
brought here last evening, and who, I understand, was stricken with
typhoid-pneumonia. His name is Sidney Wyeth, and he is a colored man."

After a moment, in which the record was consulted, the informant turned
to her and said: "Sidney Wyeth, a colored man, serious attack of
typhoid-pneumonia. In the ward of contagious diseases. Cannot be seen,
Madam, I regret to say."

"Indeed--ah,--did you say--it--was--quite serious?" she inquired,
tremulously.

"Quite serious, Madam. Quite serious."

"There is no doubt, however--ah, that he will recover?"

"We are not allowed to give out information of that nature. He may
recover, and still he may not; but we cannot say."

"Just another question, sir," she said hesitatingly. "About how long
would it be, in case he should recover, before he will likely be on the
street?"

"Cases as serious, and of that nature, rarely leave the hospital under
two months, possibly three, and sometimes it is even four; but, if he
should recover, it would not be possible under two months."

"Very well, I thank you," and, bowing, she left the desk.

Mildred walked down the wide street upon which the hospital faced. She
had not consulted any one else, and in truth, had no idea that the
disease would last so long.

"What can I do, what can I do?" she asked herself several times, as she
passed down the street. "He has just started up, and to think that such
a misfortune should overtake him at the outset."

She walked on down the street, until she arrived at the corner, where
she paused for a moment. She turned, and only a block away rose the
Perier building. She could see his office. It was toward the rear, and,
as she stood looking up at it meditatively, she caught an outline of the
desk at which he had sat, when she came into the office, with no thought
that she was near him.

"I am going up there, to the custodian of that building, and--well, I'm
going," and she went.

"Are you the custodian of the building, sir?" she inquired a few minutes
later, of an elderly man with a pointed beard and cleverly trimmed
mustache.

"I am, Madam," he replied. "And at your service."

"A gentleman, who has recently taken an office here, was yesterday
stricken with typhoid-pneumonia, and was taken to the charity hospital."

"Yes, Madam, so he was," acknowledged the other. "Too bad. He took the
office only a short time ago, and seemed to be a very progressive young
man. You are acquainted with him?" he asked, observing the worried look
upon her face.

"Yes, sir. I am acquainted with him."

"Indeed! I suppose you are a relative or a close friend," he said, and
then paused before proceeding. "His office is open--that is, no one is
there to attend to it, and he seems to be the recipient of considerable
mail, I have observed. So, if you are interested in his affairs, you may
have the key and look after the matter, if you wish too." He was very
cordial, and the fact saved her from explaining what she had in view
when she entered.

"Yes," she said, "I am interested in his affairs, and it is very kind of
you to make the suggestion. In truth, it was on his account that I
called here. I should be glad to look after his business while he is
indisposed," she ended bravely and kept her face straight.

The custodian gave her the keys, and a few minutes later, she found
herself in the small office, looking curiously and guiltily about.

She assorted the mail, and then, going through what had been opened, she
soon got an idea of his plans. Being engaged in this same work, it was
easy for her to collect the broken threads, and resume his task. She
carefully opened the mail that had come that day, and, a moment later,
was typing replies to a score or more, in the manner he would have done,
had providence given him the opportunity.

She worked late that evening, and neglected to canvass at all, although
it was a beautiful day.

She saw, by the copy in one of the drawers, that he was advertising for
agents, and in an apparently successful way. Now, it had occurred to her
before, that white people preyed upon Negroes as agents, and, moreover,
from her own experience, she had come to realize that they would (white
agents) attempt to sell anything, if inducements were made that seemed
plausible.

When she was in her room alone that night, she did some more planning,
some figuring, and some estimating. In the end, she decided to take the
risk.

Being a business woman had always appealed to her fancy, and the work
was, to her, a most absorbing diversion. She had learned how to operate
a typewriter when she attended school, and was very clever at shorthand
also, could keep books with proficiency, and was now glad she had
learned these things, although, until she had taken up the sale of the
book, she had had no occasion to use her ability.

The following day, she arrived at the office at eight o'clock sharp, and
went to work at once. When the mail came, she was cheered to receive
twenty dollars in the same, and also, to note three orders from agents,
who were selling the book in other cities. She attended to all this, the
packing and shipping of the books, wrote replies to all letters,
including some of encouragement to those who were succeeding.

She had lunch at a nearby cafe, and returned to work immediately. She
then made up a list of carbon copies, which she mailed before going
home, to several newspapers all over the country, inclosing a money
order in each to cover the cost of insertion.

"And now," she sighed, "I am happy. I feel better than I have felt for
some time...." She closed her eyes meditatively, and thought of him.
Would he survive? Typhoid-pneumonia was a dreadful disease, and she was
considerably worried. When she retired that night, she prayed a long
prayer, and went to sleep with a smile upon her lips, at peace with the
world, and with hopes for the best.

CHAPTER NINE

"_I Hope You--Won't--Won't be Angry_"

"We cannot give out information as to the condition of the patient,
Madam," said the informant at the hospital, when Mildred had called to
inquire regarding the condition of her lover. She turned wearily away,
and went back to the office.

She was anxious to know the worst, if it came to that, and was worried
daily, until she could not restrain the desire to visit the hospital
each morning, before she went about the duties she had preempted.

"He is not dead," she whispered to herself, "and if I go each day, I can
work with my mind at peace; whereas, I would surely go crazy, if I were
compelled to go along, and not know whether he is living or dead."

Two weeks passed and he still lived, and at the end of that time, she
was advised at the hospital, that recovery was expected, but that he
would be, in all likelihood, unable to leave the hospital under two
months from that date.

She went to the office that day in the highest spirits, and was
especially cheered to find a pile of letters in answer to the
advertisements. Replies were many during the following days. In due
course of time, she had secured a large number of agents, and a greater
portion, upon following her instructions, were successful. Orders for
books began to fill the office, and after she had been in charge of the
office a month, she was pleased to see that she was actually succeeding.
Each mail brought money and express orders, and then, the work being too
heavy for one, she looked about for a stenographer to help her. She was
successful in securing a very intelligent girl, a creole, with French
ways and a command of that tongue which, at times, especially when
excited, conflicted with her English to a degree that was amusing.

