CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
PS 3545 C H O 6705D5 erS ' ,y Ub "' v 
 Differences 
 
 3 1924 021 725 720 
 
The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021725720 
 
DIFFERENCES 
 
DIFFERENCE! 
 
 Hervey White 
 
 Boston 
 Small, Maynard & Company 
 1899 1 
 
Copyright, 1899, by 
 
 Small, Maynard £5f Company 
 
 (Incorporated) 
 
 Press of Geo. H.' Ellis 
 Boston* U.S.J,' 
 
Differences 
 
I. 
 
 IT was scarcely a mile, the journey that Genevieve 
 Radcliffe was to take from her own home to Settle- 
 ment House ; but it seemed more momentous to her 
 than crossing the Atlantic. She pretended to make light 
 of it, however, and laughed aloud when her sister Wini- 
 fred showed signs of tearfulness at parting. How absurd 1 
 Had they not talked it all over a hundred times ? Be- 
 sides, was she not to come back always on Sunday ? 
 
 And yet it was an odd thing to be doing, — going off to 
 live among the poor and the criminals. Why should she 
 do it ? she asked. Would it not be better even now to turn 
 back ? Then all of the arguments for going on came up. 
 She had recited them so often to objecting family and 
 friends that they were part of her second nature. She 
 was a clergyman's daughter, to begin with ; and it was her 
 duty to think of the poor. Of course there was the 
 Ladies' Aid Society. Her mother was always holding up 
 that ; but had not the daughter learned at Wellesley that 
 Ladies' Aid Societies are full ten years out of date ; that, 
 if you are going to be philanthropic now, you must be 
 more active and scientific ? You must study the poor 
 near at hand. You must make them your brothers and 
 sisters. In short, you must have knowledge of their ways, 
 and, above all, must gather statistics. No, her purpose 
 was firm. Now that the members of the family had gone 
 away from the windows, and she was walking against the 
 cool October air, alone in the familiar street, she con- 
 fessed that she did feel much like running back and 
 weeping with them. It was her pride that kept her up 
 for the first few blocks ; and then, as she journeyed west- 
 ward, something else came to her that turned her grief 
 away from herself and drew her forcibly onward. This 
 
2 D i f f e rences 
 
 was in the houses she was passing. Ten minutes' walk 
 had served to make the street shabby and common. No 
 more of wide green lawns, no more of well-kept fences. 
 The listless brick houses were built up close to the 
 wooden sidewalks. There was a smell of mustiness 
 mingled with coal dust in the air. " Why should these 
 things be so ? " asked Genevieve curiously, and seemed 
 drawn onward now to try at solving the question. Then 
 from brick houses and shabby streets she came to a 
 neighbourhood of wooden houses and streets that were 
 positively filthy. " Why do the painters use only one 
 kind of paint," she wondered, " and that such a dirty, 
 gray colour? Is it cheaper, this ugliness, or do they 
 draw their ideas of beauty from the light of the heaven, 
 and try to copy that ? If so, they have succeeded well. 
 The streets now are even a shade dirtier than the 
 heavens." 
 
 She walked on steadily. Babies were playing in the 
 streets. It was the recess hour of the schools, and 
 great crowds of children were bulging out of the dusty 
 little school yards. They looked at her curiously. She 
 was very plainly dressed, in a colour something like that 
 of the houses. Still, it was a clearer, cleaner hue ; and 
 by her dress and her every manner they knew she was a 
 stranger to them and to all their ways. She was what 
 they termed a lady. She looked at them half frightened 
 that they might insult her, but determined to smile her 
 bravery. Some of the girls smiled back. There were 
 dark shadows under their eyes, drawn diagonally down- 
 ward across their cheeks. A strained look was notice- 
 able in many of their faces. Some were fat and hearty- 
 looking, but the general impression was one of poverty 
 or ill-health. Their hair was dry and wispy, showing 
 none of the gloss of life. Such cheap finery as they wore 
 
D i f f e rences 3 
 
 seemed to make the poverty of their dress still more 
 apparent. 
 
 Genevieve thought of the elegant, dainty children she 
 was used to seeing, with sweet and childlike faces and 
 gentle, modest manners. These children whom she now 
 saw seemed especially ugly about the mouths. There 
 was no expression to their lips, no control of the muscles. 
 There was only a straight stretch of flesh that had been 
 drawn out of shape by the chewing of gum and the talk- 
 ing of coarse talk in a coarse fashion. And yet these 
 children and those she had known lived less than a mile 
 apart. 
 
 The streets became poorer and poorer. She was near- 
 ing the river now. She recognized its proximity by the 
 heaviness of the atmosphere. The houses were dirtier 
 than before, their stairways and landings more dilapi- 
 dated and maudlin. An awful stench arose from the 
 piles of garbage in the gutters. Often there were no 
 boxes for refuse ; and sometimes, when there were, they 
 had long since been filled, and heaps were now half 
 covering them with fresh foulness. Genevieve lifted her 
 skirts, and looked at her neat little boots. 
 
 A drunken man came tottering down the walk, swaying 
 from one side to the other, doing his very best to keep in 
 a line and avoid showing his condition to the lady. Gen- 
 evieve did not know his kind thoughts. It seemed much 
 more likely to her that he would call upon her to halt and 
 give up her purse and her jewelry. What foolishness for 
 her to be wearing her watch, the one Uncle George had 
 given her on the announcement of her engagement to 
 Maynard ! Still, it was no time for deploring now. With 
 set teeth and steady downcast eyes she marched on with- 
 out flinching; and the drunken man, as drunken men 
 always do, seemed to be bearing down upon her till he 
 
4 D i f f e rences 
 
 was within four feet of the encounter, then veered un- 
 steadily off and gave her the full width of the sidewalk. 
 
 Settlement House now loomed up before her, and she 
 began to breathe freely again. At the end of the little 
 street it rose, not commanding the street, but on one side 
 looking across to some miserable boxes dignified by the 
 name of cottages. It was a square, brick, institutional- 
 looking building, three stories in height, with ugly, bare 
 windows. It had been originally intended for a mission 
 school building, and as such had served fifteen years or 
 so. Times had changed, however, as they do change in 
 Chicago more frequently than anywhere else. Mission 
 schools were no longer in vogue. Settlements had taken 
 their places. So the ugly, institutional, brick building, 
 no longer a sewing school, was now known as Settlement 
 House. 
 
 Genevieve rang the bell, and turned to grow familiar 
 with the prospect as she waited. Across were the dreary 
 cottages already mentioned. At the closed end of the 
 street was a high board fence painted the universal col- 
 our, an imitation of mud and coal dust. This was the 
 fence of the gas-works. Three of the reservoir tanks 
 rose up beyond it, like huge cheese-boxes, each covering 
 an acre. Genevieve was so thankful that they were 
 painted a rich brown instead of gray. The smoke rose 
 up from their chimney-stacks, and aggravated the gen- 
 eral cloud. There must have been a great deal of gas 
 escaping, too, from the waste ; for the air was tingling 
 with the odour. 
 
 The door opened, and a lean little girl with staring 
 eyes was saying that Mrs. Purcell was in, and asking 
 would the lady walk into the parlour. Genevieve stepped 
 through the institutional hallway into a very cosily fur- 
 nished reception-room, where a row of poor, bedraggled- 
 
D i f f e rences 5 
 
 looking women were sitting in chairs along the wall. The 
 chairs had not originally been in rows ; but the women, as 
 they sat down, had instinctively arranged them so. A 
 very pretty girl — a lady the waiting women called her — 
 with a fresh young face was talking with the woman at 
 the farther end of the line. Her cheeks were pink with 
 interest. Her clear brown eyes were shining with sym- 
 pathy. Her placid hair, her pretty features and dress, 
 made a real joy and goodness to look at. Genevieve 
 counted the women in the row, and found to her sur- 
 prise that there were only four. Just then Mrs. Purcell 
 came in. 
 
 The head of Settlement household was a plump, smil- 
 ing little woman, — all young girls loved her the first min- 
 ute, — with something of bigness and of strength in her face 
 that may not be more unusual in small people than it is 
 in large, but invariably occasions greater surprise when 
 found there, and, unfortunately, is rare enough in large 
 and small to create an unusual feeling. We are all of us 
 more than ordinarily magnanimous with people of very 
 short stature ; and, although, perhaps, Mrs. Purcell could 
 not be classed with the shortest, the effect was always 
 kept up by the very short and stiff-corseted waist encased 
 in crinkling, well-fitted black silk, the slenderest place of 
 which, and that quite plump and round, was scarcely four 
 inches below the arm-pits. The arms, too, exaggerated 
 the effect ; for they were of unusual length. And, being 
 encased like the waist in the wrinkling newness of black 
 silk which came well down over the mobile fingers, they 
 constantly tempted comparison between the short and 
 long. 
 
 The crinkling silk of the waist descended into a bunchy 
 skirt. A harsh woman with a fastidious eye might com- 
 plain that this skirt was dowdy. It was a little shorter 
 
6 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 than common ; and the feet appearing from its hem were 
 large, like the hands, and moved too quickly and in too 
 short steps for anything like grace and ease. 
 
 But, after all, it was the face that attracted. From the 
 high, choking collar of the crackling silk rose a head of 
 most stately proportions. It had the squareness of mas- 
 culine strength, and at the same time the roundness of 
 feminine beauty. The hair was parted neatly and 
 brushed back in golden brown smoothness. There was 
 not even a suggestion of gray, though Mrs. Purcell was 
 not longer in the middle age, and wore a lace cap. Why 
 she wore this lace cap nobody knew. " A mark of my 
 servitude," she was wont to say smilingly. At all events, 
 it was not unbecoming; and it had a lavender bow of 
 silk ribbon that was a very pleasing bit of colour after the 
 sheen of black silk and the snow-white of the lace. 
 
 Mrs. Purcell wore glasses always, — spectacles of the 
 old-fashioned kind that hooked their slender hoops over 
 her ears. In some way the clearness of the glasses 
 seemed to add to the clearness of her eyes, which were 
 blue and steady, with a mildness that was very well suited 
 to the other features, and especially the large and firm 
 sweet mouth. 
 
 " I am glad to see you, my dear," said Mrs. Purcell, in 
 a voice low and melodious. " You must come at once to 
 your room. Your trunks have already gone up. It is 
 very good to welcome you into our household. We are 
 a happy little family, and I can see from the beginning 
 that you belong." 
 
 Genevieve's fingers were held in the strong, straight 
 ones that extended from the black silken sleeves, and she 
 was led up the institutional stairs to a little box-room on 
 the third floor. Before she was half-way, however, she 
 felt down deep in her heart that here, at this time, she 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 7 
 
 was more at home with this woman than ever she had 
 been in her own home with all of the years with her 
 mother. 
 
II. 
 
 IT was at the dinner table in the early evening that 
 Genevieve first began to understand what the house- 
 hold really was. The lunch hour had been interrupted 
 and more or less desolate, some of the people not coming 
 at all, others dropping in for a minute or being called out 
 before they had fairly begun. It had only served to give 
 the new arrival an impression that they were all very 
 busy with a hundred important things to do, that she was 
 necessarily idle and useless, and would probably always 
 remain so. Mrs. Purcell had not come down at all. 
 Genevieve was hardly introduced or noticed by the 
 others. She could only hurry back to her room, and 
 wonder in a vague way how it was that everything was 
 going on so well without her or without affording any 
 possible opening for her service. 
 
 At dinner they were still busy talking of what they had 
 been doing; but Mrs. Purcell was there to make the 
 formal presentations, and something about her quiet face 
 gave calm and stability to the entire company. The 
 places at table, too, had changed somewhat. There were 
 fewer people now, as the kindergarten and other day 
 teachers did not sleep or dine in the house. There were 
 only eight altogether, — two men, the hostess and two 
 elderly ladies, who acted in the capacity of nurse and 
 housekeeper, two girls, one of them, Miss Crawford, the 
 pretty one that Genevieve had seen in the morning, and, 
 finally, the timorous stranger herself. 
 
 She was not so timorous now, however; for she sat 
 next to the little lady in the lace cap and rustling silk, 
 and watched the long, mobile fingers serving in homely 
 and sympathetic fashion. 
 
 The young man on Genevieve's right was not without 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 9 
 
 kindly attentions as well, though often he was entirely 
 absorbed in the question of model tenements for the 
 poor, and speaking to the pretty girl on his right or to 
 the company in general about the possibility of interest- 
 ing capital in a favourite model that he was explaining. 
 Genevieve could see that he had a square, stubborn 
 head, and that he was fair, clean-shaven, and comely. 
 He suggested the student more than anything else, the 
 hard-working, philosophical student. There was a gleam 
 of fire in his eyes that she liked. His name, she learned, 
 was Westfall. The name of the other man was Mr. 
 Brown. 
 
 But it was a face directly opposite that attracted her 
 more than the rest. It had a certain metallic attractive- 
 ness that was fascinating and yet somewhat disturbing. 
 Hester Carr impressed one from the start as being an 
 artist. If she did not paint, she must be a musician or 
 an actress or writer. No one could be so unusual-look- 
 ing and be only with ordinary people. It turned out that 
 she was a violinist. Mrs. Purcell found time in the 
 course of the dinner to inform Genevieve that Miss Carr 
 had unusual talent, and that her great desire was to go 
 abroad, although her interests here were strong at pres- 
 ent. The graceful form was certainly adapted to the 
 grace of her instrument. There was a commanding 
 strength in the chin, a well-trained muscular neck that 
 was athletic and still feminine and beautiful. In stature 
 Hester Carr was something above the average ; and yet 
 she always gave the impression of a smaller person, 
 she was so restless, quick-moving, and changeful. Her 
 hair was short and fair. Combed from the crown in the 
 direction of its natural growth, it was peculiarly fine and 
 separate ; and, though short of being a shock, it gave the 
 impression always of a violent wind blowing on her from 
 
io Differences 
 
 behind. Seen from the back, it was smooth, blond, and 
 had a boyish effect. Seen in front, the hue was entirely 
 changed. One could think of nothing to compare it to 
 save the lines of a white-cap at sea, when the long and 
 thread-like foam is torn from the crest of the wave by 
 a stiff breeze. 
 
 The face within this strange frame was regular enough 
 for beauty, but not too regular to deprive it of individual- 
 ity : a low forehead, with eyebrows close to the eyes ; 
 a large nose on the order of the Greek, yet never allow- 
 ing one to forget that she was an American ; a clean-cut, 
 delicate profile ; thin lips, with the power of control. 
 There was something about all of the features that, in 
 spite of the delicate lines and the girlish softness of flesh, 
 suggested the coldness and texture of fine steel. If the 
 dreamy softness of the violet eyes should be concealed by 
 a black velvet mask, — why, only to imagine it was horri- 
 ble. It was going back into the Middle Ages at once. 
 The white hands seemed shaped for a dagger. The 
 stealthiness of the arms and the supple body were fitted 
 for the bearing of a poison cup. This elusive quality 
 usually made women cold and distrustful. With men it 
 was different. At first glance they agreed with the 
 women, and called the girl queer ; but they looked again, 
 and the spell of the blue eyes was upon them. 
 
 She dressed differently from other women, too. There 
 was no stiffly corseted waist, no lace frilling the edge of a 
 board, no ribbons with staring colors and sharp cutting 
 edges, none of the ugliness of a gored skirt to outrage 
 the nature of textile fabric, — just a simple frock such as 
 a child sometimes wears. To-night it was of rich red 
 merino, with the purple tinge in its folds that suggests the 
 velvet of pansies. It was cut low enough to allow free- 
 dom to the throat, and edged with a collar of soft lace. 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 1 1 
 
 The sleeves were full at the shoulders and gathered in 
 half-way below the elbow with more lace, permitting full 
 freedom to the arms. The gown was girted in by a 
 girdle of gold braid that was high enough to act as sup- 
 port and allow the full play of the body. It was the 
 quaint, ever-beautiful costume of the time of the Empire, 
 except in this case there was a second confining girdle 
 at the hips, in the modest Florentine fashion ; but this 
 was of woven silk and of the same glowing hue as the 
 merino. 
 
 " It is my party gown, and you must excuse it ; for 
 usually we do not dress for dinner here," she said kindly, 
 laughing at Genevieve, who blushed at being caught in 
 inspection. " I am to play to-night at the neighbourhood 
 party. Don't you think it is a pretty gown to play in ? 
 I am proud of making all of it myself, and without any 
 one's pattern or, better, without wasting the dear cloth." 
 