As the days went by, business increased, until at the end of six weeks,
more than a thousand dollars was finding its way to the office each
week. Mildred was encouraged, she was delighted. She deposited the money
to his credit in a savings account, and used only what was necessary for
expenses and for her own living. She became so enthusiastic over the
same, that she almost forgot he would return, and then--but she got no
further.

"He will be able to leave the hospital in two weeks, possibly ten days,"
the informant advised her the last day she called, which was eight weeks
after he had taken sick. It was only then that she became fully
appreciative of the position she held. She now became uneasy, as, after
thinking it over for some time, she was unable to decide what to do. The
business was now so heavy, that it was impossible to be away from it;
money came in each mail, and sometimes in large sums, while orders and
inquiries for the agency, kept her dictating letters for hours each day.
She permitted herself, that day and other days that followed, to become
the heroine in a wild dream. She saw him well, which he would be soon,
and she fancied how much she could help him. But always, when she
recalled the past, there came a choking, and she would turn desperately
to her work in order to forget.

"And yet," she said to herself one day--and that was only a few days
before he was expected to return--"I must do something. I cannot sit
here and allow him to walk in upon me, because--he, oh, I'm afraid he
might resent it."

One morning the mail was heavier than usual, because it was Monday, and
Saturday had been a holiday. Springtime had come, with its time of
blossom, and the air was fragrant. She hummed a little tune and was
happy that day; happier than she had been for a long time. She went
about the great amount of work with a calmness and precision, that
resulted in finishing it before five o'clock. Ordinarily, there was
enough to have kept them busy until the next day noon.

"Well, Katherine," she said to the stenographer, "we have been very
industrious today, and I am going to bring you something nice tomorrow.
You are very helpful," and with a quick impulse she kissed the other,
who returned it as affectionately.

In that moment, she almost felt inclined to tell the girl the burden
that was upon her, but she thought better of it quickly, and, with a
kind word, she turned to her desk, and for a time listened to the
other's footstep in the hallway, where she moved occasionally, while
waiting for the elevator.

From a drawer she took some letters, and glanced over them reflectively.
They were letters from a girl she recognized in the story, and from
their tone, she surmised that the other had once loved him. That love,
however, had changed in the course of events, and now they were only
friends.

She sat for a long time and gazed dreamily out over the city, and then,
suddenly, it occurred to her, that she was sitting in the same position
he had occupied, when she had entered his office almost ten weeks
before. She stirred uneasily. At that moment a step sounded in the hall,
and came in the direction of the office. It paused a minute outside the
door, and then it was opened, and some person stood on the threshold.

It was getting dark, and as the man paused, she observed that he looked
about the office strangely--doubtfully. In so far as he knew, he had
felt the office was a thing of the past, and at this moment he muttered:
"Hump. Guess someone else is in this place." Presently, with another
muttering, he came toward the window. Mildred sat stupified, and seemed
unable to move any part of her body. She felt strangely paralyzed. When
he got near the middle of the room, he suddenly bethought himself of the
light, and turning, he went to the wall, where the switch was located,
and pressed the button.

She had rearranged the office, that is, she had added to the number of
lights, since there were only two bulbs when she came. Now there were
six. Over the desk set one, and it had a reflector. When he pressed the
button, the room became instantly illuminated by the bright rays, while
the one on the desk reflected full into her face.

She said something and turned her face, while he gave a start and cried:

"You!"

The next moment, he fell back and observed her strangely. She sat as he
had found her, with head lowered and heart thumping violently. He
advanced after a pause, and stood close to her, regarding her with a
look that was stranger still. He appeared to be at a loss what to say or
do; then he raised his hand to his forehead, while his gaze was one of
utter blankness. It occurred to her then, that he might be impaired in
some way, after such a severe illness. So, with an effort, she rose
boldly from the chair, and facing him, said:

"Yes, it is I, Sid--Mr. Wyeth." She was compelled, by the thumping of
her heart, to hesitate for a moment, and then she continued, more
calmly: "I have made bold to come here during your illness,
and--and--take charge of your work. I hope," she was now faltering,
while he was regarding her without understanding, from the expression he
wore. And--oh! She saw it now. He was regarding her with disfavor. A
frown played about his lips that appeared drawn and thin, while his eyes
gradually changed until they were openly hostile--contempt almost could
be read. She turned her eyes away.

This was her reward. She choked. Her brain became a whirl for a moment.
She had tried to help him, and had succeeded. She had thought of it in
that way; she now strangely realized that she had not expected any
thanks--indeed, she had never thought of anything but to make the
business a success. And, she was positive, that she had not expected any
reward.

She was saying something. She was not fully aware what it was, and her
head hung down, while her eyes sought the floor, instead of his face
with the hostile expression.

"I hope you--won't--won't be angry!" With a great effort, during which
she felt he was regarding her in the same critical manner, although she
was careful not to glance into his face, she explained briefly what had
transpired during his absence. "And so," she concluded, "here is
everything drawn down to date," and with that, she suddenly caught up
her light coat, drew her turban hat over her head, and went toward the
door.

As she did so, she was aware that he had turned and was looking after
her. She paused when she reached the door, and thought of his illness.
He might take sick again. She saw his eyes now for a brief moment, and
they were upon her. She could not read them altogether, but it seemed as
if the hostility was gone, and a look that bordered on appeal had taken
its place. Her gaze lingered kindly, and then she said:

"You are ill--have been. Please be careful." And, in spite of the effort
it cost her to say it, she added: "I will come again tomorrow," and was
gone.

All that night she tossed and tumbled in her little bed in Tunis. And
when morning came, she dropped off to sleep. Mrs. Jacques called her,
and then came to the room and knocked at the door. Presently, she
ventured to open it slightly. Mildred was snoring peacefully.

"She's tired, poor thing. Very tired." She looked at her again. Her face
was upturned and her throat was exposed. A beautiful brown throat. She
crossed the room easily to where she lay, gazed down at her for a
moment, and became conscious again of that same feeling that had been
haunting her since she knew her. She stopped presently, and drew the
lace night dress down a bit. The next moment she recoiled in fright.