 As she spoke, she smoothed the folds of her sleeves, 
 as if she had a real affection for the fabric. It was a 
 sensuous, half-offending gesture. Genevieve was not sure 
 that she was pleased with this display of feeling. If Miss 
 Carr had clasped her hands, set her features, and said, 
 " Isn't it perfectly lovely ? " she would not have been dis- 
 turbed ; but for her lithe, curving arm to reach out and 
 caress the cloth as if it were almost a lover, — to say 
 simply and naturally, and without the customary exaggera- 
 tion, " Don't you think it is a pretty gown ? " — Genevieve 
 felt the charm of the action and the remark, though it 
 gave her also a sense of uneasiness. However, she was 
 kind-hearted before she was conventional; and she re- 
 plied with a sympathetic smile: — 
 
 "It is a pretty gown. I only wish I could say that I 
 made my own, even if they were as stiff as the one I 
 have on." 
 
12 Differences 
 
 " Oh, I never should have learned it myself if I had 
 grown up in the city ; but in Colorado one must learn to 
 be independent." 
 
 " But Denver is much like Chicago, I suppose ? " sug- 
 gested Genevieve, with growing interest. 
 
 " I come from Trinidad : that is way to the south. 
 An ugly name. In English it sounds so naked and 
 insecty. But in Spanish it is all very well : it has the 
 swing of music in it then. Besides, you know, it means 
 the Trinity." 
 
 " Is it a pretty place ? " asked Genevieve. 
 
 " In its own sublime fashion it is, — yes," said the girl, 
 her eyes growing dreamy with remembrance. " The hills 
 behind lead the paths right up into the blue of the 
 heavens. There is a monument up there, a tombstone. 
 When you climb, you can see the Spanish peaks ; and that 
 is happiness for the humblest." 
 
 She did not speak for some time, and Genevieve was 
 turning again to Mr. Westfall. 
 
 " Were you here at lunch ? " asked Miss Carr, with 
 sudden interest. " Don't ! don't ! " she continued, laugh- 
 ing, when Genevieve had admitted that she was : " at 
 least, don't until you have been here a week and had 
 your hands filled with things to do. What do you think 
 of it, anyway ? " 
 
 " I feel as if I should never be of any use to anybody," 
 confessed Genevieve, startled into frankness by the 
 suddenness of the question. 
 
 " Oh, you'll have plenty to do in a week. You are 
 going to help in the charities, aren't you ? " 
 
 " I am going to try," was the modest answer. 
 
 " Miss Crawford will initiate you in the morning. 
 Then you will go calling. You know we have all of the 
 modern improvements of charity. We make personal 
 
Differences 13 
 
 acquaintance with the patient, and we scorn the cold 
 calls of investigation." 
 
 There was a ring of scepticism in her voice that Mrs. 
 Purcell hastened to challenge. 
 
 " It is the right way, the only way ; and you yourself, 
 Hester, must admit it, and admit that you act upon it." 
 
 " Oh, I do not act," said the girl, with a toss of her 
 head, though her voice had a certain delicate deference 
 that was lacking in addressing others than Mrs. Purcell. 
 " I do not pretend to charity. I play the violin, and say, 
 ' Take this sweetness, and put into your stomachs : this 
 is the greatest creation of genius.' And then I explain to 
 them all the things that I know they are not capable of 
 understanding, because their stomachs are not satisfied 
 with my contributions." 
 
 " All that you may do or may not do does not damn 
 our methods of dealing with the poor." 
 
 " But the method is damned, for all that. I mean, of 
 course, it is a damned method," she said, revelling in 
 the deliciousness of swearing and carelessly omitting to 
 notice that one of her hearers, at least, was disconcerted 
 at her freedom. Even Mrs. Purcell was silent. 
 
 " It is treating the poor as a class and employing any 
 method of handling them that I object to," the girl con- 
 tinued impatiently, her soft eyes hardening to a steel- 
 colour as she spoke. " Why can't they be treated as in- 
 dividuals, the same as other people ? What would the 
 rich think of my impertinence if I went about the world 
 treating them in a peculiar manner, — as if they were not 
 real people at all, but only ' the rich,' in my knowledge ? " 
 
 " But who says that we have a peculiar method of 
 treating the poor? I said that we made friends with 
 them. You are not fair in your argument." 
 
 " But why make friends with them, if they are not 
 
14 Differences 
 
 suited to friendship ? Friendship is too sacred a thing to 
 be dragged in the mud of the streets. Could I expect to 
 go unrebuked if I should undertake to make friends with 
 the rich in the same way ? " 
 
 " You put your case well, Hester," said Mrs. Pufcell, 
 sadly. " But I think the treatment you subject me to is 
 rather rough sometimes." There was a half-humourous 
 smile playing about her lips. 
 
 " You know my cow-ranch manner," said the girl, care- 
 lessly. " I am as sorry for it as any one." 
 
 Miss Crawford had been listening to the conversation 
 during the last few words ; and, though she said nothing, 
 her flushed face spoke plainly her sympathy for Mrs. 
 Purcell and her indignation against the tormentor. 
 
 Genevieve liked Miss Crawford for this, and was glad 
 that she was to work with her, and not with Miss Carr. 
 To show that she was in no way interested in this un- 
 dignified expression of opinion, she turned to Mr. West- 
 fall, and tried to interest herself in his tenements. She 
 liked Mr. Westfall, partly for himself, — for he was strong 
 and manly, — but chiefly, perhaps, because he was not 
 nearly so handsome as Maynard Neville. Genevieve 
 smiled at this little effort at self-analysis, and pictured 
 herself telling Maynard about it on Sunday. 
 
 The dinner moved on, and ended without any lingering 
 over the coffee. " There is a class to meet in the dining- 
 room," explained Mrs. Purcell, by way of apology to the 
 new-comer. Upstairs they found the children clamouring 
 at the door. 
 
 " It is time for the penny bank to be open," said Miss 
 Crawford, cheerily, as though it were a time for rejoicing. 
 "Will you come, Miss Radcliffe, and see the savings- 
 bank? We have it every evening for the children." 
 
 They passed into the large school-room, where the 
 
Differences 15 
 
 children were being marshalled by a policeman. Miss 
 Crawford seated herself at a table, and smilingly began 
 counting out little stamps, which she gave in exchange 
 for the pennies of the children, who crowded about her 
 and pasted their stamps in their books. She did not 
 seem to notice that they were dirty or that they smelled 
 of disagreeable surroundings. She smiled upon all alike, 
 and patiently answered their questions about the games. 
 After the banking business was over, some of the chil- 
 dren gathered around her, — though most of them were 
 busy with their checkers, — and she talked to them and 
 told them short stories, and was charming and good to 
 them all. 
 
 Miss Carr, who seemed to be moping restlessly about 
 the house, came in once for a minute. She paid no 
 attention to the children, but seemed to be looking for 
 some one who was not there, until a little girl advanced 
 timidly from a corner. 
 
 " Why, Margot," she said, suddenly becoming conscious 
 of her surroundings, " where have you been hiding your- 
 self ? " 
 
 She took the bedraggled little waif up in her arms, 
 pressed her close against the rich party gown, and 
 clasped her white arms about her impulsively. 
 
 " Goodness, what a dirty face 1 " she said, after kissing 
 her. " You actually taste of it. I bet you have not 
 washed since morning." 
 
 She started out with the child still close in her arms, 
 stopping only for a chat with the policeman. Genevieve 
 noticed that the burly officer spoke to her as if she were 
 one of his own class, — familiarly and without embarrass- 
 ment. He even caught her sleeve in his hand, and held 
 her as he was speaking ; nor did she in any way flinch or 
 seem to think that he was taking undue liberty. Gene- 
 
16 Differences 
 
 vieve was not sure, but she thought he was admiring her 
 beads. She did not like the easy terms on which the two 
 seemed to meet, and yet she had been impressed by the 
 episode with the child. 
 
 After her conversation with the policeman, Hester 
 walked leisurely out of the room with the peculiar spring- 
 ing step of one who had no heels to her shoes. She 
 carried the child still in her arms. 
 
 When the hour was done, the children were dismissed 
 and the policeman returned to his beat. 
 
 " Come into the parlour," said Miss Crawford. " It is 
 time for the people to be coming to the neighbourhood 
 party." 
 
 Genevieve followed excitedly, as if she were entering a 
 grand ball-room. She even felt at first the same retiring 
 confusion. " It will be so much to tell Maynard Sun- 
 day," she thought, with a smile at her foolishness. " I 
 wonder how I shall ever get through with it all." 
 
III. 
 
 A NEIGHBOURHOOD party in a social settlement 
 is a curious bit in the great study of society. It 
 is unnatural, of course, though perhaps not more 
 unnatural than many society functions, where a great 
 crowd of people is called together without any particular 
 reason for the calling except that some rich lady has a 
 rich house, is expected to let all of her rich friends 
 enjoy it, and honestly does the best she can. A social 
 settlement party is not so different except in the degree 
 of the richness. Here the kind people who live in this 
 large house wish to share its comforts with their neigh- 
 bours. The desire may be purely a social one. There 
 need not be any of the sympathy, born of false reason- 
 ing, to the effect that the poor creatures live cramped 
 up in small houses and must therefore be as uncomfort- 
 able in them as we should be, and very grateful to us 
 for an hour of space that is warm and light, with room 
 to get about without stepping on dogs or cats or children. 
 As a matter of fact, these poor people are often glad to 
 get back to their homes and put on their own homely 
 ways. They may even like the confining walls. It is 
 their idea of cosiness. They may not know there are 
 smells, or, recognizing them, they may rejoice that they 
 do not live in a place like a public hall, with none of the 
 odours of domesticity. 
 
 Mrs. Purcell was not ignorant of all this ; and, although 
 she did invite people who she thought most needed hos- 
 pitality, at the same time she did it chiefly because she 
 enjoyed their company, and had at her heart a yearning 
 for humanity in the aggregate. Her rich face glowed 
 with kindly welcome as she stood shaking hands in the 
 hallway. She did not wait for people to remove their 
 
18 Differences 
 
 wraps and come alone into the parlour. It was both their 
 way and hers to welcome a guest at the door. It did not 
 seem fitting to let them stay in the house for a time 
 entirely at the mercy of strangers. 
 
 " Just put your things in the cloak-room," she would 
 say again and again, " then hurry up, and come in to the 
 fire. The grate is very welcome these chilly nights." 
 
 Some scrub-woman, perhaps, would think it might not 
 be proper to take off her hat and gloves, and would say, 
 by way of apology, that she was only going to stay a short 
 time. 
 
 " You shall do nothing of the sort, and I insist upon 
 your taking off your things," Mrs. Purcell would reply. 
 " Miss Carr is going to give us some music, and we are to 
 have games and refreshments. I shall not allow any 
 person to leave the house before ten o'clock without a 
 most excellent excuse." 
 
 There was ease in all this, and cordial naturalness. 
 Who shall say that a settlement party is so impossible a 
 place for enjoyment ? But even here there was stiffness 
 and mistrust in the beginning. The people insisted in 
 sitting in rows around the wall, the women boldly pre- 
 tending an ease that comes from moving in society, the 
 men shrinking back in dark corners and pretending noth- 
 ing at all. Indeed, how could such a company be entirely 
 congenial ? They were not here in their own set. The 
 acquaintance of a settlement is so varied ; and, as a matter 
 of principle, all the pet social distinctions of the neighbour- 
 hood are ignored. It is intended that here shall be a 
 democratic freedom from social distinction. What wonder 
 if the freedom is sometimes a little forced into the bond- 
 age of the freedom idea ? 
 
 But a vast amount can be accomplished by the hostess ; 
 and Mrs. Purcell would always find a moment of interval 
 
Differences 19 
 
 from her duties at the door to step into the awkward 
 pauses, and by suggesting a topic of conversation, or by 
 making some needed introduction, guide the current of 
 common enjoyment into easy, natural channels that would 
 seem to have been inevitable from the beginning, but 
 which without the skilful suggestion would have become 
 vast, shallow swamps of stagnant, insipid gossip. Her 
 helpers, too, all felt the responsibility of hosts. Mr. 
 Westfall and Mr. Brown sought out, without seeming to 
 do so, the retiring men in the corners. Miss Crawford 
 was moving among the women, smiling alike to them all, 
 and leaving in her wake sly looks of their common admi- 
 ration and often the whispered words of " a lovely, lovely 
 lady." 
 
 Genevieve was shy on this her first evening in these 
 strange surroundings. When introduced to some woman, 
 the like of whom she had never met before except in her 
 mother's kitchen, she found it very difficult to find common 
 topics for conversation. The late novels or the opera 
 would not do, and she was afraid of personal questions. 
 She was going to tell them of her uncle's country home ; 
 but it seemed cruel to speak to them of the things they 
 could never know or at best could have thought of only 
 as places in which to slave as servants. Finally, she 
 thought of Niagara Falls. There was no exclusiveness in 
 its grandeur. Rich and poor alike could look upon it, 
 and they were interested to know she had been in a place 
 they had read of at school and studied in geography 
 lessons. 
 
 Miss Carr came in a little late, when the guests had all 
 arrived. She carried her violin under her arm, her bow 
 already in her hand. Unlike Miss Crawford, she made 
 no formal greeting to any one ; but there was here and 
 there a glance of the eye or a tap on the head with the 
 dainty bow. 
 
20 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 " I am always fond of people who are going to hear 
 me play," she said to Genevieve and the little group to 
 whom she had been talking. " Now, if I met these 
 people on the street to-morrow, I should probably not 
 speak to them or think of it. Would I now, Mike ? " 
 she said, turning to a heavy fellow, who was evidently a 
 ditcher. 
 
 " You'd just pass us grandly by, as if you were a real, 
 dressed-up lady," said Mike, chuckling fondly at his 
 humour. 
 
 " As if I " said Miss Carr, playfully. " Why, Mike, I 
 am a real lady. Haven't I told you about it again and 
 again ? " 
 
 " And her father driving teams in the mountains," said 
 Mike, winking violently to the others. 
 
 " It was a four-horse team," said Miss Carr, proudly ; 
 " and that makes all the difference in the world." 
 
 " Mules," corrected Mike, winking again in his lively 
 fashion. 
 
 " A four-horse mule-team, of course. We do not have 
 horses in the mountains. I suppose here in Chicago you 
 say ' a four-mule team,' or may be ' a four-mule-horse 
 team,' as you might when thinking of your horses, slaving 
 as they do at the street-cars, for instance." 
 
 " They have taken the horses off from all the lines in 
 the city. I read about it in yesterday's paper." 
 
 " They use them down town, though," corrected a 
 man, " where the trolley charters do not extend into the 
 crowded parts." 
 
 They fell to discussing just which lines used horses 
 and which did not. A thin-looking factory woman came 
 over, and put her arm around Miss Carr's waist. 
 
 " I want you to come over and be introduced to Jennie 
 Williams," she said fondly. " She's been crazy to know 
 
Differences 21 
 
 you for six months ; and now she's got Sadie Gardner to 
 stay with her mother, just so she could come over and 
 hear you play." 
 
 " Remember, Mike, that I proved myself to be a lady," 
 said Miss Carr, as she moved away arm in arm with the 
 factory woman. 
 
 " Not to be spoke to on the street," assented Mike, as 
 if it were all a huge joke. " Hester's a great girl," he 
 added, admiringly, to the others. " And that sharp she 
 is. Sharp as tacks." Here he seemed to become aware 
 of Genevieve's presence, and shrank timidly into the 
 background. 
 
 The action pained her, and made her wish she were 
 with Maynard. She had not thought of him before since 
 coming into the room. Mrs. Purcell came along at this 
 juncture. 
 
 " I want you all to go into the school-room," she said. 
 " Miss Carr is going to play, and then we will talk again 
 later. How is your husband to-night, Mrs. Svendson ? " 
 she asked of a tall Swedish woman. 
 
 " He do very poorly, Mrs. Purcell," said the woman, 
 plaintively. " All de time he experience such a pain in 
 his legs." And, as they moved on in the crowd, Gene- 
 vieve could hear bits of a detailed description of just 
 where and how the man felt and all that the doctor had 
 said about it. 
 
 The people were settling into the folding-chairs that 
 had been arranged for ar>. audience after the bank chil- 
 dren had gone. Hester Carr was standing on the little 
 platform by the piano, where Miss Crawford was already 
 seated. Gradually the hum of conversation grew fainter 
 till it died to a whisper. There was silence when Miss 
 Carr began talking. 
 
 Genevieve could not but admit, as she looked at her, 
 
22 D i f f e rences 
 
 that she was very beautiful. There was a freedom and 
 grace in her poise that come only from the unconscious- 
 ness of inspiration. She stood with one foot advanced, 
 the glowing colour of her gown falling in rich folds about 
 her. The violin was still under her arm. The bow in 
 the right hand was resting on the dainty advanced foot. 
 Her head was slightly lifted, like a poppy poised on its 
 stem, a faint, sweet smile was on the level lips, a dreamy 
 vision light was flowing from her level eyes. It was 
 breathlessly quiet when she began speaking in low, even 
 tones. 
 
 "One of the beautiful things first," she was saying as 
 if it were inevitable. " You may not like it so well as the 
 songs I shall play to you later, but I have learned to love 
 these things so with practice that I should not feel that I 
 was speaking truth to you to-night if I did not play them 
 to you. I am not going to tell you who was the composer. 
 He was a German, and felt life much as we do. But do 
 not.try to get at the meaning of the music. Just settle 
 back and let it sound to you, nor need you try to keep 
 your attention upon it. I want you to let your thoughts 
 go where they will." 
 
 She raised the bow gently from its place while Miss 
 Crawford was playing the introductory chords. The 
 violin lay lightly on her neck, her white arm rose to the 
 horizontal, just curved enough to give freedom to the 
 bow. For a moment only she stood, there was almost a 
 prayer in her posture, then the low wailing music began. 
 
 " There is something that is frail in a woman," she 
 said sadly when she had ended, " something that keeps 
 us always a little way from genius ; and that is that we 
 are not complete in ourselves ; we need inspiration from 
 others. Now the lament I have just played to you I have 
 done infinitely better standing as I do before you, know- 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 23 
 
 ing that I had your attention. Now a man, — a man 
 would have played it better alone, when he had but the 
 solitude of his thoughts. That would have come from 
 himself : this comes of my wish to be appreciated by you. 
 I fear it is so with all women." 
 
 She turned to Miss Crawford again, and nodded a signal 
 for beginning the next number. It was a brilliant polo- 
 naise, and in the difficult parts she was reckless and 
 hazardous in her abandon. A critic would have said she 
 lacked training, but her audience was warmed into a burst 
 of applause. She laughed as she looked them in the 
 eyes, and, when order was restored, began again the fan- 
 tastic intricate composition. There was another strain 
 of brilliancy at the close, the wind of which seemed 
 blowing her hair. Again came the applause of her audi- 
 ence, and she bowed to them gayly in acknowledgment. 
 
 An old sweet strain of Italian love music followed, the 
 pleasure of which lies in the heavenly singing of the 
 music, and not in the things that are suggested. 
 
 " And now," said the musician at the end, " you shall 
 have the old songs that you love and that I love, too, 
 because they are the tunes that my father played and the 
 songs that were sung by my mother." 
 
 She began playing simply and naturally to them then, 
 Miss Crawford having left the piano. Sometimes she 
 talked a bit, gave a homely reminiscence of the first time 
 she remembered having heard that song or a laughable 
 description of how some man used to play it. At times 
 a man in the audience would call for a favourite; and 
 always it came, to his gratification. Miss Carr was not 
 above playing the miserable songs of the cheap theatres, 
 and playing them well and with feeling. 
 
 " Of course, they are very bad," she would say with a 
 laugh ; " but I enjoy them with you, in a way." 
 
24 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 The music ended, the audience broke up, noisily folded 
 the chairs, stacked them away, and began the discussion 
 of the games. Mr. Brown came into active service here, 
 and soon the fun was well under way. The neighbour- 
 hood parties were regular affairs at Settlement House 
 on Saturday nights, and the people knew how to enjoy 
 them. There was blind-man's-buff, of course. There was 
 dumb crambo, and great fun at costuming. Later on they 
 were quiet again, and Mrs. Purcell served tea. At half- 
 past ten they were gone, after many good-nights at the 
 door. 
 
 " There is one thing I cannot understand, Miss Carr," 
 said Mr. Brown, as they were all washing the tea things 
 in the pantry downstairs ; " and that is how you can 
 bring yourself down to such songs as The Sunshine of 
 Paradise Alley and Sweet Marie, after the music you 
 played there to-night." 
 
 Miss Carr was encased in an enormous' brown holland 
 apron that buttoned up close to her chin and covered her 
 arms with its stiff sleeves, and she waved the tea-cloth 
 merrily. 
 
 " If you will forgive the presumption, Mr. Brown, I 
 will tell you that it is the difference between the artist 
 and the critic. An artist, now, may love a bad thing — 
 something that is even cheap and vulgar, perhaps — if it 
 is the genuine product of the people. But with the critic 
 it is different. He always wants the perfection of motive 
 and execution that he has learned to think are essential. 
 But, as to genuineness, sometimes he recognizes it and 
 sometimes he doesn't. Now I see you are ready for an 
 argument." 
 
 The argument began, and continued through the wash- 
 ing of the tea things. All joined in. All talked at once. 
 
 Miss Crawford went with Genevieve to the door of her 
 little room. 
 
Differences 25 
 
 " Miss Carr plays with a great deal of talent, don't you 
 think so ? " she asked. 
 
 " It was certainly very wonderful," said Genevieve. " I 
 should think she would be better known." 
 
 " Well, she is young, and has not had the best of train- 
 ing. Mrs. Purcell is going to introduce her to one or two 
 evenings this year, and give her a start. She is poor and 
 proud, I suppose, and knows that she lacks the best in- 
 struction. You are going back home for to-morrow, 
 aren't you ? " 
 
 Genevieve explained that she had come purposely to 
 stay this first Sunday to talk with Mrs. Purcell about her 
 work, but that usually she should go home. 
 
 They said good-night several times again. 
 
 " A wonderful girl ! " said Genevieve, still thinking of 
 what she should tell Maynard about Miss Carr ; " and yet 
 I am almost afraid of her." 
 
IV. 
 
 IF Genevieve was expecting the peace and quiet talks 
 which a Sunday at her own home had always meant 
 to her, she was soon to learn her error. At three 
 o'clock in the morning she was awakened by the loud 
 threats of men and the shrill warnings and pleading of 
 women's voices in the alley under her window. She was 
 a bit dazed at first. Then, realizing where she was, she 
 hurried to the window, thinking that the house was on 
 fire or that they were being attacked by a gang of robbers. 
 On listening carefully for a time, she realized that it was 
 only a private quarrel. Her room was on the third floor, 
 and she was very thankful for that; but she could not 
 help hearing every word that was spoken. 
 
 " You are a liar," shouted a man's thick, maudlin voice. 
 Then followed a volley of oaths and foulness, the mean- 
 ing of which the girl did not half understand, but which 
 she shuddered from in horror as if it had been a draught 
 from hell. " Come out of your house, you sneak, and I 
 will take your blood to wash in." 
 
 There was a pause then. Evidently, the sheltered man 
 was debating. Genevieve could hear a woman's voice 
 within, soothing and pleading with her husband. 
 
 " Come out here, you ," and another torrent of 
 
 violence. 
 
 " Pete I Pete 1 " shrilled the voice of another woman. 
 " Pete 1 Stop I Come off now I Let 'im alone, and come 
 home." This woman was out in the alley. 
 
 " Go away, Mary," said another voice. " If Pete wants 
 
 to whip this ," another tirade of violence, " let 'im go 
 
 ahead." Friends were evidently backing the man in the 
 house, too. He was making preparations to come out. 
 
 Genevieve heard talk of a knife and guns, and fled in 
 
D i f f e rences 27 
 
 terror from the window. She ran to Miss Crawford's 
 room, and, arousing her, hastily, dragged her back to the 
 window. 
 
 " Oh, dear, are they fighting again ? They do as sure as 
 the week comes around," said Miss Crawford as soon as 
 she was awake, looking out, and drawing a shawl about 
 her. 
 
 The heavy, sickening sound of blows falling on human 
 flesh came up from the scuffling and scrimmage of the 
 alley. The men's voices were heard only in short, hoarse, 
 puffs, grunts, and snorts, as they gave and received the 
 blows. Outside the ring formed by the watchers could be 
 heard the scolding and pleading and crying of the wives 
 and other women. 
 
 Genevieve, wholly unused to such sounds, was falling 
 back, sick with terror, when Miss Crawford, seeing her 
 plight, dashed a mug of cold water in her face. 
 
 " Don't be frightened," she said excitedly. " We will 
 call Miss Carr. Hurry I " In spite of her exhortations 
 to courage, she herself was shaking as if with the ague. 
 
 " Where are Mr. Brown and Mr. Westfall ? " gasped 
 Genevieve, following into the hall. 
 
 " They live in another house. Miss Carr 1 Miss Carr ! 
 Some men are killing each other, they are killing " — and 
 here Miss Crawford broke down in her sobbing. 
 
 It seemed that Miss Carr had already been disturbed 
 by the noise ; for she came from her door wrapped in a 
 long cloak, as if she were going out on the street. 
 
 " It is Pete Ryan," she said coolly. " Don't mind him. 
 It would be a good thing for everybody if some one did 
 kill him. Stay here while I run down to the balcony. 
 Don't wake Mrs. Purcell. Go back to your room, and 
 don't wake her." She was running down the stairs to the 
 nursery, the balcony of which hung directly over the alley. 
 
28 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 Fascinated by the terror of it all, the two girls crept back 
 to the window. 
 
 The crowd was making more noise now about the two 
 men ; but their breathing, hoarse and stertorous, could be 
 heard distinctly above the uproar. 
 
 " Are they dying ? " whispered Genevieve, in terror ; but 
 Miss Crawford was trembling so she could not answer. 
 
 They heard the door below open, and saw a dark figure 
 on the balcony beneath. 
 
 " Pete Ryan 1 " sounded Miss Carr's clear, even voice 
 above the confusion of scuffling and voices. " Pete 
 Ryan ! let go of that man, and get up ! Don't you know 
 you are drunk ? What do you mean by frightening a lot 
 of women ? Aren't you ashamed to be rolling there like a 
 hog in the mud ? Get up, and go home to Mary I " 
 
 The voices were all silenced now. The hoarse breath- 
 ing of the two clinched men was the only sound. 
 
 "I'm here, Miss Hester,'' faintly spoke up a woman's 
 voice. " I'm tryin' to get 'im home." 
 
 " What man is there ? " asked Miss Carr. " Isn't 
 there a single one who has the spunk to pull those two 
 brutes apart? " 
 
 " It was only a fair fight, Miss Hester,'' said some one, 
 sullenly, ashamed to be accused by this woman. 
 
 " Oh, it's you, Seth Wood. Well, take those men apart 
 at once. I don't want to call the police. Pete, hasn't 
 your sense come to you enough, so that you can let us 
 women go to sleep ? " 
 
 There was considerable grumbling reluctance ; but the 
 two men quit hold when the others interfered, and slowly 
 arose from the ground where they had been tumbling. 
 
 " Now, Mary, take him home to bed ; and you, Kate, 
 see that John stays inside. What if a policeman had 
 caught you ? " She stepped back into the house as the 
 
D i f f e rences 29 
 
 men slunk away toward the street. In a moment she was 
 with the two girls. " Don't be frightened," she said to 
 Miss Radcliffe : " they were not really hurting each other. 
 In the mines, now, men shoot when they fight ; and they 
 shoot to kill." 
 
 " Come into my room," she said kindly, seeing Gene- 
 vieve still in terror. " You will get used to it in time, no 
 doubt." 
 
 " She can sleep with me just as well," ventured Miss 
 Crawford, timidly. " I'm all upset myself, their fighting 
 is so terribly sickening." 
 
 " Perhaps it would be better," said Miss Carr, " and 
 your room is away from the alley. Go to sleep if you 
 can. Ten minutes after three, — our Sunday is beginning 
 early." 
 
 The two girls, not being able to go to sleep for some 
 time, found it a very good opportunity for becoming 
 better acquainted. A little common terror is an admi- 
 rable thing for bringing people together. The mutual 
 interest demands a breaking down of formality. We are 
 surprised into speaking straight from the heart ; and, once 
 the way is open, it is difficult to close it again. 
 
 Before the two girls had gone to sleep again, Genevieve 
 had given an outline of her life to Miss Crawford, and 
 learned in turn as many things from her. 
 
 " My name is Elizabeth, but they have always called 
 me Bettine or Betty ; and of course you are to do the 
 same," she said snugly. " I am one of a family of six 
 girls, and still my father complains that he cannot pos- 
 sibly spare me. Papa is a banker in a small town in the 
 southern part of this State. He has always given us 
 everything that we could ask, but I was not satisfied in 
 Delavan. I thought of the great city all the time, and of 
 the poor that were in it, and it seemed as if there must 
 
30 D i f f e rences 
 
 be a place somewhere for me to help ; and, finally, a pro- 
 fessor who was lecturing there gave me a letter to Mrs. 
 Purcell. I have been here now over a year, and I only 
 go home in the summer and at Christmas." They talked 
 on as girls do, until finally they dropped off to sleep. 
 
 At breakfast there was quite a discussion over the fight. 
 
 " I think you did entirely wrong," said Mr. Westfall, 
 decidedly. " That is just the weakness of women. Now 
 I should have called up the patrol wagon, and had the 
 two men lodged in the station." 
 
 " What good would it have done ? " asked Mrs. Purcell, 
 mildly. " They would have been fined after being locked 
 up over Sunday, and Heaven knows their wives are needy 
 enough already. It is possible, too, that they could not 
 have paid the fines. Then they would have been shipped 
 off to spend the next thirty days with other criminals and 
 loafers till they were ready to be turned out on society 
 again." 
 
 " It would teach them a lesson," said Mr. Westfall. 
 
 " Who can teach them lessons now, especially through 
 such a medium as the prison ? After all, what is their 
 crime ? They have been drinking too much ; but who 
 would not drink after standing all the week before a red- 
 hot furnace in the gas-works, as John Wood does, coated 
 with coal dust inside and out, scorched, and working like 
 a fiend ? " 
 
 " Pete Ryan is a notorious loafer." 
 
 " I know he is ; but has the city prison ever taught 
 a man to work ? No, I believe in the manual training of 
 Mr. Brown here, for the boys. I wish we could give 
 them more of it ; but for the men, at least, the prison is 
 hopeless." 
 
 The discussion was interrupted here by a swarm of 
 little ragamuffins gathering around the dining-room win- 
 
Differences 31 
 
 dows. The dining-room was in the basement, and the 
 ground outside afforded an excellent view down on to 
 the neatly spread table. 
 
 " Give us an orange," shouted one, rapping on the 
 glass of the window. 
 
 " Let us in to play checkards," demanded another. 
 
 Then they began to dance, throwing sand up against 
 the glass, and pressing their dirty faces up close, to see if 
 they were attracting attention. 
 
 "I'll go out and settle them," said Mr. Westfall, angrily. 
 
 " No, let me go," said Mrs. Purcell. " I want to speak 
 to Taffy, anyway ; and I see that he is leading the 
 dance." 
 
 She went out on the steps, and gave them full five 
 minutes of conversation, the result being that the boys 
 went quietly away. 
 
 " They want attention more than anything else," she 
 said on returning. " They do not really mean to be 
 hateful." 
 