"At last, oh God! At last I have found her! My sister!" The other
stirred. Light shown brightly through the window, for it was
seven-thirty, and the sun was climbing. But Mildred Latham was tired,
and was snoring again in calm repose. The other bent over her. She kept
from putting her arms about her with much effort, and then kissed her
lips fondly.

She stood a few feet away, and regarded her with a heavenly feeling, and
then, drawing the blind until the room was fully dark, she left her.

CHAPTER TEN

_Vellun Parish--Jefferson Bernard_

Sidney Wyeth sat for a long time at his desk after he had looked through
the statement before him. He could not for some time understand how it
had all come about. He had been carried from the office unconscious ten
weeks before, and during that time, or when he had come back into his
senses after many weeks, he had concluded that his effort, which had not
gone very far, was doomed to die, and had resigned himself to the
inevitable. Now before him was a statement, which showed that more than
a thousand dollars was finding its way to the office each week, in
excess of the cost of the books. More than five thousand dollars was to
his credit in a local bank. What miracle had been wrought to make such a
profit in so short a time--or any time at all? It had taken him two
years to reach a fourth edition of this book, while now the copies
before him stated ninth edition. How had it all happened?

There was but one answer, and that was, Mildred Latham.

He lived over again the years of the past. He saw her as he had met her
on that first day. He recalled her patience and appreciation, while he
explained to her the contents of the book, and the order she had given.
He remembered the dance and the kiss, with a strange pang of the heart.
In all his days, no kiss had seemed like that. And the look in her eyes
afterward. Was that love? Surely that was life. If God, our Creator,
made that possible, then life was worth the effort. He became so
absorbed in his reflections, that he started when he recalled his last
visit.

After that it was different. But for that--but he had worried himself
sick, and had succeeded in forgetting it and her until the day he took
sick. He was too weak and torn by the illness to think about the matter,
while he lay on his back in the hospital. But when convalescence had set
in, he had thought of it almost constantly. Try as he would, he had been
unable to understand how it all happened. He pondered over it until he
entered the office an hour ago, and now it was all plain.

"Who is this girl?" he asked himself. "What is she?" he demanded. "She
has always puzzled me." But, at the end of it all, the old hag on the
steps, with the words she had spoken, rose again before him, and he
forgot--he felt he was compelled to forget, all the rest.

He got up, after a time, and walked about the office. He felt tired, and
in view of her success, and of the circumstances surrounding it, he
would go somewhere and rest, until he had thought it all out. But of one
thing he was certain, and that was he must never see her again. He could
love her; he could do anything within his power for her--he was only too
glad to; but he felt he could never forget the few words he had heard a
long time ago.

So he wrote a letter to the effect that he had gone away, but he did not
state where.

"Oh, I have overslept myself dreadfully," cried Mildred, entering the
kitchen where the other worked away in silence.

"I started to awaken you, and you were resting so quietly, that I
desisted," Mrs. Jacques replied, regarding her with a fond glance that
the other did not understand.

"I must hurry, for, of all mornings, this is the very one I would not
have been late for anything," and she hurried through her breakfast and
was turning to go, when the other came up, threw her arms about her
impulsively, and kissed her long and lingeringly upon the lips. Mildred
returned the embrace, but she did not understand the expression in the
eyes of the other, as she took her leave.

She arrived at the office, and was surprised to find only Katherine
working away on the books.

"Has--ah, any one been here?" she inquired, after waiting to hear
something from the lips of the other.

"No, ma'am, no one," said the other, looking up in surprise for a
moment.

"Very well," said Mildred, seating herself at her desk. As she did so,
her eyes fell upon an envelope with her name written across it, and
marked personal. She broke the seal nervously. Calming herself, she
straightened out the folded sheet, and read it carefully.

     _Miss Mildred Latham_,

       _My Dear Madam_:

     It is impossible to state how much you have done for the sale of
     the book during my illness. I do not hesitate to say, that in view
     of the fact that I have struggled over a period of two years, with
     only a small measure of success, as compared to that which has come
     about since you have looked after it, that it is beyond me. I
     cannot, however, conscientiously accept it in the way you have
     offered it according to your statement. So I have, therefore, made
     over to you the sum total that you placed in the bank to my credit.

     I am leaving the city for parts unknown, and may not return for a
     long time--and possibly not at all.

     Regretting that I cannot thank you more amply, but hoping you will
     accept what is no more than due you, I am,

     Very sincerely yours,

       SIDNEY WYETH.

She laid the letter down and gazed into space for a long time, not
trying to understand anything. He had gone, and left her. He had given
her all she had earned, and the privilege of earning more, but he had
gone. Would he ever return?... She was sorry now that she didn't tell
him all when it had been convenient; and still, in the next thought, she
was glad she hadn't.

She was not excited, but went about the work without any outward sign
that she had been the recipient of anything unusual; but all the day
through, she was thinking of what had just passed. She could not recall
what she had expected, or that she had expected anything; but of one
thing she was more conscious than ever before, and that was that she
loved him with all her soul.

So she decided to allow matters to drift along and made no change.

Wyeth stood before the window of the city ticket office of a small
railroad. He was attracted by a parish which appeared rather remote, but
where a lake was advertised as a nice place to fish. He made up his mind
to go there. It was a half day's journey by rail, and a train left in
two hours. He returned to his room, and an hour later his trunk was at
the depot. He passed near the building, and from where he paused, he
caught a sight of her sitting at the desk where she had sat the night
before.

He could go to her now, and say what had been on his lips more than a
year before. He gazed at her for a long time, and was conscious of a
longing. He had loved her--oh, so very much. Indeed, she was everything
he had desired. Then he thought of the hag and what she had said, and
went his way to the depot.

Vellun Parish is perhaps the most remote part of the state. It lies
toward the southwest, and is bounded on one side by the Gulf of Mexico.
Its land is all swamp, while no part of it is more than ten feet above
the level of the sea. The most of it is under perhaps a foot of water.
Upon the dry portion a few people live. They make no effort to raise
crops further than a garden, but depend mostly upon fishing, and upon
tourists for their living. One railroad pulls through the mighty swamps
about it, and has a small station located on this dry spot. It is many
miles to another station. Almost everybody leaves the place in summer,
for mosquitoes hold sway, while sickness and swamp fever are prevalent.