 After breakfast Genevieve climbed up to the family 
 sitting-room on the second floor, to await Mrs. Purcell and 
 the conference. To amuse herself, she walked to the 
 window and stood looking out over the city. It is very 
 well, when one has come into a new place, to get ac- 
 quainted with the surroundings. She told herself that 
 she would not have been so frightened at the fight if she 
 had known before just what kind of houses were across 
 the alley, and if she had been used to the inhabitants 
 peacefully coming and going. It was not a pleasant out- 
 look to-day. The weather had changed in the night, and 
 low clouds were scudding before a cold wind. In the 
 little pocket street below the dust was flying and swirling. 
 Such ugly dust, too, filled with bits of soiled paper and a 
 thin cloud of smoke and fine ashes 1 She could see now 
 
32 D i f£e rences 
 
 where the smoke came from. The boys that had been 
 teasing them at breakfast had built a fire in the street, 
 and, like wild Indians of the prairie, were standing 
 around the smoke and the blaze, holding out their 
 sprawling hands to the heat, and throwing back their 
 heads and winking as the smoke flew up in their eyes. 
 How desolate and untamed it all looked 1 How hopeless, 
 if one thought to reform it ! Now a little girl was going 
 diagonally across the open, carrying a tin pail for beer, 
 and stopping to make faces at the boys, who were evi- 
 dently calling her names. Suddenly the boys all began 
 to run into the alleys without any visible cause for alarm, 
 but plainly very much in earnest. Soon the cause ap- 
 peared in the shape of a blue-coated policeman sauntering 
 down the street. The patrolman walked up to the fire, 
 kicked the brands in different directions, and stamped 
 out the flames from the coals. Then he walked on ; but 
 no sooner had he turned the corner than the boys were 
 back, shaking their fists in his direction, and gathering 
 and rekindling their fire. In five minutes it was burning 
 more brightly than ever. The policeman would not 
 return for three hours. How easy to evade the law, if we 
 like I how spicy the risk of being caught ! It must be 
 very stupid. to live in this neighbourhood and not be a 
 criminal. The chimneys of the gas factories were smok- 
 ing steadily away, as if they had never known Sunday 
 since they began their existence. The great brown tanks 
 were slowly rising, inflated with the supply of gas for the 
 night. Under the long, low slate roof of the factories the 
 jarring roar of the sliding coal was heard in regular inter- 
 vals ; and every time with the sound the flames would leap 
 up from the iron chimneys in the roof, and flag and pale 
 in the gray daylight. 
 
 Below and across the street the little bedraggled row of 
 
Differences 33 
 
 wooden houses seemed more pitiable than it had the day 
 before. Even the smoke had no spirit, but slunk sullenly 
 to the ground. 
 
 A few harsh drops of rain began to patter in the dust. 
 The wind moaned around the corner. Genevieve was 
 thinking of home, of guests who might be coming for din- 
 ner. It may be that she was thinking a little wistfully, 
 when the sitting-room door opened and Mrs. Purcell 
 came in. 
 
 " I wonder if you are good at millinery," she began in 
 her cheery, domestic way. " Now here is a mourning 
 bonnet, a loan bonnet we call it ; for it goes the rounds of 
 many funerals. That is why we have to change it a little 
 every time, so that it will not be recognized. Poor Mrs. 
 Thompson's baby died last night, and the funeral will be 
 this afternoon. It was fortunate for Mrs. Thompson that 
 the child died on a Saturday ; for she works in a tobacco 
 factory, and might lose her place if she stayed out a day." 
 
 Mrs. Purcell held out the shabby bonnet frame to 
 Genevieve. "If we can just shift the veil about, so, I 
 think it will give quite a different effect," she said, tip- 
 ping her head to one side, pursing her mouth and closing 
 one eye. 
 
 " Why not lay two plaits of the crepe across the top," 
 suggested Genevieve, critically, " and let the folds fall 
 straight behind ? " 
 
 " Good I We shall prize new ideas on this bonnet," 
 said Mrs. Purcell. " Now that I remember, I sewed the 
 veil on my way for Mrs. Ericson, when her husband was 
 killed in the elevator. Are you clever with your fingers, 
 my dear? Do take it, and put it up ship-shape." 
 
 " I have often done little odds and ends for ourselves 
 at home," said Genevieve, proudly. "Father says I 
 would have made a good dressmaker." She took the 
 
34 D i f f e rences 
 
 black stuff, and sat down in a chair by the fire, the older 
 woman bringing her a work-basket. 
 
 " Suppose we talk while we work," she said, looking at 
 the young girl fondly. " So you are willing to go into 
 the charities ? " 
 
 " It seems to me the most useful field there is at first, 
 and it will bring me in contact with so many of the 
 poor." 
 
 " Not so hard to get that, you will find," with a sad 
 shake of the head. " Moreover, charity work brings you 
 into very disagreeable contact, and with the most dis- 
 agreeable classes. It is apt to warp and ruin the most 
 charitable nature. One soon gets a morbid suspicion 
 that all poor people are beggars and liars." 
 
 " I believe you said the greatest need was in the char- 
 ity work," faltered Genevieve, timidly. 
 
 " That is just it, and I made up my mind long ago 
 to sacrifice you. Now I am trying to discourage you. 
 A guilty conscience, a guilty conscience, I suppose." 
 
 " Some one must be sacrificed," said Genevieve. 
 " Why not I as well as anybody ? " 
 
 Mrs. Purcell might have said that she liked the intelli- 
 gence and appreciation of her face, but she rarely said 
 personal things. 
 
 " Yes, yes, yes," she mused sadly. " Some one has 
 got to do the work. I see no way out of that. Miss 
 Crawford is killing herself as it is, and we have promised 
 a relief station to the Associated Charities. Some one 
 must do the work ; but you will find that you have very 
 little money at your disposal." 
 
 " I suppose what they need is not so much money as 
 advice and personal sympathy," said Genevieve, remem- 
 bering her lectures at college. 
 
 " You can judge in time, perhaps," was the non-com- 
 
Differences 35 
 
 mittal answer. If Genevieve's appreciation had not been 
 of the finest, she would not have known that in some 
 vague way the stiff casing of black silk had grown stiffer. 
 She felt in some way that she was very young, that she 
 was speaking without the right of experience ; and yet the 
 way was not open for her to confess it. 
 
 " What do you think of that ? " she asked, turning the 
 conversation to the bonnet, which she held out for Mrs. 
 Purcell's criticism. 
 
 " It will be a great comfort to Mrs. Thompson, and 
 I am sure will be very becoming." 
 
 " Is she long and thin ? " asked Genevieve, with the 
 impression that all poor women are long and thin. 
 
 " Oh, no, she is short and fat," corrected Mrs. Purcell. 
 " She has full cheeks and a double chin." 
 
 " Then it will not do at all," said Genevieve, aghast. 
 " I must do it all over. How stupid of me not to inquire 
 first ! " 
 
 " And of me not to tell you in the beginning. However, 
 it is no unusual method in dealing with the poor. Make 
 the bonnet ; and, if it doesn't fit the head, let the blame fall 
 on the head. I suppose twenty years have hardened me." 
 
 " Is it twenty years ? " Genevieve was beginning to ask, 
 but was interrupted by a tap on the door. 
 
 It was the cook. " Mrs. Purcell, the boys are at the 
 kindling in the cellar. They've made a long wire hook, 
 and they're pulling the wood out between the bars for 
 their fire. Mr. Brown and Mr. Westfall are at church; 
 and the boys only spit at me, and use such violence of 
 language that no decent woman can bear." 
 
 " I will come down," replied Mrs. Purcell, quietly. 
 " Perhaps the bonnet will get on better with your new 
 knowledge." And she smiled encouragingly. 
 
 That was all of the anticipated discussion. There 
 
36 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 were guests at dinner ; and in the afternoon Neville drove 
 up in a smart trap, and insisted on taking Genevieve out. 
 They were the wonder of the neighbourhood as they 
 drove away, and both feared some remark that would set 
 the crowd hooting. The boys were respectful enough, 
 however, and stood staring in evident admiration. The 
 drive in the cool air was invigorating ; and, Mrs. Purcell 
 being out during the evening, Genevieve spent the time 
 in her room reading. She was sleepy early that night, 
 and by nine o'clock the neighbourhood was as quiet as 
 that of her own home. 
 
V. 
 
 THE next morning Genevieve began on her first 
 case. 
 "You may as well plunge into the middle of 
 things," said Miss Crawford, cheerily. "We will give 
 you the first one that calls." 
 
 The first of the dilapidated women who sit in rows 
 proved to be one such as Genevieve had been accus- 
 tomed to see applying for position as maid at her own 
 home or that of her friends, except that in this case the 
 woman was more shabbily dressed. Indeed, her dress 
 was a surprise to Genevieve. She had always supposed 
 that the poor wore shawls on their heads, and that their 
 skirts hung scantily about them ; while here was a woman 
 asking for money who was wearing a hat loaded with 
 bedraggled plumes and red flowers and ribbons, and who 
 also wore a bulky, heavy skirt cut in the style of the 
 season. 
 
 Genevieve pretended to be listening to the story, but 
 she was all the time thinking of something else. What 
 was it that made this woman different from her mother's 
 servants ? Why should she be begging for bread ? Was 
 she lazy ? Did she have a husband who drank ? Did 
 she herself, perhaps, drink, or, maybe, eat opium ? 
 
 Many of these questions were answered in the woman's 
 story as she recited it, if Genevieve had only been 
 listening. 
 
 Finally, the woman came to a pause ; and Genevieve 
 saw that she was weeping. How strange that she did 
 not feel affected in very sympathy ! She had an impulse 
 to pinch herself to see if she were really awake. 
 
 The woman dried her eyes, with many apologies for 
 the emotion. Genevieve learned her name and address, 
 
38 D i f f e rences 
 
 and promised to go to see her in the morning. " I will 
 go this afternoon," she was thinking as she promised. 
 " Perhaps she is cheating me, and will be ready for re- 
 ceiving to-morrow." She ushered her out as soon as she 
 could, and hurried away up to her room to think the 
 matter over before going. 
 
 Luckily, Miss Crawford had few callers that morning, 
 and little more need of her assistance. When the 
 luncheon bell rang in the dining-room, Genevieve was 
 still thinking over her strange experience. 
 
 " You may as well go calling with me before you go to 
 look up your case," said Miss Crawford. " I am going 
 to see the Farleys this afternoon." 
 
 By two o'clock they were dressed, and ready for the 
 street. Genevieve walked timidly along, marvelling at 
 her companion's composure. Miss Crawford was laugh- 
 ing and chatting merrily, occasionally nodding to some 
 one as they passed or calling the children by name. 
 They were entering one of the most miserable of the 
 streets, but the girl was as cheerful and thoughtless as if 
 they were promenading the boulevard. In the middle of 
 a story she paused before a dark passage between two 
 houses. " This is the place," she said. " They live 
 upstairs in the rear cottage. Shall I go first? It's 
 pretty dark." 
 
 She ran down the steps from the sidewalk, — all the 
 houses of this neighbourhood having been built on ground 
 at least eight feet lower than the street, — and made her 
 way without stumbling along the dark passage. Gene- 
 vieve kept close behind her, and tried to think that no 
 one was following to rob them. 
 
 " Are you sure this is the place ? " she asked by way of 
 conversation. 
 
 " Oh, yes, two hundred and ten. I've been here lots of 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 39 
 
 times. Come through this door." And she led the way 
 across a narrow court. A low, two-story cottage was in 
 the rear of a larger house, not more than ten feet from it. 
 Miss Crawford opened the door, and began climbing nar- 
 row stairs just inside. 
 
 On the landing she knocked loudly at the door. 
 
 " What a heavy knock I " said Genevieve, involuntarily. 
 
 Miss Crawford laughed. " Oh, I used to knock gently 
 at first; but now I pound for them to open." 
 
 " Come in," said a woman's voice from the inside. 
 
 Miss Crawford opened the stubborn door, which seemed 
 inclined to resent the intrusion. 
 
 " Good afternoon, Mrs. Farley," she said, stepping in 
 and pulling Genevieve after her. " I have brought you a 
 new friend, Miss Radcliffe." 
 
 "Why, I declare, if 'tain't Miss Crawford, Nellie 1 
 Come in, Miss Crawford." And she hastened to make 
 room for the company. 
 
 Another woman came slouching in from a doorway 
 somewhere at the back. The room seemed filled with 
 the four, and Genevieve could not breathe the foul at- 
 mosphere. How dim and dismal it was ! and everywhere 
 wet clothes were hanging from lines stretched across the 
 room. Whenever the women moved, they were obliged 
 to stop and stoop under the clothes-lines. Their tousled 
 heads, their red faces and eyes that gleamed in the semi- 
 darkness, made the wondering girl think of the pictures of 
 South Sea Islanders she had seen in books of her child- 
 hood, as they crept about in their huts to keep from 
 striking their heads on the thatch. 
 
 She was almost stifled with the heat. Though it was a 
 bright autumn day outside, every window and door was 
 close shut, and there was a roaring fire in the cook-stove. 
 A smell of frying pork burdened the air; and this, 
 
40 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 mingled with the steam of the drying clothes, made the 
 place almost unbearable. 
 
 " Take a seat, miss," said the older woman, clearing a 
 chair of a pile of soiled linen, which she threw on the 
 floor, and wiping the seat with her apron. Genevieve was 
 thankful enough for it, though she had been warned pre- 
 viously never to sit down in one of these houses by a lady 
 in the church Aid Society who had visited the poor for 
 twenty years. But Miss Crawford was sitting down, and 
 chatting as if nothing were the matter. An ironing- 
 board was stretched from the table to the back of a chair. 
 The younger woman began working at a skirt that was 
 hanging on it, listening as well to the conversation. 
 Genevieve could see her head only by peering under a 
 line of the clothes, though her skirt was always in plain 
 view. 
 
 " And how are you, Mrs. Farley ? " Miss Crawford was 
 saying. 
 
 " But poorly, but poorly, thank you, Miss Crawford, for 
 asking. You see with me, dear, it's different from you, — 
 getting old as I am, and with my rheumatiz an' my 
 troubles." And here she went off into a garrulous account 
 of all the aches and pains she had had in the last fort- 
 night, giving each in chronological order, and describing 
 her remedies for each and the relief that came or the 
 failure. She was a wiry little woman, with thin black 
 hair like an Indian's, bright, bead-like, shining eyes, and 
 a frame still well knit and serviceable. As she talked 
 first to one and then to the other, her story gradually 
 came out. She was born in the south of Ireland, and 
 grew up in the country. She had come to America later 
 on, and had served in some of the best families in Boston 
 in her time. Then she had married, and kept house till 
 her husband died ; and she had come West to Nellie. 
 
D i f f e rences 41 
 
 As Genevieve looked at Nellie, she saw what free 
 America could do for improvements. The girl was in 
 every way more coarse and vulgar than her mother. A 
 flabby slattern in build, she slouched about her work in 
 aimless fashion. Her face was full and red, her eyes 
 were listless and staring. She listened stupidly to the 
 story of the well-organized little woman, her mother, and 
 seemed to feel a dull pride in the importance her misery 
 was taking. 
 
 Genevieve fairly cringed as Miss Crawford put her 
 searching questions. What right had they to run into 
 such privacy ? And yet the women seemed to think it no 
 intrusion. 
 
 The story was simple enough. The girl, Nellie, had 
 married a year ago, and was happy in the beginning. 
 Then there was a baby to be born, and by that time her 
 husband had tired of her. Genevieve could not feel very 
 bitter toward him, when she looked at the woman. Well, 
 the man had been gone five months now, and never a 
 word of his whereabouts. The baby was four months 
 old. They brought it out for inspection. 
 
 " How cunning ! " said Miss Crawford, peeping into the 
 dirty bundle of flannel, and touching the baby's cheeks 
 with her finger. But even she did not offer to take the 
 child, though she apologized afterward to Genevieve as 
 they were on their way back to the Settlement. 
 
 Meanwhile the mother looked on fondly enough, until 
 her forgotten flat-iron had scorched a brown spot in the 
 skirt she was ironing. 
 
 " They have a hard time to make a living," explained 
 Miss Crawford in the interlude caused by the brown spot. 
 " There is so little washing to do, and there are so many 
 to do it." 
 
 As Genevieve looked at the dingy garments on the 
 
42 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 line, she felt little surprise that the two women had diffi- 
 culty in getting work. 
 
 They talked a few minutes longer, till Genevieve was 
 almost fainting for the want of air. She even staggered 
 as they reached the little court below. The women were 
 calling their adieus down to them. 
 
 " You will be all right when you have been here a 
 year," said Miss Crawford, encouragingly. " I have got 
 so I hardly mind it. Isn't that a hateful man to desert 
 those poor women and the baby ? What brutes men are ! 
 I think they must be the most selfish things in the world. 
 Just think of the fight Sunday morning. But, then, there 
 is papa," she said, reflecting a moment. 
 
 The two girls parted at the corner, Genevieve going to 
 visit her " case " with a heavy feeling in her heart. She 
 found the woman in a basement, living in two musty 
 rooms on a fairly respectable street. The woman was 
 surprised at her coming, but there was no need to conceal 
 that she was in want of aid. A bare table, a stove, 
 two chairs, and a bed was all there was in the house. 
 There was some bread on the table, however; but the 
 dishes were unwashed, though long dried after using. 
 