It was high noon at this resort, and from down the track could be heard
the whistle of a small locomotive--for the trestles would not hold up
large, heavy ones, Presently, with a ringing of bells, it came to a stop
before the station, and two people got off, other than members of the
train crew. One from the rear, and the other from the front of the Jim
Crow car.

The latter was Sidney Wyeth, and in his hands he carried a fishing
outfit and other matter, together with a suit case. Before the station
loafed a few of the inhabitants, including an old man whose age was
perhaps sixty. He regarded Wyeth strangely, but returned the nod
curteously, when the other had spoken.

"Have any idea where I can find lodging about here?" he inquired. It was
at the end of the winter season, and those who live the summer months
through, had resigned themselves to the heat and mosquitoes. The old man
surveyed Wyeth a moment critically before replying.

"Well, I dunno exactly," said he at last, and Wyeth was startled at his
command of language, for in those parts few spoke English, and when they
did it was bad. Creole was customary. The old man looked about a moment
before continuing, but presently he said. "I live alone over beyond that
clump of trees," and he pointed to a grove that Wyeth saw plainly, "and
if you are alone, you might go along and look it over, and if satisfied,
why we might make a deal."

"That's fair enough," agreed Wyeth. "I'm alone, and may be here a month,
a week, or it may be three months, I can't say."

"Very well then, follow me."

He took part of the luggage, and they went across one of the few cleared
spots of the parish. Finally they came to a neat log house behind a
paling fence, before which a dog barked viciously. "Don, Don, hush the
noise," the old man said. "He won't bite, but he is fond of barking."
The dog now rolled on his back at Wyeth's feet, and they soon became
friends. Sidney patted his head and then rolled him over, much to the
dog's delight.

"Well, well, Governor!" cried Wyeth enthusiastically, when they were
inside, "but you're all fixed here, I must say."

"Yes," said the other, slowly and modestly, "I guess it'll do for an old
relic like me," and he laughed humorously. Wyeth regarded him a moment,
and then, for the first time told him his name.

"And mine is Jefferson Bernard."

"Well, Mr. Bernard, I have always taken pride in the fact that I am at
home in the open," and he gazed out the window across the cleared spot,
and into the forest that surrounded the house.

"Glad to hear that," cried the other. "I was under the impression that
you were one of the fly butlers who come here with their people."

"No, I'm a sort of globe trotter, you might say. In fact, at the present
I have no plans whatever for the future, so I might bunk with you here a
few months. Depends on how my mind is at the end of each day."

"Restless, eh?"

"That's it. Have spent eleven years on the prairies of Dakota, and very
often, the 'Call of the Wild' gets into my veins, and I want to get out
where I cannot see any one, and sort of--well, forget the strenuous ways
of life for a while."

Both laughed agreeably.

"Well," said Jefferson Bernard. "I bunk here alone and do my own cooking
of course, and hunt and fish and read and sleep whenever I get ready."

Wyeth wondered at this man. About the wall everything was clean, while
the clothes the other wore were a forest suit of brown cloth, with lace
boots and a belt; his hat was a broad brimmed Stetson. They were all the
best of material, and the man's appearance was anything else but the
back-woods Negro. He started to inquire who he was, but something about
the other did not invite familiarity, so he talked on other topics
instead.

He had been there two weeks, and had been over all the part of the
parish that was accessible, when one of the periodic rainy spells set
in. For days they were unable to get outside without getting wet, and at
times they told a great deal about themselves.

"And that reminds me," said Bernard, "that you spoke of Cincinnati and
that you came south from there, a bit over a year ago. I, then, left
there after you did."

"Indeed," said Wyeth in surprise.

"Yes, I have been down here a little over a year only. I was reared in
this same parish many years ago, and, since then, I always had a longing
to come back and stay again until I got tired of it." He made himself
comfortable as he drew away on a long pipe; while Wyeth, observing him,
waited for the story he had to tell.

"Yes, I used to live in Cincinnati--in fact, I guess that is what I
might call home, if not this."

"This is news to me," said Wyeth.

The other smiled languidly, and went on:

"I used to live on Walnut Hill, and was employed by Stephen Myer, a
wealthy retired merchant, who not only was well-to-do in Cinci', but
owned a number of interests in the south, in fact, he came to Cincinnati
from the south not so long before, and never went back again, for he
died.

"I was his valet for years. Got acquainted with him right here in this
parish one winter, when he was staying at the hotel over there, and it
was the second winter when he hired me and took me north with him.

"Stephen Myer was a good man at heart, but a sport until he died, and
certainly believed in a good time with the women. He loved his family,
but he would run around, which recalls his death whenever I think of it.

"He came back from the south about three years ago I think, and it was
not long until I knew he was keeping a girl he had brought with him. I
paid the matter no attention, because he always had somebody before; but
strange to say, after that he had no other. It was kept very quiet and I
knew nothing of it,--that is, from him, until the night he died. That
took place while we were at a hotel in Detroit. His death was due to
heart failure, but it didn't take him as it does most of its victims. He
was conscious that he was going to die, although he was, to all
appearances, well.

"It was then he told me the story.

"Calling me to his bedside, this is what he said. I do not think I shall
ever forget it, because it was such an awful death. 'Jeff,' said he.
'I'm going to die.' I looked at him, saying: 'Oh, you're frightened;'
but he shook his head in such a way that I became frightened, and
waited. 'Yes, Jeff,' he resumed: 'I'm goin' to die, and Jeff, I'm going
to hell,' I tried to soothe him, but he only frowned slightly, and went
on. 'Yes, Jeff, I'm going to die and go to hell, because I deserve to go
there. I deserve to go there, Jeff, because I have sinned. Yes, Jeff,
I've committed an awful sin, and it's no more than my due to burn in
hell in payment. I never believed much in such a place until not long
ago, when I brought that girl to Cincinnati.' He breathed deeply and
with some effort, and it was then I could see he wore a strange
expression, and now, as I look back at it, I guess that meant death. He
went on again, after a breathing spell:

"'Bring me that box over there Jeff, that one with the key in the lock.
I want to leave that one whom I have wronged something before I'm done
for.' I brought it to him, and he unlocked it, and took therefrom a lot
of papers, and a certified check for twenty-five thousand dollars, all
made out, and to be turned over to her through due recognition, as
attested by his lawyers in Cincinnati. 'Hadn't I better wire for your
family?' I inquired of him; but he waived it aside, and said he didn't
want them to know until it was over.