 Two children were lounging about. The father was 
 out looking for work. The woman said he had been out 
 of work eleven weeks, and there seemed no reason to 
 doubt it. 
 
 The woman sat and begged in a pleading, whining 
 tone that made the visitor hard instead of sympathetic. 
 She listened this time, however, more closely, and tried 
 to see where, in some way, a lever might be found that 
 would raise these poor people from their present condition. 
 She promised to call again in the morning to see the 
 husband and try to get him some work. It was all she 
 could think of at the moment. It was all she could 
 
Differences 43 
 
 think of, in fact, after she reached home, though the 
 problem kept itself before her all the time. 
 
 So her work had begun ; and how helpless she was in 
 the doing 1 
 
VI. 
 
 TO get work, only to get work for the people, was 
 the one question that kept the young girl awake 
 and thinking long into the night. It was the one 
 mission that kept her moving through the day, for work 
 was the only test of sincerity. If she had it to offer, and 
 if it was accepted, there was no almsgiving needed. If 
 the chance was avoided and shunned with paltry excuses, 
 then she need have no compunction in turning a man 
 adrift. But always this work-test was wanting. The men 
 said they could not get work ; and who could say that they 
 were not speaking the truth, when she knew that many of 
 the most active and earnest men had been tramping the 
 streets hopeless for months, and when she herself, with her 
 influence and rich friends, could not find vacancies for one 
 in a hundred of the applicants ? 
 
 When, in the beginning, she had through indefatigable 
 search succeeded in placing a man, she felt that she had 
 done some real good to society, and was pleased to go on 
 looking further, though she saw that what she did was as 
 but a drop in the ocean. 
 
 " Still, it is one person's share," she argued. " No one 
 can expect to solve the whole social problem." 
 
 Then would come the reaction, — a reaction that would 
 sicken the heart, and would leave her for days spiritually 
 prostrate. Perhaps the man whose supplicant and helper 
 she had been failed either through incompetency or a 
 lack of desire to do well. Or perhaps she would hear of 
 how some capable man had been turned away because 
 her incapable applicant had been taken. Perhaps the 
 other man, the competent one, had been watching this 
 opening for months, only to see at length that, because 
 another less worthy than himself had secured a girl's 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 45 
 
 social influence, he was crowded out. How would 'such a 
 man feel toward her and her work? she asked herself. 
 She came to feel so girlishly weak in the great economic 
 struggle around her that it seemed as if, wherever she 
 put her meddling hand, she compassed only injustice and 
 wrong. Still, she struggled on. She could not get away 
 and go home now in helpless confession of her incapa- 
 bility. She looked at Miss Crawford's cheerful face, and 
 took courage. 
 
 Meanwhile her friends and family were complaining 
 bitterly of her neglect, and seeking to convince her that 
 her new occupation was wearing her into ill-health and 
 ruin. 
 
 Maynard Neville was particularly severe in his denun- 
 ciation of what he called " Genevieve's senseless fad." 
 " She is getting to be positively stupid," he complained. 
 " I take her out driving or to the theatre, and all the time 
 she is gazing off into space, and is so absent-minded that 
 she can't answer a question intelligently. Why, she is 
 getting dark circles under her eyes, mooning about senti- 
 mentally over some dirty beggar's troubles. I have no 
 patience with her ! Why doesn't she send the beggar 
 to me ? I should give him a dollar, and he'd go away 
 blessing me and her. Instead, she prefers to pry into his 
 affairs and give sympathy, and what she calls ' personal 
 assistance.' The result is, she finds that the beggar is a 
 rascal, and he finds that her sympathy is the spiritual kind 
 that does not help him to a supper; and they both go 
 away disgusted." 
 
 But, in spite of arguments and entreaties, Genevieve 
 would not go away for the holidays. A house party had 
 been planned for Christmas week at Beechwood, the home 
 of her uncle, the Radcliffe homestead in Canada. There 
 were the wonders of Niagara in winter, the tobogganning, 
 
46 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 the sleighing and snow-shoe parties. At night there was 
 the merry company about the great open fireplace under 
 the stairway in the high, roomy hall. Always before the 
 young girl had been the life of the party. 
 
 This year they were trying to be merry without her ; 
 and some of them, at least, found it dull business. Neville 
 was naturally the one who suffered most. At first he had 
 declared that he should not go at all. He had finally 
 yielded at her earnest entreaties, but had been able to en- 
 dure the dulness only a few days. On Christmas morn- 
 ing he took the train for Chicago, and cursed his light- 
 hearted fellow-travellers all the way because they seemed 
 to find pleasure in the landscape and each other. 
 
 He found Chicago little better than Beechwood. To 
 be sure, he was near his fiancee ; but what was the advan- 
 tage of that, if her time and her thoughts were given to 
 the dirty beggars around Settlement House instead of to 
 him ? He spent the evening at the club, drinking Martini 
 cocktails alone, which was very depressing and rather 
 vulgar. 
 
 By morning, however, his anger had cooled a little. 
 He went over to Settlement House early, picturing to 
 himself all the way Genevieve's gentle, pouting reproof of 
 his foolishness in returning, and her gradual relenting and 
 final forgiveness. 
 
 The weather was bitter cold. Old settlers said they 
 had not known such a winter for thirty years. It pierced 
 through his fur-lined coat, and chilled him to the very 
 marrow. He had taken an electric car, and even the line 
 of fire under the wheels seemed cold and blue. When- 
 ever the squeaking door was pushed open, the blast fairly 
 stopped his breath. 
 
 He got off at the Settlement street, already familiar to 
 him, and hurried toward the shelter of the house. It did 
 
D i f f e rences 47 
 
 not seem so desolate to-day. Perhaps they would ask 
 him to luncheon. There was something to check him, 
 however, as he turned in at the gate. A great many 
 people were coming and going in a double procession. 
 The young man caught his breath. Could it be that 
 something had happened? A second glance, however, 
 reassured him ; and he began to mount the stone steps. 
 He noticed that the people were all carrying baskets. 
 Those going in had empty baskets, those coming out were 
 struggling with all that they could carry. At the door 
 he had no need to ring. It was almost constantly open. 
 The ugly, institutional hall was nearly as bleak and cold 
 as the street. The snow on the floor was not melted. 
 In the crowded parlour he saw Genevieve, wrapped in her 
 heavy cloak as if to go out, but seated at the table with a 
 ledger before her. As the crowding, miserable people 
 jostled about her, she was trying to organize their move- 
 ments, and to write down the name and address of each 
 one as he went by with his basket. A young man, also 
 dressed for the street, was standing in the hall, directing 
 the people with empty baskets down to the store-room 
 and those with the filled baskets through the parlour, to 
 be registered by Miss Radcliffe. 
 
 Neville walked into the parlour, and spoke formally to 
 Genevieve. She looked up, startled for a moment ; and 
 a jealous pang shot through him as he felt how far he 
 had been from her thoughts. She looked half dead with 
 fatigue and worry. "Nothing has happened?" she 
 gasped, when she saw him standing in front of her. 
 
 " Nothing, only that I found the place intolerably stu- 
 pid," he said, sulking. " I came back to see if you could 
 not find time for a little amusement." 
 
 She glanced at the line of baskets that was beginning 
 to crowd restlessly, pushed all the time from behind. 
 
48 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 " We are terribly busy," she said pleadingly. " This 
 cold snap has brought the poor here in thousands. Per- 
 haps you could go up to the sitting-room, and wait a 
 half -hour. I may get a substitute in time. Do," she en- 
 treated, almost crying. " Mrs. Baxter," she began again 
 in monotonous tones, — " Mrs. Baxter, no Wesson Street. 
 All right. Next." 
 
 Neville strode out of the room. It gave him a savage 
 pleasure to jostle a woman with her basket. What right 
 had she here, anyway, wearing the life out of the girl he 
 was to marry ? At first his rage carried him out on to 
 the street, vowing that he would go back to Beechwood 
 that day, that he would never set foot in this slum-hole 
 again. But gradually, as he walked, his reason came 
 back to him. Perhaps the cold hastened the action. He 
 would be a brute, too, if he were not affected by the 
 pleading of the soft eyes, the haggardness and care of 
 Genevieve's face. " I am a selfish brute," he said, sud- 
 denly turning about. " I will go back, and wait all day 
 till I see her." 
 
 This time he only glanced into the reception-room as 
 he passed the door, to see that the cloaked and hooded 
 figure was still bending over her book. Then he mounted 
 the stairs, and rapped at the sitting-room door. " Come 
 in," called a voice from inside. A girl was seated at the 
 piano, turning over some music. She was a young girl, 
 peculiar-looking, with short hair and dowdily dressed, he 
 thought. He supposed it was Miss Carr. He had often 
 heard Genevieve speak of her music. He introduced 
 himself with some stiffness. 
 
 " Oh, you are Mr. Neville." The girl smiled hospi- 
 tably, though her eyes were more scrutinizing than he 
 liked. 
 
 " Won't you sit down and be as comfortable as possible 
 
D i f f e rences 49 
 
 before the grate ? The wind from the hall penetrates 
 every room of the house, but it is all for the good of the 
 poor," she said with a humility that was plainly mockery. 
 
 " What is happening downstairs, anyway ? " asked 
 Neville, bluntly. " I thought I had made a mistake, and 
 got into the county relief office." 
 
 " It is not far from it," said Miss Carr, with scorn that 
 was now unmistakable. " The Mayor has raised ten 
 thousand dollars for the suffering poor during this cold 
 weather, and downstairs they are doling out one thousand 
 of it in impartial fifty-cent doles. At this rate, it won't 
 last long ; but they are making it go very well, because 
 they buy everything at a discount, even on the wholesale 
 rates, in the name of the suffering poor." 
 
 " I should think at least that men might do the work," 
 said Neville, doggedly. 
 
 " On the contrary, to me it seems quite the work for 
 women," said Miss Carr. 
 
 " I notice that you keep away from it," said he, smiling, 
 and looking into her eyes. 
 
 Her shoulders went up and her hands out in expres- 
 sive foreign fashion. Her head, too, was tilted coquet- 
 tishly on one side. 
 
 " She is not so plain as I had supposed," thought 
 Neville. " A good modiste and hair-dresser would make 
 her quite presentable." 
 
 They talked for some time, — about music, about litera- 
 ture, and about art. Miss Carr talked surprisingly well, 
 but all the time Neville was growing more and more rest- 
 less. 
 
 " I'll tell you what I'm going to do," Miss Carr said 
 suddenly, " though I hate it more than I hate death, — 
 yes, as I hate ugliness itself. I'm going to put on my 
 cloak and hood and overshoes, and go down and take 
 
so D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 Genevieve's place for an hour. I will send her up here 
 to you, and I want you to talk all the time about things a 
 hundred miles from Chicago." 
 
 " You are really awfully good," he said gratefully. 
 " Not a bad sort, after all, when you know her," he 
 added to himself, when she had danced away out of the 
 room. 
 
 In ten minutes Genevieve came in. She had taken off 
 her cloak and hood, and she came and sat down by the 
 fire. Her hands and lips were blue with cold, but her 
 manner was all he had pictured. 
 
 " It was very, very naughty of you to come sulking 
 away, spoiling their sport for me," she said, pouting in 
 the way that always pleased him." 
 
 Miss Carr was left fretting downstairs for more than 
 the hour she had volunteered. 
 
VII. 
 
 GENEVIEVE went back to the parlour with the 
 feeling of one who has slept and dreamed a 
 pleasant dream. Once more the methodical 
 tally-keeping began. This rush of the cold weather 
 had been on them now for three days, and she was 
 growing hardened and dazed for lack of time to despair 
 in. The first day she had kept up from sheer ex- 
 citement at the sudden change. The second day she 
 had been rebellious, wondering why such conditions were 
 allowed to exist. To-day she was worn out with work 
 and worry, and went through her part like a machine. 
 
 After a hasty luncheon in the kitchen, she exchanged 
 places with Miss Crawford, as had been their custom the 
 two preceding days, and sat in the dining-room to inter- 
 view the applicants before they received their baskets of 
 provisions or their supply of coal or clothing, as the case 
 demanded. There was no time for the stipulated inves- 
 tigation. It was give, give, recklessly, to all now; to 
 each, as nearly as possible, what he asked. There had 
 been fear of a bread riot in the city, and the wealthy had 
 been liberal with their charities. Genevieve felt the 
 wrong of it all, that she should be doing the disagreeable 
 work for them and they should escape with the easy gift 
 of the money. She had changed her views in many 
 things since she came to live at Settlement House. But 
 this stress was not a time to experiment with theories. 
 Here was work to be done, or fellow-beings would die of 
 cold and hunger. She knew that the method was a bad 
 one ; but for the time it was her best, and she could not 
 stop to criticise. 
 
 The afternoon was wearing on. She had already 
 lighted the gas, when suddenly she had a curious feeling 
 
52 Differences 
 
 that she was in a human presence. In the weariness of 
 the last two hours she had been telling off the people 
 around her as if they had been merely animals rather 
 than men and women who were coming to her for their 
 food. She looked up, rather startled at this new sensa- 
 tion. A man was standing sullenly before her. He was 
 not looking her in the eyes. He was only a poor working- 
 man, and she felt strangely reassured at this. Neverthe- 
 less, she arose, and walked over to the door, and locked 
 it. There was no one else in the room at the time. The 
 press of applicants was beginning to slacken. 
 
 She came back, and sat down before the man, offering 
 him a chair as she did so. He sat down uneasily on the 
 edge of it, twirling a shabby hat in his hand. She looked 
 at him curiously, and neither spoke for a moment. 
 
 The man was not old,— about thirty, she thought,— 
 and had a fresh, ruddy look that did not seem to speak of 
 starvation. He was of medium height, of sturdy frame, 
 with a large square head and a smooth white brow, over 
 which scant blond hair hung carelessly. There was 
 something about the man — something about the delicate 
 mouth and the firm, affectionate chin — that drew her to 
 him. Instinctively, however, she began with the usual 
 question, — 
 
 " What is your name ? " 
 
 A burning blush spread over his face. He tried to 
 keep it back, but succeeded only in whitening a space 
 about his mouth, where the muscles were tense with draw- 
 ing. For a moment he lifted his eyes, which were blue, 
 and met hers defiantly. 
 
 " John Wade," was all he said ; and again his eyes 
 sought the nervously twirling hat. 
 
 " Where do you live ? " was the second of her regular 
 questions. 
 
Differences 53 
 
 " One hundred and nine Division Street." 
 
 " Married ? " 
 
 "Wife is dead." 
 
 " Any children ? " 
 
 " Two." But his lip quivered here, and something like 
 a sob moved his shoulders. 
 
 " I wish you would tell me what you want," she said 
 kindly. His trouble was bringing back her own. 
 
 "I want some money," he said bluntly; "and I don't 
 know where under heaven to turn for it. I don't want 
 any of your baskets of groceries. They won't be any 
 help in my case. We are out of coal. We are out of 
 flour. I owe seven months' rent and twenty dollars for 
 the wife's funeral expenses. I haven't had work for 
 twenty-two weeks. That was before the wife died. Now 
 the little girl is sick " — He stopped here, and seemed 
 trying to swallow something that grew and groaned in his 
 throat. 
 
 The girl's sympathy was flowing like a river ; but her 
 voice was only kind, as it had been with all of the others. 
 
 " What is your trade ? " she asked. 
 
 " Machinist," he answered after a pause ; and then he 
 began again, warmly : " If I could only get work I I 
 know how to run several machines in the factories, and 
 I can give good references from all of them. But the 
 work don't exist. I get up in the morning, and I tramp 
 and beg for work till I am sick to beg any longer. The 
 bosses ain't got it to give. I hate to go home so at night 
 that I just walk around the streets till I am forced to. It 
 is so hard to see the children, and no work. Now I've 
 pawned everything in the house. I've hunted for work 
 every day, steady, since the funeral, — that's nineteen 
 weeks coming Tuesday. I've offered to do anything, — 
 cut wood or shovel in the streets, — but it seems that the 
 
54 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 work don't exist ; or, if it does, it's for some one who has 
 a pull or is in politics." 
 
 It was an old story to Genevieve now. She had heard 
 it constantly from helpless men since October. To-day 
 her rebellion had reached its height. She could contain 
 her wrath no longer. 
 