"'Now, Jeff,' he went on, 'you are to take this envelope to my attorney
and see that you get their receipt of it, after which, when you get back
to Cincinnati, you take this box as it is to her. I trust you, Jeff, and
believe that you will attend to it. And, too, I've left you well cared
for; but that is in the will, in due form. And now, if you'll just give
me a drink of water, I'll tell you the story.

"'My company had their southern office in Attalia, and we had quite a
bit of business with the financial department of one of the big
denominations of Negro churches. And that was how we came to become
involved in this deal. The financial secretary of the church very often
gave us his note in payment, and soon became well known to me, and I
liked him. Pretty soon, however, it came to me that he aspired to be a
bishop; although the office he held was a good graft, and we knew it,
altho' the niggers didn't. But he became crazy to be a bishop and a real
big Negro, proper.

"'About this time, it came to my attention that something crooked,
something underhanded was going on in the affairs of the church. Well,
one of the boys who worked as porter, was reading a Negro paper one day,
and I observed that this financial secretary's picture covered the whole
front page. I took the paper, and when I had read all the stuff he had
written under another's name, I began to figure what it was costing him
to become a bishop. Other extravagances came under my observation, and,
since the business we had with them was becoming involved, I began an
investigation regarding the preacher. It developed that he had been
married twice--that is, the present wife was his second. The first one
had died and left him two daughters. My investigation, which came
through a Negro detective by the name of Dejoie, although he was known
during the investigation as Edwards, developed that he was a despot. His
youngest daughter by his first wife realized this, and she threw it into
his face, and left when she was thirteen, going to a place in Michigan
where she educated herself. The other was a girl with much sense, but
somewhat subservient to the old man, regardless of the fact that she
possessed a mind of her own. Apparently it had been the old man's
practice to have them regard him as the great I am. She stayed with her
father, who lived with his second wife, and to that union were born
several children, I don't know how many.

"'Edwards uncovered all this and some more. He revealed the fact that
this preacher, who was so anxious to become a bishop, was not only
seeking it by extravagant methods, but had employed the church's funds
to the amount of more than five thousand dollars. And still, all those
pig headed niggers knew nothing of it. It's a great wonder they have
anything, they seem to know so little. My company was up against it for
what was due us; but that was not the end of it. On top of this, what
did that sinner do but write my name on a note for five thousand
dollars, and, through his standing with the bank, got the money and
covered the shortage before those niggers ever knew there was any!
Wasn't that the limit? He was elected bishop, and became the big nigger
his great ambition had aspired to.

"'I was too put out to do anything at once, although the note came due
before I was aware it had been given.

"'The night I discovered it, was one when I happened to be in my office
alone. I decided forthwith to place it in the hands of the law. It was
then that this daughter came to the office with a note from him, asking
for an appointment. I have an idea he was only then aware that the note
was due or past due. She caught me as mad as a hornet, and I told her
the whole thing. I shall not soon forget the expression on her face when
I had told her. She looked like she would die right there. It was then,
too, I saw how beautiful she was and so well formed. Suddenly a proposal
entered my head. I have always been impulsive, but I have never been
known to back up. So I got up and stood before her, and said my say. She
was terribly indignant and would have fled, but I stood between her and
the door. I became mad to have that girl. She fought me, but I grew
worse. I finally said to her: "Come with me to Cincinnati, and save your
rotten, sinning preacher father from the chain gang. A home it is up
there with plenty of everything, or fifteen years for your now bishop
father on the worst chain gang in the world." She regarded me wildly, as
the substance of it became clear to her. "Oh, I mean it," I cried. "I'm
going to send that dad of yours to the chain gang tomorrow--and you know
what that means." I think all the horror of it rose before her in that
moment. All the Negroes, spiteful, envious creatures crying: "Aw, you're
a big nigger, huh. Your daddy's a bishop!" And the next day: "Um-um!
What do you think of it! A big bishop done fo'ged a note!" And she had
seen the chain gang. All those stripes and chains frightened her. She
looked up at me with an appeal in her eyes that frightened me--even
then; but I was too wild to have her at that moment, to give heed. And
then she begged me to have mercy. She cried and beseeched--she did
everything, and then--in the end--well, I'll not soon forget those
appeals. "I'm a nice girl. Can you not appreciate what that means? I
will--to save my father and those little ones; but before God: Hear him,
please, see him. I may be yours in body, but never in soul; while--oh,
can't you see what you ask? Can you not see that you take everything I
have lived for? Don't you see, that when you rob a woman of her purity
you have destroyed her womanhood?" She fell on her face and sobbed
until, as I see it now, I can't imagine how I could have acted so.

"'And that is why, Jeff, I'm going to hell. Yes, to hell!' He was going
now, his eyes had a far away, an unearthly expression; but before he was
gone, he said--and his voice seemed to come from another world as I held
him. 'I'm going, Jeff, I'm going. Satan's waiting for me. And, say,
Jeff,' his voice now came in gasps, and sounded as if from eternity: 'I
don't mind it so much, no I don't, Jeff; but the only thing, and the
last request of God, is to be sure to send that old preacher down to
meet me sometime.' With that his muscles relaxed, a spasm contracted his
form, and he lay dead."

The two were silent now. Outside a bird hopped about, and finally lit on
the window sill, peering in as if to inquire the cause of the silence.
After a long time, it seemed, Wyeth spoke.

"Strange. And did--you--ah--fulfill the request?"

"Yes," said the other slowly. "I did at once, and let me tell you, my
friend, I will never forget that girl's face. Oh, I've seen many; but
this girl's face told the story, and her story was that of a pure girl,
a good girl, who had made a sublime sacrifice. Was that sacrifice worth
the cost?" Again silence reigned supreme, each with his thoughts.

The birds outside made sweet music, as they flitted happily about.
Sidney Wyeth was speaking again, and his voice was from a distance, as
he said quietly:

"What became of her?"

"What became of her? Oh yes," cried the other, sitting up and shaking
off his distraction, as though he had been awakened from sleep. "Why,
she left soon after. Came south, and when I was on the way down here, I
chanced to stop over in a town--I won't mention the name--because she
was there. Was selling a book, so I understood, but was staying with the
pastor of the Presbyterian church, and high in their favor. I was glad
to see it and never let on; but there was a skunk aboard the same train
from Cincinnati, and who stayed there. I've often thought about it
since, and I hope that devil never knew her and made trouble. She was a
good girl, and still may be saved if things go along right."

"Life is full of mysteries," Wyeth commented.

"Sure is," his companion replied, and then became dreary, as his mind
wandered sadly, solemnly, back into the past. Suddenly he sat bolt
upright, saying: "I trust you, and for that reason, since I have told it
to you, I have a small picture that I found in the old man's effects,
and considered it good policy to remove. So I have kept it, and I'm
going to show it to you."

While the other fished away in an old trunk, a strange thought came to
Sidney Wyeth, and he recalled singularly, the effort for the Y.M.C.A. in
that town up the river, and how twenty-five thousand dollars from a
source that no one could explain, was paid at almost the last minute....
He was doing some thinking and had forgotten all about the other, who
had closed the trunk now, and came before him with a small picture. He
sat up quickly when the other touched him, and held before his gaze the
picture of Mildred Latham.

And in that moment there came a vision of a dark, dreary night, when he
hurried through the streets of Cincinnati, and came to a place where an
old woman sat, an evil hag; and who regarded him with malicious
eyes--eyes that appeared to hate everyone--and the words in reply to his
request, came back with a shock: "_Gwan! She's with her man!_"

Sidney continued to gaze at the picture. There was profound silence, for
neither spoke. One was not in the mood to do so, the other could not. He
raised his hand mechanically to his head, as though to rid his mind of
some obstruction. He tried to think coherently, but his senses were
confused.

He turned, staggered slightly, groping as if blindly, for support, and
passed on out into the open, and under God's pure heavens--anywhere away
from the stifling air inside, and its hideous secret.

Sidney stood outside now, and the spring sun beat upon his bare head,
as, with his trembling hand he shaded his eyes, and looked in the
direction of the creole city. Back there he would go--he had to go! He
couldn't say why--feel why--now. For, in the tangle of his confused
thoughts, nothing seemed clear. But, he would go back. His hand sought
his forehead again. Yes, he would go back.

Let us go back to a night when the heroine of our story got up from a
drunken stupor, to find that the hour of fate--fate for the Y.M.C.A. was
at hand. She had rushed breathlessly to the office of the Western Union,
and had secured the money that had been transferred, at her request,
from the Cincinnati bank some days before. She had known when Wilson
Jacobs returned unsuccessful in his attempt, that some expedient was
necessary.

When she realized a year before, that she was heiress to such a sum of
money, she had worried as to what she would do with it. Her conscience
would never let her touch a penny of it for personal use. It had been
left on deposit, and, insofar as her daily life had been concerned, she
had about forgotten it, until the climax of Wilson Jacobs' great effort
had stood like a spectre before her.

For a time she had hesitated, feeling that such money should not be used
for Christian purposes.... But, when she had awakened on that dreadful
night, she came at once to appreciate how, through her and her alone,
this effort should be realized.

So, she rushed pell mell through the streets that led to Wilson Jacobs'
home. As she hurried along, visions of the great need passed fitfully
through her mind. She recalled all the crime she had witnessed;
thousands yearly herded on the gangs, torn mothers, prostituted sisters,
homes broken up by that demon of liquor. She could see the condition
which forced so many of her people to the belief that colored people
could never be anything, regardless as to how much they might try.

Race prejudice, that demon of American society, had succeeded in
convincing so many of these weak people that there was no future; that
the only resort was to get all the excitement out of life that was
possible. How they conducted themselves to secure such a life, was the
one great detriment to the race, to the city, to the state, and in the
end, to the United States.

As she rushed along, she could hear these poor creatures, and the words
they uttered, when approached with offers for their salvation; for, in
addition to the discouragement caused by race prejudice, there was
another feature that was worse still--class prejudice. The folly of it.
The effect was more damnable, she knew, than all the other causes, for,
through it these poor creatures were made to feel that they were
actually bad; bad beyond redemption, which made them unfit for the
civilized world. Under this they fretted. They grew likewise to hate,
and in the end, to become not only a disgrace to the race, community and
state, but even enemies to society.

She recalled once a man, a mulatto and obviously a pervert, who answered
a street preacher. She could never seem to forget his words.

"You say," he had said, "that I should get religion. _and I say, what's
the use_? I'm a _nigger_, and that means I'm a vagabond, a cast-off, a
thing to be hated, condemned and persecuted. You speak of brotherly love
and the reward hereafter. I laugh when you make such assertions. _Heaven
for a Negro?_ Why, do you suppose that even Satan would care for him? As
to brotherly love, why don't you go to the white man that keeps my
sister? Why don't you tell that man what you preach about? I am
illegitimate. My youngest sister, the white man's mistress, is too, and
so are all the rest! Then you speak of heaven and reward in the
hereafter for Negroes. The hereafter is the chain gang, where my
illegitimate brother is serving twenty years for murder. As for me, I'm
going to a blind tiger and get a drink. I'm going to get drunk. The idea
that a Negro can be anything is a joke. There may be a heaven for white
people, but for a Negro, oh, you fool!"

As all this and other instances passed through her mind, Mildred became
much excited. Then, as the reality dawned upon her, a picture of what
that money could do became clear to her, and with Wilson Jacobs as its
secretary, she presently came to feel that her sacrifice might be a
blessing in disguise.

On and on she hurried, until at last she came to the house. She paused
at the gate, and caught her breath. Her thoughts were busy for a moment,
as she tried to formulate a plan to deliver the money without being
caught. She struggled nervously, with first one plan and then another,
and then at last she boldly entered the gate and walked up to the front
door. As she reached to push the bell, she looked through the glass
door. Wilson sat nodding in the study. His position, she saw, was such
that he could see the clock, and watch the fatal moments pass. It was
then past eleven. She could see the clock and realized what those
moments meant. He had, as she observed him, fallen asleep from sheer
fatigue. As she watched him, there came to her mind a bold idea, and she
put it into effect at once. She tried the door, fearing it might be
locked, but was relieved when it opened with a turn of the knob.