 " Why don't you men band together, and demand your 
 rights ? " She had risen from her chair and was pacing 
 the room. Her eyes were flashing with mingled fire and 
 tears, and her white hands were clenched in excitement. 
 
 " Why don't you fight ? Oh, I wish I were a man ! 
 What is the matter with you cowards ? Isn't the work 
 yours by God's right ? Isn't there plenty to be done ? 
 Look at the filth in the streets 1 Look at the paving to 
 be laid, the houses to be built for the poor ! Everywhere 
 the city is crying for work; and over there, not a mile 
 away, the rich are lazy in luxury. Oh, why do you stand 
 it at all ? Why don't you band together, and rebel ? " 
 
 She stopped still before him, and stood panting and 
 trembling with the thought of the meaning of all she had 
 been saying to him. Suppose he should go away fired 
 by the words, and suppose he should break into her 
 father's house I 
 
 But the man seemed in no way stirred by her outburst. 
 He sat looking thoughtfully for a time ; and, when his 
 eyes finally rose to her own, they had the calmness of 
 eyes that have been seeking truth in pure reason. 
 
 " I suppose," he said slowly, — " I suppose that the 
 reason we don't is that we haven't got spunk enough, for 
 one thing. We lack leaders ; and, then, most of us don't 
 half realize our condition. It's a big thing, — is govern- 
 ment; and we can't solve all the problems by fighting." 
 
 " Tell me about the little girl," said Genevieve, 
 ashamed of her extravagance. " Is she very sick ? 
 Have you had a doctor ? " 
 
Differences 55 
 
 " I don't know as she is so sick," he stammered ; " but 
 she hasn't eat much for two or three days, and " — 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you have no food in the 
 house ? " gasped Genevieve, breathlessly. 
 
 " What can a man do ? " he said pleadingly, as if he 
 expected her to strike him. " I've pawned everything 
 that will give me a cent, and I can't steal work." 
 
 Genevieve began to cry softly. 
 
 " Don't, don't do that," he pleaded, his own voice 
 heavy and shaking. " There's no reason for you to feel 
 so about it. We're used to it. There are plenty of 
 others in the same fix." But the girl kept on crying 
 silently, till at length he could bear it no longer. 
 
 He walked away to the window, and stood looking out 
 into the darkening street. 
 
 " It's not so bad, you know," he said, coming back 
 after a struggle. " There's coal enough to last till to- 
 morrow, and they had some bread at noon. The little 
 girl didn't seem to take to bread, somehow, though there 
 won't be even that this evening unless I get some work. 
 A man almost promised me a job in his cellar if I would 
 come around for an hour in the morning. I suppose 
 we'll get on to-night." 
 
 " Who is staying with the children when you are out ? " 
 asked Genevieve, drying her eyes. 
 
 "Oh, an old woman; but I wouldn't tell her. She's 
 gone without before this to give to them, and Lord knows 
 when she had her last mouthful." 
 
 "Wait here till I come back," said the girl, and left 
 him sitting by the table. She ran up to her room on the 
 third floor without giving a look to right or left. On the 
 dressing-table lay her small purse. She opened it, and 
 counted out its contents. There were twelve dollars and 
 sixty cents. Taking it in her hand, she ran down again 
 
56 D i f f e rences 
 
 to the dining-room. John Wade was still sitting by the 
 table. She walked up to him, and put the money into his 
 hand. She did not let it fall from her grasp at once, but 
 placed her hand in his as she spoke 'to him. " Here are 
 twelve dollars and sixty cents," she said hurriedly. " It's 
 all that I have with me to-night ; but this does not come 
 from the relief fund. I want you to remember that. It's 
 my very own, — at least, as much as anything I have is 
 mine." 
 
 His strong workman's hand had closed on hers firmly. 
 
 " Some day I may pay it back," he said steadily ; 
 "but, when I do, it will not be in money." 
 
 She went on, still hurriedly, as before : " I shall come 
 to see you in the morning. I shall come early. You 
 must stay in till I come. I have your number here." 
 
 " One hundred and nine Division," said John Wade. 
 He was still holding her hand, his eyes looking into her 
 own. 
 
 " You must go now," said Genevieve ; " for there are 
 others waiting to see me. Good-bye." She was smiling 
 sweetly. 
 
 " Can I do anything for you ? " she said, turning to a 
 woman at the door. 
 
 John Wade walked out into the cold without so much 
 as buttoning his old coat about him. He had not known 
 an overcoat all winter, and his hat was too small for his 
 head. The workingman was not without dignity, how- 
 ever, as he walked away from the house. 
 
 There is yet one kind of giving that does not blast the 
 receiver. 
 
VIII. 
 
 THE relentless cold had not abated when on the 
 following morning Genevieve set out to make her 
 promised visit. She had been thinking more than 
 was her wont about this new case of poverty that had 
 been presented to her, and with results which varied 
 according to her mood. Sometimes she blushed as she 
 recollected her grave professional error in putting so 
 much money into a suppliant's hands. She knew nothing 
 at all of this man, and she had been too often deceived 
 to feel sure that this might not be another case of decep- 
 tion. Perhaps the man was a drunkard, who would give 
 a supper to his children and carouse with the money that 
 was left. Perhaps, even, the story of the children was not 
 true. In the past months she had been dealing so largely 
 with misrepresentations that she had come to look on all 
 humanity with distrust. 
 
 At other times her heart would give credence to all 
 that he had told her. It was the man's manner more 
 than his words that told the real story, and the impres- 
 sion that lingered with her was one of truth and sincerity. 
 The sharp cold of the street as she stepped into it 
 made all thinking impossible ; and, hurrying along through 
 the deserted ways, she found employment enough in keep- 
 ing her breath from being snatched from her by the keen 
 wind and in keeping her footing in the face of the blast. 
 There was still enough consciousness left for a constant 
 pity for all the poor, as she ran past the little shut-up 
 wooden shells of houses, and wondered if the inhabitants 
 were alive. As it was now nearly eight o'clock, the men 
 had been an hour at their work and the streets were 
 almost clear of people ; for those who were not compelled 
 to be out were shunning the open air. 
 
58 D i ffe rences 
 
 Genevieve was hurrying on, glancing occasionally at 
 the numbers over the doors and thinking of the distance 
 to the number "one hundred and nine." Suddenly she 
 came to the river, and there were still several numbers to 
 be counted. She was across the bridge where the cutting 
 wind was driving full force, and to her dismay saw that 
 there were no more houses for a block or two, but that 
 the ground was entirely occupied by an enormous grain 
 elevator. 
 
 " A false address," she was saying to herself as she 
 ran. She was thinking more of the return through the 
 cold than of the perfidy of the man who had evidently 
 so successfully deceived her. It seemed hopeless in 
 glancing ahead that she should ever find the number; 
 but, seeing a little house back from the road in the 
 shadow of the great iron walls, she ran down the alley 
 that led to it, thinking that she at least might find shelter 
 and warmth as she made her inquiries before returning. 
 
 The house seemed to be inside of an enclosure. In 
 her hurry she did not see the gate at the front, and ran 
 to a door in the rear. Perhaps, after all, it was not 
 inhabited, — it was a desolate, bleak-looking place ; but, 
 yes, there was smoke from the chimney. She knocked 
 at the shabby kitchen door. The door opened almost 
 at once, and she thrust herself inside without thinking. 
 She had but one desire now, which was to escape the 
 bitter chill of the air. Nevertheless, she was speaking 
 her excuse. 
 
 " Can you tell me where one hundred and nine Division 
 Street is ? " And then she saw that the man she was 
 seeking was before her. 
 
 " You are early," he said bashfully, taking a great deal 
 of time in closing the door and arranging an old coat on 
 the sill to keep the wind from entering. 
 
D i f f e rences 59 
 
 The room was warm, with a roaring fire in the little 
 kitchen stove ; but there was a closeness in the atmosphere 
 that almost awoke a regret for the cold freshness outside. 
 A mingling of the odours of cooking and sleeping in close, 
 unventilated rooms Genevieve was accustomed to now. 
 Moreover, there was to be noticed here that peculiar pov- 
 erty smell that haunts the garments for days, and is inde- 
 scribable, unless one has handled soiled rags that have 
 long been lying in damp and close places. 
 
 " Sit down," said the man, awkwardly, offering an old 
 chair by the stove. " If I'd thought you would venture 
 out to-day, I'd gone over and told you not to come. 
 There was really no need of your coming after giving me 
 what you did yesterday." 
 
 She saw that he had been washing the breakfast dishes. 
 When she interrupted him, his sleeves were rolled up; 
 and he wore no coat, leaving his arms bare to the elbow. 
 
 Genevieve noticed that the arms were chubby, almost 
 like a child's, but gracefully turned and with both supple- 
 ness and strength at the wrist. His face, too, was round 
 and in keeping with the arms. A short black pipe was 
 in his mouth when she entered ; but he had quickly re- 
 moved this in honour of the presence of a lady, and was 
 tapping it meditatively over the stove hearth, and looking 
 to see if the ashes had all fallen from it. 
 
 "I was so chilled," said Genevieve, coming to herself. 
 
 John Wade began busying himself with the fire, the 
 coal smoke pouring out into the room as soon as he un- 
 covered the stove. 
 
 Genevieve had time to glance at the surroundings. 
 She was in a low room, though not so small as she was 
 accustomed to in the cottages or tenements of the poor. 
 This had been designed for the kitchen of a family that 
 had some regard for convenience and domestic comfort. 
 
60 D i f f e rences 
 
 A door on one side opened into what was probably a 
 store-room and pantry, while another led into the main 
 part of the house. There were two windows in the back 
 and one on each side of the door by which she had en- 
 tered, and another as well on the end. These were 
 screened by old-fashioned blue shades made of stiff cam- 
 bric or cambric that suggested past stiffness. The small 
 window-panes were white with thick frost, and all the 
 nails and iron-work about the door were covered with 
 chill white clusters of crystals. 
 
 There was little furniture in the room. A table with 
 the half-washed dishes, another chair like the one in 
 which she was sitting, a cupboard for china and table 
 furnishing, — that was all, except that close by the stove 
 an old baby-carriage was standing, which soon came to 
 be the centre of attraction ; for an occupant in the shape 
 of a baby-boy set up a wailing at sight of the stranger. 
 The father walked over, and lifted the boy in his arms. 
 There being no place to lay the empty pipe, it was 
 returned to its place in his mouth. Instinctively, Gene- 
 vieve's trust in the man all returned, as she saw his 
 strong arms around the child, one hand, as he seated 
 himself in the chair by the fire, softly rubbing the baby's 
 head. 
 
 A little girl, who until now had been concealed be- 
 hind the baby-carriage, shyly came out from her hiding- 
 place, and, running round behind her father, softly tucked 
 her head under his arm. The arm lifted just a little as 
 she did so, then pressed itself closer on her head. To 
 any one who was country-bred the suggestion would have 
 come at once of a hen sheltering her chickens under her 
 wings. 
 
 The child was very fair. Genevieve was immediately 
 attracted to her. She had great, pleading, earnest blue 
 
Differences 61 
 
 eyes, that shone so steady and calm. It was like the 
 light from a planet in the clear country sky of a summer 
 evening. The face, too, was sweetly childlike, and 
 framed in a wealth of golden hair that was now sadly in 
 need of combing. 
 
 " What is her name ? " asked Genevieve, interested and 
 natural at once. 
 
 " Angeline," he replied, " though we call her Lena for 
 short." 
 
 " What a pity, when Angeline is so much prettier I " 
 
 John Wade was pleased, and showed it. It was his way 
 to show what he felt. 
 
 " Do you think so ? " he said quite simply. " I took it 
 from a book I was reading." 
 
 " Do you read much ? " she asked. 
 
 " In those days," he nodded reflectively. " Not now. 
 Since I have been out of work so long, I can only think 
 and think." 
 
 Just now Genevieve wished to avoid the work question. 
 
 " And the baby's name? " she asked. 
 
 "Joseph," he replied, rubbing the soft head with his 
 hand that had not been removed, " or just Joe. I like 
 ordinary names for boys." 
 
 " You have an ordinary name, too, Mr. Wade. You 
 told me it was John, did you not ? " 
 
 He nodded, taking his pipe from his mouth and giving 
 it to the little girl. " Run, put it on the table," he said. 
 
 There was a pause while the child was snuggling back. 
 
 " You did not tell me your name," he said inquiringly. 
 
 " Miss Radcliffe," she answered ; and then, thinking for 
 the first time that her name sounded cold, she added, 
 " My given name is Genevieve." 
 
 " It is a pretty name," he said quietly, as if thinking. 
 
 " The little girl is better this morning ? " inquired Gen- 
 
62 D i f f e rences 
 
 evieve, after a pause, the man not taking the initiative in 
 conversation. 
 
 "Come and see me, Lena," she said, coaxing and hold- 
 ing out her hands ; but the child drew back in her shelter. 
 
 " You can call her Angeline, if you like," he said, as if 
 remembering the visitor's preference for the longer form. 
 " Run to the lady, child. Go on, go on." 
 
 The little girl stepped timidly out, and came to the 
 lady's side. Genevieve could see that there were dark 
 shadows under her eyes, and that her hand was weak and 
 fluttering. 
 
 "You must give her plenty of nourishing food from 
 now on. Buy such things as she likes." 
 
 " She is better this morning," answered the father, as 
 the child ran back to his arms. " I bought her a bottle 
 of medicine last night. It was what the wife always took, 
 and it was a very good medicine. Run and show the 
 lady the bottle," he said, turning again to the child. 
 
 It was a patent nostrum that Genevieve remembered 
 seeing in the advertisements when a child. 
 
 She did not feel like giving a lecture on patent medi- 
 cines this morning, though it was an opportunity that she 
 would eagerly have embraced three months before, when 
 planning her work with the poor. There was something 
 that made this a personal matter here. She could not 
 call the authority of the dead wife into question. 
 
 " It is proper food that she needs more than medicine," 
 was all that she said. " Eggs and milk, with some meat 
 and vegetables." 
 
 " I got some milk and meat last night, but eggs cost so 
 much in the winter. They are thirty cents a dozen now," 
 he said quite seriously, as if it were a fortune, almost. " I 
 bought some beans," he added inquiringly. " There is a 
 good deal of nourishment in beans, I have heard." 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 63 
 
 Genevieve believed there was. She remembered faintly 
 a page in her physiology. 
 
 " Do you do all your own work ? Do you live alone in 
 this house ? " she asked, now changing the subject. 
 
 " Yes, I do the work; but there is an old woman lives 
 in one of the rooms in front. She minds the children 
 when I am gone, and does not pay any rent, though for 
 that matter I don't, either," he said, laughing uneasily; 
 " or I haven't for the last seven months." 
 
 " How much is the rent ? " This at least was a proper 
 charity question. 
 
 " Seven dollars, but I suppose he'll let me off with less. 
 It'll be a long time before I can pay forty-nine dollars. 
 The landlord is good to me. He used to be my boss, 
 and now he wants some one to look out for this property. 
 He has never said a word about turning me out. Some- 
 times he says, ' Times are pretty hard, John : can't you 
 pay me a little on the rent ? ' but, when I explain how it 
 is, he always says, ' All right, John : pay when you can.' 
 He's a poor man himself, and sees a hard time with the 
 rest of us, though he's not in actual need. I should have 
 gone to him last night if I had failed with you ; but, if 
 one must beg, it's easier to beg from a stranger." 
 
 " You must not speak of it as begging," said Genevieve, 
 with feeling. 
 
 " But it is begging," said the man, doggedly. " We 
 may as well call it by its name. I never begged before, 
 though," he added after a pause, " not even when I was 
 drinking." 
 
 "Do you drink?" asked the charity worker, taking 
 sudden alarm. 
 
 " I used to," he said easily, and without the suspicion 
 of the cant of a confessing sinner. " Yes, I used to drink 
 like a fish. That was before the wife took sick, but I 
 stopped one day." 
 
64 Diff. 
 
 erences 
 
 " Because your wife was sick? " she asked with interest. 
 
 " No, it was before that. Well, I had been out of 
 work a long time, and was getting poorer and poorer, 
 going from bad to worse. I couldn't pass a saloon in 
 those days without stopping in ; and, as saloons are thick 
 in these parts, you may guess I didn't get home very early 
 of nights." 
 
 " But what made you stop ? " she pursued. 
 
 " Oh, I saw what a brute I was making of myself. Of 
 course, I had seen that all along, at times ; but one day I 
 said, ' I will stop,' and I haven't touched a drop since." 
 
 " It was hard at first, I suppose ? " asked the girl, shud- 
 dering as she looked at him. 
 
 "It was a little hard," he replied, his eyes gleaming at 
 the remembrance. " It was hardest passing my old pals. 
 I might not have been able to do it if I had not moved 
 away from the neighbourhood, though a man can do 'most 
 anything if he sets his will to it. I stopped chewing 
 tobacco at the same time. That is a nasty habit. For 
 a time I thought I would give up smoking as well, but 
 now I'm glad I didn't. 
 
 " I haven't made any friends since I stopped drinking," 
 he continued by way of explanation. " Friends don't 
 come unless a man goes to the saloon. They don't stay, 
 either, after he's left it." There was a pause here. 
 
 " Well," he went on at length, " since the wife died, the 
 old pipe has been great company after the children were 
 asleep. I don't hardly know how I'd got along without 
 that." 
 
 The little girl, hearing him talk of the pipe, ran and 
 brought it from the table, together with a bag of tobacco. 
 
 " Not while the lady's here, Angeline," he said ; but he 
 took the pipe and held it in his hand. 
 
 There was a certain charm about his hand that Gene- 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 65 
 
 vieve had never noticed before in all of the hands she 
 had seen, — a certain clearness and knowledge that was 
 almost intelligence in itself. The fingers were clumsy 
 enough and too stubbed at the end for beauty ; but they 
 did things nimbly in spite of their clumsiness, they were 
 so perfectly trained to obey and accomplish. Genevieve 
 had never seen the beauty of a workingman's hand before. 
 She had thought only of gracefulness and delicacy. In 
 this man's hand there was something besides strength 
 and skill, — a certain rounded affection in the palm that 
 was quite as gentle as the nature of woman, yet deep and 
 composed as a man's. She noticed this quality of affection 
 as the man held the bowl of the pipe. She noticed it 
 often again when the palm was rubbing the baby's white 
 head. Once she had gone to watch a lens-polisher at 
 work upon lens. The fact had not touched her at the 
 time ; but now she thought of it again, and she remem- 
 bered the same kind of affection as the hollow palm had 
 fitted itself to the rounded glass. 
 
 All this time John Wade was gazing half humourously 
 at the pipe. 
 
 " It is curious," he said, " how a man will get tied to a 
 little bit of wood like that." 
 
 Genevieve suddenly was called to herself and the long 
 day of charity-giving before her. She hated it now as she 
 thought of it, — the unnatural relation with those people. 
 It was not so delightful, playing the Lady Bountiful, as 
 she had imagined in the past. It was much better for 
 all to be equals. 
 
 "I must go now," she said, rising hastily. Again she 
 became conscious of the closeness and the heat. " I am 
 going to try to find you some work, but I know how hard 
 that is to do ; and meanwhile you must try, too. Perhaps 
 you can run across something. How much money have 
 you now ? " 
 
66 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 " Why, I have all that you gave me except a dollar and 
 forty cents that I paid for some coal and the groceries." 
 
 " How much coal did you get ? " 
 
 " Three baskets. I get three baskets for a quarter on 
 the corner. It is not the best coal, but it lasts longer 
 than two baskets of the other that they charge fifteen 
 cents a basket for." 
 
 " How much does it cost you a ton at this rate ? " 
 
 " Oh, some nine dollars. Of course, it is dearer than 
 by the ton." 
 
 " And how much is it by the ton ? " 
 
 " Five dollars, I think." 
 
 " Oh, the extravagance of being poor ! " sighed Gene- 
 vieve to herself ; but aloud to the man she said : — 
 
 " You have got to take some money from me till you 
 get work. It does not come from the city. This is a 
 personal affair. Now take this bill, and get a ton of 
 coal. You have a good place to put it ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, there's the shed." 
 
 " Well, good-bye," she said, pushing the money into 
 his hand. " Can you come to see me Saturday night at 
 exactly half -past seven ? " 
 
 " Yes, I will come," said John Wade. 
 
 She was arranging her wraps for the cold, and he 
 stood awkwardly by while she did it. 
 
 " It was unnecessary for you to come out in this 
 weather," he said. " I should have understood if you 
 had waited until it was warmer." 
 
 " But I had promised," said Genevieve, simply. " Good- 
 bye, baby. Good-bye, Angeline." It seemed sad to think 
 that she was going. 
 
 The father murmured something about waiting a 
 moment, and hurried over to put the baby into the car- 
 riage. He was some time in tying him in. Genevieve 
 waited restlessly. 
 
D i f f e rences 67 
 
 Finally, it was done ; and he came toward her, passing 
 to open the door. She thought he was going to say some 
 word of thanks, and awkwardly turned as she stepped out 
 so as not to seem to be running away. " Good-bye," she 
 said again cheerily. 
 
 There was no reply ; and for a flash she looked at him, 
 but only to drop her eyes and hurry away into the pierc- 
 ing cold. The strong man was quivering like a leaf. 
 
IX. 
 
 MAYNARD NEVILLE was both surprised and 
 pleased when a note, whose form he knew so well, 
 summoned him to Settlement House promptly at 
 seven o'clock on Saturday night, full twenty hours before 
 the appointed time. The note explained that it was a 
 business appointment, and that a favour would be de- 
 manded. But what business could be more enticing than 
 granting favours to this capricious lady, who had her own 
 favours to give ? Promptly at seven o'clock Mr. Neville 
 rang the institutional bell, and was ushered at once into 
 the cosey parlour, and drawn off into one corner where he 
 and Genevieve would be comparatively free from inter- 
 ruption, even though people should come and go as guests 
 or in the performance of their various duties. 
 
 " You seem to have disposed of your daily line of needy 
 supplicants," remarked Neville, glancing about the room. 
 " When I was here on Wednesday, I thought that you 
 would always remain a sort of bureau for bounty, and 
 never fall back into your pretence of domesticity again." 
 
 " Pretence, Maynard ? We are really thoroughly do- 
 mestic. It does not detract from domesticity, I hope, to 
 take an interest in our neighbours." 
 
 " In all of one's neighbours, I am afraid it does. The 
 hearth becomes the fire of the saloon-keeper who offers a 
 free lunch for all, without the requirement of paying for 
 a beer. But where are the petitioners ? " 
 
 " They have disappeared now, with the cold weather 
 and the money we had to distribute. It was strange how 
 they flocked in as soon as they scented the public gifts. 
 Many of them came long distances on the street-cars, we 
 found, and received things from other stations as well as 
 ours. We were as much disgusted with the plan of in- 
 
Differences 69 
 
 discriminate giving as any one ; but what could we do in 
 that bitter cold, when all of them might be and some 
 were really needy? As it was, we ran out of supplies 
 before the cold weather was gone ; and it was bitter busi- 
 ness sending them away empty-handed." 
 
 He was forgetting all about the poor in the simple 
 pleasure of being near her. 
 
 " But I brought you here on business," she interrupted, 
 " for I have a favour to ask." 
 
 "Yes, your favour. Name it: it is granted," he said 
 gallantly. 
 
 " But it is not so easy to grant," hesitated Genevieve. 
 " You have granted in this line before, and it may be dif- 
 ficult to grant what is not wholly yours." 
 
 " When you see fit to explain and be business-like " — 
 
 " Well, bluntly, I want you to try to get work in your 
 company for another man." 
 
 " But, Genevieve, I am not " — 
 
 " I know, but this is a case of necessity." 
 
 "You know that I've already had two of your protege's 
 placed, when there were plenty of capable applicants wait- 
 ing ; and you know how they turned out." 
 
 " I know, but this is different. This man is capable." 
 
 '' Just what you said of the man Stevenson, who worked 
 a week and then was drunk for two." 
 
 " But this man doesn't drink, — at least, not now." 
 
 " Oh, a reformed drunkard ? Now, Genevieve I " 
 
 " No, no, no 1 he is not that. What can you know 
 about him ? He has not been drinking for a long time, — 
 years, perhaps," said Genevieve, wondering if she was 
 conveying a false impression. 
 
 " Well, the first man, Marshall, did not drink. To be 
 sure, he did not work, either." 
 
 "Maynard, you promised. Anyway, you must wait 
 
70 D i f f e rences 
 
 until you see this man ; for he is coming in twenty min- 
 utes or so." 
 
 " Ah, my lady, a trap ? " 
 
 " Not a trap at all, — just a little business arrange- 
 ment." 
 
 " Oh, how keen you women are for business ! But, my 
 dear" — 
 
 " Don't say ' my dear ' : it sounds as if we were married 
 and quarrelling." 
 
 " Now, Viva, don't you know that I don't do the hiring 
 for the Randall Electric Company ? " 
 
 " I know you don't, but the superintendent will listen 
 to your suggestion. He knows what excellent judgment 
 you have." 
 
 " My judgment having proved so infallible in the two 
 previous cases." 
 
 " Nonsense 1 You didn't know the other men : you had 
 not seen them, and you are going to talk with this man." 
 
 " I wonder if it will be this way when we are married," 
 he said, looking at her fondly. 
 
 " How this way ? " 
 
 " I wonder if you will have your way in everything." 
 
 " Then I am to have my way in this ? " 
 
 " Why, didn't I promise before you asked ? " 
 
 " Now why didn't you say that at first ? " 
 
 " I did, at first." 
 
 " But I mean at first when I asked." 
 
 " That would have been at second." 
 
 " Don't be silly ! " 
 
 Here they were both extremely silly, but there was 
 nobody in the room to see them. 
 
 " But, Genevieve," he said after a pause, " you know 
 that I can only recommend. There may not be a vacancy 
 for weeks. What does your man do ? " 
 
Differences 71 
 
 " Oh, he is a machinist. He knows how to manage all 
 sorts of complicated machinery." 
 
 " Oh, skilled labor." 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " Then it is more difficult." 
 
 " How is that ? Now you are teasing me again." And 
 she thought how handsome he was. 
 
 " No, truly ; but your skilled machinist is almost sure 
 to turn out unskilled in the end, and something will 
 break." 
 
 " Now wait till you see the man, and meanwhile let 
 us talk of something else. I have a hundred things to 
 say to you. Besides, you must go at eight or else stay to 
 the neighbourhood party." 
 
 " The neighbourhood party ? No, thank you : I don't 
 want them coming so close. If I am going to be sociable 
 in that line, I prefer to join a banquet with my mother's 
 maids and the coachman some Sunday night in the 
 kitchen. Now, if you want to be democratic, why don't 
 you begin at home ? " 
 
 " This is not what I wanted to say at all," pouted Gene- 
 vieve, prettily. 
 
 She was so very pretty and Neville was so very much 
 in love with her that she had entirely her own way, and 
 they talked of whatever she wanted. She found time, 
 among other things, to outline the story of John Wade, 
 though she did not tell all that had passed nor the 
 manner in which they had really met, " because," she said 
 to herself, " he will not understand my ideas of equality, 
 but will only tease and make fun of me." To Neville she 
 spoke of the workingman as if he were only a peculiarly 
 intelligent and advanced kind of animal that was in great 
 suffering and needed compassion, not forgetting also to 
 urge that the compassion would be a valuable investment. 
 
72 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 Promptly at half-past seven the man came. 
 
 John Wade was in better spirits to-night than he had 
 been for many a week. He had secured a full day's work 
 cleaning a cellar, and had come home with a bright silver 
 dollar. He carried it in his hand as he walked. Having 
 no gloves, it was natural to keep his hands in his pockets ; 
 and, the dollar being there, it was natural for his hand to 
 grip on it. There is a joy in the possession of a day's 
 wage received when the day's work is done. It is differ- 
 ent when one waits a month for one's money. Moreover, 
 to-night John Wade was cheerful because he was going 
 to see the lady again. All the week he had been looking 
 forward to it. She seemed like an angel to him. " On 
 Saturday, at half-past seven," he had said to Angeline 
 each night as he put her to bed, — " on Saturday, at half- 
 past seven, I am to see the lady again." 
 
 And now the appointed hour had come, and he was 
 bashfully dreading it as he walked toward Settlement 
 House. He passed the gate unexpectedly. He had 
 fully thought that he was going to turn in. " I must look 
 at a clock in the store on the corner," he said by way of 
 explanation. "It would not do to be too early. Too 
 early is as bad as too late." The clock said exactly half- 
 past seven ; and he hurriedly returned to the gate, only to 
 walk by again without even looking toward the house. 
 
 " I ought to be a little late," he said. " It might look 
 too eager to be exactly on time." He turned in the mid- 
 dle of the block, and began to retrace his steps. He 
 looked about to see if the neighbours were watching him. 
 It seemed almost a criminal thing to be walking back 
 and forth in front of this house. He felt quite guilty in 
 doing it. What if a policeman should accost him ? what 
 would he say ? 
 
 " I am actually getting nervous," he laughed uneasily. 
 
D i f f e rences 73 
 
 He swallowed at nothing with difficulty as he reached the 
 gate. The nothing seemed to stick fast in his throat. 
 Then he walked steadily up the steps, and rang the bell. 
 
 " Is Miss Radcliffe in ? " he asked the girl who came to 
 the door. The girl smiled, and showed him into the 
 parlour. 
 
 John Wade was more bashful than ever. The angel 
 stepped out to meet him. She had on a very pretty 
 gown. She was ten times more radiant than when he 
 saw her before. But suddenly he drew all up into him- 
 self. There was some one with her, a handsome and ele- 
 gantly dressed gentleman. 
 
 John Wade did not know whether it was the way in 
 which the gentleman looked at him or the way in which 
 he looked at Miss Radcliffe that made him instinctively 
 dislike him. There was a patronizing air toward himself, 
 though it was by no means unkind. There was a faint 
 suggestion of patronage even to Miss Radcliffe. But 
 there was something else stronger than that. The work- 
 ingman felt that he had no right to intrude upon their 
 privacy. 
 
 " How do you do, Mr. Wade ? " said Genevieve, cor- 
 dially, though she did not offer her hand. " I have been 
 speaking to a friend about you. I thought Mr. Neville 
 might help me to find you some work." 
 
 John Wade bowed awkwardly in acknowledgment of 
 this partial introduction. He did not notice its poverty, 
 for he was not used to being recognized as an equal. 
 He hardly knew what it was that he felt ; but in some way 
 the angel had become much more of an angel, though she 
 had lost thereby a little of the human. 
 
 " Won't you sit down ? " said Genevieve, taking a seat 
 herself by way of encouragement. Neville had not risen 
 at all. 
 
74 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 But John Wade continued to stand, twirling his hat 
 awkwardly. 
 
 " I oughtn't to leave the children long," he said, though 
 he had previously told Angeline to go to bed at once, 
 and he left the old woman in charge with instructions to 
 stay till he returned. 
 
 " Are the children well ? " asked Miss Radcliffe, sym- 
 pathetically. 
 
 " Oh, yes, m'am, very well, thank you." 
 
 There was a pause. John Wade was the more discon- 
 certed because the others seemed perfectly at ease. He 
 turned half-way to Neville, and yet spoke half-way to 
 Genevieve. 
 
 " Did you have any place in mind where I might ask 
 for a job ? " he said timidly. 
 
 " What can you do ? " asked Neville. " Where have 
 you worked before ? " 
 
 " I am a machinist, sir. I worked three years for the 
 Northern Union till they shut down, and then a year for 
 the Davidson and Bell, then eight months at the Illinois 
 Iron Works, besides short jobs here and there." 
 
 " Are you an American ? " 
 
 " English. I was born in Birmingham, though I have 
 worked in London mostly." 
 
 " How long have you been in this country ? " 
 
 " Seven years and five months." 
 
 " What kind of machines have you run ? " Here 
 followed a technical discussion, intelligible only to the 
 initiated. Genevieve listened with interest, partly be- 
 cause she wished to understand Maynard's work, and 
 partly because she saw that her new man was conducting 
 himself admirably, seeming to be entirely at home with 
 his trade and clear and intelligent when talking about 
 it. " At least," thought Genevieve, " this man will not 
 
D i f f e rences 75 
 
 disappoint me. I hope that no other deserving man will 
 be kept from a job for this one. Oh, dear 1 there seem 
 to be too many good men in the world I " She listened 
 to the conversation again. 
 
 " I myself am in the employ of the Randall Electric 
 Company," said Neville. 
 