She entered the house on tip-toe, passed through the hall to the study,
which was to one side, entered the room in which he sat, and, with
breath held, nerves tense, she cautiously crossed to where he sat. She
slowly drew her breath, when she saw he was sleeping peacefully. She
placed the package containing the price of her virtue upon the table.
She looked at him again, and caught her breath in fear, as he moved
slightly, but did not fully awaken.

The next moment she stole her way to the door, like a thief in the
night, and was outside. She turned, as she heard a sound, and saw
Constance, weary, tired, and apparently nervally exhausted, come from
the rear and enter the study. She dared stand and watch her, as she
entered the study where her brother sat, now fully awake, but oblivious
to the presence of the package. He was watching the clock that was
ticking away.

With a catch of her breath, she saw that Constance had discovered the
package, and she saw them open it with curiosity. She noted the look of
intense joy, as their eyes beheld the contents.

As she was leaving, these words floated out to her in the stillness of
night, "_Go, brother, in God's name, go!_"

No one, so far as we know, guessed where the much needed money came
from. But, strangely enough, the giving had relieved the giver. After
she left the Jacobs' home, she felt as she had never felt before, and
took life and what it brought very calmly. As she passed along, she
looked with silent relief into the faces of those of her race, who were
persecuted on one hand by fear of the superior white, and, on the other,
by cast. At times she had regarded them as so many dogs, lurking, hungry
dogs, who wait until darkness sets in, before lurking in the alleys and
searching garbage cans, expecting to be kicked or be killed upon
discovery, if, for no other reason, simply to give vent to a hatred.
They felt, as she saw it, that it was the lot of the Negro to be hated.
They got no kindness; they expected none; they even scoffed when it was
offered, regarding it as some subtle means of inviting them to a worse
fate, and this was what discrimination and prejudice had brought them
to.

There still remained the dispensation. No person in all the world, she
felt, was so fitted for the task as Wilson Jacobs. Care of the building,
after its completion, would itself be a problem. Then there was that
distrust to dispell. Too often, she knew, that arrogance on the part of
the leaders of these institutions, had a tendency to keep away from
their doors the very class whom they sought to attract. Unfortunately,
the Negroes themselves realized that those conditions were true.

Wilson Jacobs was not such a character. She felt relieved as she
realized this. When she thought again of her people, she appreciated
what in time this genuine Christianity of his would mean to them, when
they came to know him for the kind man he was. Her race was emotional,
superstitious, but withal, patriotic and enthusiastic. Nothing,
regardless of all she had seen, could make her think otherwise. And what
could be the attitude of her race, her brothers, when they realized the
efforts made in their behalf? Will they say:

"You want to help me? You _really_ want to be a brother, and take me
into that place and help me to lead a good, clean life? And I doubted
you! I scorned your offer and cursed you and all society. Oh, merciful
God, but I knew not what I did! And you say, that I am not bad, that I
never was bad? That I was merely weak--weak as other human beings were?
Can all this be true? I can hardly realize it. I have _never_ known
kindness. I have always been told that life held no future for me, a
Negro; that by the will of our Creator, I was born to be hated, hunted
and abused, a creature of no destiny, a thing to be spat upon and made a
slave of, a creature without morals. You say that all this was wrong,
and that I can be not only a good person, but an example for the good of
others? That I am, after all, only the victim of circumstances?"

Wilson Jacobs would convince them, and, when this was done, her reward
would come.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"_Mildred, I've Come Back_"

It seemed a long way back to the city, as though he would never get
there, and the train crept slowly along through the mighty swamps. But
all the way, his mind was busy. Thought after thought came and went, but
only one became fixed. "I love her," he cried, again and again. "I love
her!" he exclaimed feverishly. "Nothing else matters--nothing else _can_
matter, now!"

He was going to her, just as fast as the slow train would carry him, and
when he arrived--beyond those conflicting moments, he got no further.

He lay back in his seat after a spell, and calmed himself to a degree
that he could see it all clearly. He wanted to see her now; he wanted to
look deep into the eyes that he was sure must be tired; he wanted to see
behind those mirrors, and to do his share to relieve the turmoil within.
After a time, his return to the office after his illness, recurred to
him. He had found a letter from the publisher, and upon opening it, he
had found it to contain a draft for a large sum of money. He didn't know
then who had sold the book with so much success to him, and he had
wondered. Strange, but it had not occurred to him then, that it was she.
But now, it was all clear--everything.

"And it was Mildred all the while!" he exclaimed in a controlled voice,
despite the excitement it gave him. "How could I have misunderstood so
long!" And then the instance of the five thousand dollars came back to
him, and the sale of his work as he had left it. True, he had given this
all over to her; but the fact to be reckoned with was that she had
succeeded where he had not.... She had done this without any thought of
herself.... No girl with so much ability, with such constructive
thoughts, would have done as she had for others, unless inspired by some
divine sacrifice.

It was all clear to him now. And then the other.... In all his life,
virtue in women had been his highest regard. During the months he spent
in the south, he had seen immorality of a nature that was revolting to
his finer senses. It had been the custom since the landing of Negroes in
this country, and was in evidence every where, in the many colors that
made up his people; but, in spite of this, his high regard for the
virtuous woman remained the same. So, when the words of the hag came
back to him, amid all the good things he was thinking of her, for a
time, all was swept from him in a wave of revolt.... How could he be
blind henceforth to that?

He became weak and listless for a time. To pass on through the city; to
catch one of the ocean goers that he was often interested in observing
at the harbor, and go to Argentina, Brazil--anywhere and forget it all;
and then there came to him the thought of his people. All that he had
lived through when he saw the leaders with their selfishness, the
neglect of their Christian duty; how he had written of that selfishness,
fearlessly with jaws set and soul on fire; and of the reign of
excitement that followed--it was impossible to further contemplate other
plans.

And, amid all the chaos, there came to him thoughts of the success of
the Christian forward movement in the town up the river. With success
there, in the worst of two towns in the world, it was now an almost
foregone conclusion, that shortly, the spirit would prevail successfully
in other towns. Yes, it would have to. The public, for its own welfare,
would soon come to appreciate what such a movement meant to two-fifths
of its population. And how came this to be? Would the people of that
town up the river, now have a beautiful building in course of
construction, if it had been left to them to supply that fatal
twenty-five thousand? "Great God!" he murmured, "how can I, _how can
I_!"

And, as the train continued on its way over innumerable trestles with
lagoons and marshes everywhere, it occurred to him, that the one who
had made all this possible, and who, at the price of purity, which was a
woman's all, was now, and for the sake of it, homeless and
friendless.... Even that family, that bishop father, surrounded by
thousands of hero worshippers, with his picture decorating the walls of
thousands of homes, and pointed to by day, would scorn her. The
thousands of young men, respectable, but poor, and who, for this girl's
sacrifice, were given a great chance to conduct their future lives along
Christian lines, even they would scorn her. All decent and respecting
society would scorn her. _They would have to scorn her._ He himself _had
already scorned her_.

He allowed his gaze to wander beyond the waters of a lagoon; until it
rested upon a clump of trees that rose ragged in the background. He was
too torn with anguish to think for a time. What price had been put upon
virtue, for his people--and her people--was too great to estimate. But
behind it all, was a homeless, friendless, loveless little girl,
drifting about in the world. For Mildred Latham as he saw her again, was
a mere girl, not yet twenty-two. She had a heart, but what kind of a
heart must she have, after the suffering she had endured? Yet she was a
human being, with a human desire after all.

What he had seen in her eyes in Cincinnati; that pain, and at times that
wild, elfinlike, mad desire.... And, oh, that caress, that one kiss that
seemed to have penetrated her very soul; the look she had given him;
that weak protest, afterward united in its pathetic appeal for mercy....
She had been his dream; his mad desire. He had declared then, that he
would help to dispell that worry; he had felt himself courageous enough
to do so, too; but now before him was the test, and he was weakening
under it.

Back in the _Rosebud Country_, he had lived alone for years, and during
those long days, his greatest desire, his greatest hope, had been to
love, to have that love returned by his ideal of womanhood. He dismissed
what had followed. The other had not even courage enough to accept
graciously what he had worked for. Any woman can, to a degree, mould
the future of her husband. No man, he knew, could be oblivious to the
condition of his household, and that which made it. That part of his
life, however, had long since been a closed chapter. His great effort
had been to forget it, and he had succeeded to such a degree, that he
was able to concentrate his mind on other things; but now, it was
different. Because, with the exception of the one thing, Mildred Latham
was more than his picture, his ideal. But that one thing was the silent
barrier.

It was springtime now, and back in the _Rosebud Country_ all must be
busy. He thought of the years, and how busy he was at this time. And
hopeful; because, whether the season proved successful or not,
springtime, when the crops were planted, was always a hopeful time;
every farmer believed, as he planted his seed, that the season would be
successful. And now he was not there to plant the crops. He had not been
there the year before; but, as he continued to recall the past, he knew
that it had never occurred to him that he would have been anywhere else
but there. He wanted to be there; but financially, he couldn't afford to
be there any more.

After an interminable spell of mental depression, something came to his
mind. It entered slowly, but at last took shape. He whispered after a
time: "Yes, yes, I could. With that amount I could start all over
again.... And out there, no one would know, no one would need to
know.... Just being there with the right to continue as I once was; but
with a terrible experience to remind me of what it is all worth--it
would not be the same now."

He saw her now differently. That other side was passing. It would come
back--it would keep coming back; but it was his duty; it was his
future--it was his very life to crush it as often as it came up; but
that was not the half of it: Mildred Latham was homeless, and friendless
as we know. After what she had done for so many others, was it not
Christianlike to think of her?...

And now he had another thought. Yes, back in the _Rosebud Country_ it
would be possible for two people to be happy; people who had no other
hope, no other ambition, but to follow the pursuit of happiness and
labor....

As it became clearer, he realized that he had never cared for
conventionality. That other experience had thrust it upon him, and when
he showed his dislike for it, he had been tortured. It would be
different--now. Mildred Latham would not care for any thing but himself,
and that which would make him happy.... And he, his experience had been
too real and too bitter, not to appreciate what kindness, sincerity, and
courage in one's convictions, means in future happiness.

The train stood in the station now, and all the other passengers had
left the cars. He came out of his revery with a start; and, hastily
collecting his luggage, he rushed forth, and caught a car that took him
within a block of his office. He deposited his grips in a cafe he knew,
and, a few minutes later, he stood in the doorway.

It was late in the afternoon, and nearly everyone in the building had
left for home; but she was there. Curiously, he had felt that she would
be there. With the amount of business he had seen she had created, he
was certain that he would find her, and he did.

She sat at the desk, as she had the afternoon he had returned from the
hospital. She was working away, and he saw her before she noticed him.
When she did, she gave a start, opened her mouth, and then, as if she
thought of something, closed it slowly, fumbled her pen, but said
nothing.

He paused briefly and observed her, and as he did so, took note of the
fact that she had lowered her head. And he knew. It was in shame.
Strangely now, since she knew that he was aware of at least a part of
the past, she could not endure to have him look at her. But, in these
moments, Sidney Wyeth was not observing her in scorn, as her colored
cheeks gave evidence.

Mildred sat still and waited. She expected to be scorned; she had come
to a place in life, where she expected anything. He might rebuke her,
and she would say nothing; but intuitively, she had never felt _he_
would rebuke her. As she sat with drooped head, he saw one tear drop
unchecked upon her lap. No others followed; but he knew the time had
come to go to this girl. She had endured a hard lot. Not one person in a
thousand, would have gone through what she had, but human endurance,
wrestling with all life's vicissitudes, has a limit. How much it cost,
that one tear, he could not fully estimate; but, if he knew life, if
some one didn't come to Mildred Latham's rescue soon, she might become
anything. Not far from where she sat, a thousand or more women were
burning their souls in hell. And all those women were there--not by
preference; but because they were simply human beings and weak.