 " Oh, that's a good place to work," replied the man, 
 his eyes wistful, and his voice slightly catching at the 
 prospect. " I know a man who works there. That is a 
 roomy factory to work in, with all the modern improve- 
 ments." 
 
 Again they turned to technicalities. The man grew 
 more intelligent every minute. " Why, he seems to know 
 almost as much as Maynard," thought Genevieve, forget- 
 ting that Neville had been in his new place only a few 
 months, and most of that time in the office rather than 
 the factory. 
 
 " How is it that you have been so long out of work ? " 
 asked Neville. 
 
 " My old places are shut down or are running only part 
 of a force. The bosses in the other places of the city 
 say that they have plenty of competent men on the wait- 
 ing list, men who have worked for the firm before and 
 will stand a first chance if there is a vacancy. I can get 
 work myself with Davidson if times look up a little, or at 
 any of the other places if they go back to the old force. 
 As it is, I am willing to do what I can at rough labour till 
 there is an opening somewhere." 
 
 " Do you drink ? " 
 
 " Not now. I used to drink, but I lost only one job on 
 that account." 
 
 " Well, I have an acquaintance with the superintendent 
 at the Randall, and I will ask him to do what he can for 
 you ; but I tell you beforehand that he probably has more 
 
76 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 men promised now than he can handle in the year. And, 
 if you get a place, it may be hard labour at labourer's 
 wages." 
 
 " I am down to that, and have been for a long time 
 since," said John Wade. 
 
 " I will give you a card," said Neville, drawing one 
 from his case ; " and you can take it to the superintendent 
 on Monday. You had better go at two o'clock. What 
 did you say your name is ? I will make a note of it." 
 
 " John Wade." 
 
 Neville wrote the name in his note-book, and the inter- 
 view seemed to be at an end. 
 
 "I have to thank you both," said the workingman, 
 turning to Genevieve. 
 
 " Not at all," replied the girl, in her formal fashion. 
 They seemed to be taking it for granted that he was 
 going now. 
 
 " Good-night," he said, as he turned to leave them. 
 
 "Good-night." "Good-night." 
 
 With them there was the feeling that they were to- 
 gether: with him, the feeling that he was alone. As 
 he walked homeward, the sensation seemed to grow with 
 him. Work, the phantom that he had chased so long 
 and hopelessly, was materializing into reality now. He 
 thought that he ought to be the happiest man in all the 
 world, with the knowledge that neither he nor his children 
 would be starving soon for bread. And now it was not 
 so. It was true that a great outward weight seemed 
 lifted from his breast, — a pressure that had been cramp- 
 ing and suffocating him. He could breathe freely in the 
 relief from that ; but, once its pain was silenced, he came 
 to consciousness of a growing weight within. 
 
 " The two were so happy together," he kept thinking. 
 " I suppose I might feel the same if only Clara were 
 
D i f f e rences 77 
 
 alive." And yet he knew that this was mockery. He 
 knew that it was not true. "Love, love, — it is a thing 
 not for working people," he said. " We have our animal 
 affection during courtship. There is a period when kiss- 
 ing and all that is very sweet ; but, as for real love as 
 they know it, — well, a man who must be thinking all day 
 how to get bread and butter for his family, and cowering 
 all night for fear that he will not get it, how can there be 
 any love for him ? Love is an experience for gentle folk. 
 It is not meant for us. But we do know a love for the 
 children," he whispered, as he softly unlocked the door. 
 
X. 
 
 AS the cares and duties of Monday came, Gene- 
 vieve found herself thinking again and again of 
 the little house on Goose Island. 
 
 " How stupid of me not to ask the man to come and 
 tell me the result 1 " she kept repeating to herself. " Per- 
 haps he will come, anyway, though I can hardly depend 
 upon that. These people seem to feel so little responsi- 
 bility in such acknowledgments." She grew almost rest- 
 less as the evening advanced and there were no signs of 
 her protege\ " I should like to know if Maynard really 
 put the case as forcibly as I gave it," she was thinking. 
 " I am sure that a big company like that can always give 
 a man something to do if only they once take the notion." 
 
 By eight o'clock she had made up her mind to find out 
 for herself whether or not her venture had prospered. 
 She spoke to the police officer, who always stopped in to 
 keep order among the children that came to the penny bank. 
 
 " Mr. Nugent," she asked, " does your beat take you 
 on to Goose Island ? " 
 
 " No, Miss Radcliffe, only to the river on Division 
 Street. Why do you ask ? " 
 
 " Because I want to go to see a man who lives just 
 across the river on Division Street, and I thought I might 
 go over with you." 
 
 " It's a lonely neighbourhood, that, at night, Miss Rad- 
 cliffe. Many's the hold-up there has been on that bridge, 
 and you can't trust them that live in the houses." 
 
 " But I know this man very well ; and, if you could walk 
 with me to his house, I could get him to return with me, 
 I know," the girl insisted. 
 
 " Anything to accommodate you, Miss Radcliffe, though 
 I'd advise you to wait until morning. I might come 
 
D i f f e rences 79 
 
 back with you myself, only that the captain is a little 
 particular. He does not like us to lose this hour from 
 the beat, and that's the fact of the case." 
 
 " Well, I'll get my wraps, and go with you at once," 
 said Genevieve, thinking what a risk it would be if the 
 man were not at home, and she should have to come back 
 alone. "I'll get Mr. Nugent to come back a block with 
 me, and then I shall know the way so well I shall not be 
 afraid alone," she said, overruling her fears. " I do just 
 want to see whether Maynard got that place for me." 
 
 They set out into the night, she feeling quite safe in 
 the escort of a policeman. 
 
 " It's a lonely-looking house, Miss Radcliffe," argued 
 the patrolman, as they walked down the alley in the 
 shadow of the great elevator. 
 
 Genevieve herself was beginning to quail. " Perhaps 
 I'd better just ask, and come back with you across the 
 bridge," she said, drawing closer to her protector. 
 
 John Wade himself came to the door in answer to their 
 knock. He was in his shirt-sleeves, with the customary 
 pipe in his mouth. Both Genevieve and the patrolman 
 were reassured at the glowing gentleness of his face. 
 
 " Miss Radcliffe ! " he said in astonishment. " I was 
 thinking of coming over to tell you as soon as the work 
 was done up." In reality, he had been thinking of it, but 
 had timidly put it off, saying that she would be busy with 
 other things and had probably forgotten all about him. 
 
 " I thank you for your escort, Mr. Nugent," said Gene- 
 vieve, turning to the officer. " Mr. Wade will accompany 
 me home. I want to inquire about the children." 
 
 " Well, keep a lookout as you come back," said the 
 officer, looking at Wade. He seemed satisfied, however, 
 with his scrutiny. " Good-night, Miss Radcliffe," he said, 
 and was lost in the darkness of the alley. 
 
80 D i f f e rences 
 
 Genevieve stepped into the house, determined to have a 
 little talk with this man. Perhaps she would not have 
 been so bold about entering if she had not noticed that 
 the old woman was in the kitchen, — a thin, tottering old 
 crone who she felt sure was in sad need of charity. 
 
 John Wade placed a chair for her, at the same time 
 introducing the old woman. " It's a lady from Settlement 
 House," he shouted. " She's deaf," he said in needless 
 explanation to Genevieve. 
 
 The child Angeline came sidling up to her father, al- 
 ways keeping her eyes on the lady. 
 
 " Go and speak to Miss Radcliffe," he said fondly, his 
 hand slipping down the side of her head and resting 
 under her chin. 
 
 The child only drew closer to him, gripping his leg 
 with one arm. 
 
 " Come and see me, Angeline," said Miss Radcliffe, 
 coaxingly, resolved not to think of the sanitary side of the 
 question. 
 
 The little girl came slowly over, and allowed herself to 
 be lifted to her lap. Genevieve, in spite of her resolution 
 not to look, noticed that the child's body was clean, 
 though the same could not be said of her dress and 
 apron. 
 
 " I'm a poor hand at washing their clothes," said the 
 father, answering her glance and sending a blush to her 
 face. 
 
 " It's no matter, if their bodies are clean," said Gene- 
 vieve, in confusion. 
 
 " Oh, I'm English, and have had good training in that," 
 said John Wade, proudly. " My mother was a country 
 woman from the moors, and she was very strict with us 
 children. She used to scrub me as a youngster till I was 
 raw. How I did hate soap and water ! " He laughed 
 
Differences 81 
 
 gently at the memory of it. It presented to the refined 
 city girl a glimpse of things that she had known only in 
 old pictures, and it interested her so intensely that she 
 almost forgot the closeness of the little room and the 
 smell of housekeeping and of poverty. 
 
 " But it got me in good habits," the man went on. " I 
 never think of letting a week go by without my bath, and 
 oftener than that when I'm working. The men often 
 laugh at me in the shop for stripping my shirt when I 
 wash myself at quitting-time. I was brought up to it, I 
 suppose. They smear over their necks and faces with a 
 little water, and then do the rest with the towel. But I 
 like a good scrub with the soap and a lather." 
 
 The ingenuousness of talking this way to a modern 
 society woman ! It was more than ever like the pictures, 
 and Genevieve was artist enough to appreciate it. 
 
 " But it's hard to dry clothes here, when once they are 
 washed," he went on, nodding toward a line behind the 
 stove on which some garments were hanging, as they 
 always are in the houses of the poor of the city. " The 
 children, now, come out of the tub and are dry and 
 bright in a minute ; but the clothes hang over the stove 
 till they are about as dirty with the coal smoke and dust 
 as they were when I put them into the water." 
 
 " So your mother came from the moors," said Gene- 
 vieve, going back to her pictures. 
 
 " Yes, and my father, too. My brothers and sisters 
 were all born there. I was the only one born in the 
 city, and my mother often said I was none the better for 
 it. She always hated the city, did my mother, fighting 
 with the dirt and the crowd. Besides, father took to 
 drinking there ; and she had little to be thankful for in 
 coming." 
 
 The picture was growing before her. 
 
82 D i f f e rences 
 
 " Did you have many brothers and sisters ? " she asked. 
 
 " Two brothers and two sisters. I was the youngest of 
 the family. There was Sarah, she was the oldest, having 
 company when I was a shaver. I used to hang around 
 the room until the beaux gave me twopence to clear out. 
 They wouldn't give less than twopence when the girl 
 they was courting was looking. Sarah was always good 
 to me. She would laugh afterward when I told her about 
 the twopence. She's dead now. Married the poorest of 
 them all. She was out with one who was jealous, and 
 began to spark another girl for spite. She accepted an- 
 other man just to get even with the man she liked. He 
 went off to America somewhere, and would not come to 
 the wedding. Sarah was never herself after that, though 
 she made a good wife to her husband. He was an old 
 fellow with some money, and Jake threw it up at her that 
 she took him for his fortune. She was too proud to tell 
 him the truth, but she told me a long time after." 
 
 There was a silence after the little tragedy. The old 
 woman was dozing in the corner behind the stove, and 
 the child Angeline was looking steadily from the great 
 blue eyes into her father's face. He had picked up the 
 baby-boy in his talk and was fondling him in the usual 
 fashion. Genevieve noticed how softly the baby fitted 
 in the hollow of his arm. 
 
 " You must find it dull, listening all about my family," 
 he said at length, by way of apology. " I haven't talked 
 with any one for so long that I seem to go off on to all 
 sorts of things, when I get some one to listen. It isn't 
 often that I find any one who can understand." 
 
 " No, no : I like to listen," said Genevieve, earnestly. 
 " I do truly ; but it seems to me very warm in here. I 
 think I will take off my coat." 
 
 " It will be real charity to stay a little while and talk," 
 
Differences 83 
 
 she said, to silence her propriety. " The man is hungry 
 for sympathy." 
 
 " Just lay your things on the table. I have it warm on 
 account of the children," he explained. " It's time this 
 young fellow was undressing for bed. It's the hardest 
 thing getting his clothes off, once he's asleep. The old 
 woman there, Mrs. McLennan, likes the heat, too. Her 
 coal's all out now, and I don't know when she'll get any 
 more." 
 
 " Has she got any relatives ? " asked Genevieve, pity- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Not that I know of," said John Wade. " She don't 
 say much. She had a son, but no one knows where he 
 is. Perhaps he's done something, and is in the peni- 
 tentiary. Nobody knows. Nobody comes to see her." 
 
 He walked over to the cupboard, the baby still under 
 his arm, and began turning some milk into a bottle. The 
 baby did not seem to incommode him in his actions or to 
 consider this treatment in any way unusual. He lay like 
 a roll of cloth, blinking as his eyes came toward the 
 lamp. The bottle, once filled, was placed in a tin pail 
 of hot water, and set on the stove hearth. Once seated, 
 the father brought the baby back into the more natural 
 position on his arm. The boy was nodding sleepily. 
 
 " I must get them to bed, and then I will go home with 
 you," said John Wade. "Angeline, run and bring me 
 the night-gowns." 
 
 The child slipped down from Miss Radcliffe's lap, 
 where she was very much at home now, and ran into the 
 room in the front part of the house. Soon she came 
 back with the gowns, — not so white as Miss Radcliffe 
 had been accustomed to, but doing very well under the 
 circumstances. She hung them carefully over a chair to 
 warm, and then came back to her seat on the lady's lap, 
 serious and without uttering a word. 
 
84 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 " I suppose that you came to ask how I made out with 
 the Randall Electric," said the man, beginning to undress 
 the child as naturally as if it were the most established 
 convention of society to undress babies while ladies were 
 making evening calls. 
 
 Genevieve had almost forgotten that that was her 
 errand, but now all her interest returned. " Yes, what 
 did the superintendent say ? " she asked eagerly. 
 
 "He asked me a few questions first," said John Wade, 
 pausing with the baby's dress off at one sleeve. " He 
 wanted to know how long I had been out of work, what 
 kind of machines I had run, and how much family I had, 
 and about my debts and all. He seems a very nice man, 
 though. I think he didn't have any real place for me." 
 
 The other sleeve came off here, and the baby dress 
 was slipped down to the waist, leaving the fat, chubby 
 arms to paddle about his face. 
 
 " He told me to wait for a time, and finally went with 
 me into the yard where a lot of old castings were piled. 
 ' Have you got a paint-pail for this man, George ? ' he 
 said to the boss who came up. The boss said he guessed 
 he could find one. ' Well, you give him a pail and set 
 him to work in the morning,' he said. Then he turned to 
 me, and said : ' Work begins at seven. I will have your 
 pay made out for Saturday this week, though it's the rule 
 to wait two weeks in the beginning, and then keep a 
 week's deposit ahead. If you do well, there may be 
 something better in time. That all depends upon you.' " 
 
 Here the night-gown was taken from the chair-back, 
 and slipped over the baby's head. The dress and skirts 
 were then drawn off underneath and thrown into the chair 
 with the shoes and stockings. It was all done as easily 
 and naturally as Mr. Neville would draw on a glove. 
 The baby once lying in his father's arms, the bottle was 
 
Differences 85 
 
 taken out of the pail of warm water and adjusted to the 
 baby's mouth. The father then began rocking it back 
 and forth with a crooning motion, his eyes fixed on the 
 glow of the hearth. 
 
 " How much wages do you get ? " asked Genevieve. 
 
 " He did not say," replied John Wade ; " but I asked a 
 fellow who was working near by how much he got, and 
 he said a dollar and a quarter." 
 
 " It's a strange way to hire a man, and not have a 
 bargain as to the wages," said Genevieve, who was not 
 very familiar with factories. 
 
 " Oh, I'll get the regular wage, — whatever they pay the 
 rest. I'll know Saturday. It was a great favour for him 
 to take me on at all ; and he never would have done it, 
 had it not been for the word of your friend. I want you 
 to thank him for me, Miss Radcliffe. I don't know how 
 I can ever thank you," he said, putting his arms close 
 around the baby. 
 
 " You shall not speak of thanks," said Genevieve, ear- 
 nestly. " What I have done is no more than you would 
 have done for me, had I been in your place and you in 
 mine. Indeed, I think you would have done a great deal 
 more," she added, remembering the help that in her brief 
 experience she had known the poor to give to the poor. 
 "If it had been I who had been out of work and money 
 and you who had plenty, you would have taken me into 
 your own house and made me share alike with you." 
 
 He looked amused at this, and after some reflection 
 said : " I think it would depend on how long I had had 
 plenty. If it had been only a short time, I might have 
 done as you say; but, if I had been rich for long, I 
 should do no more than you did. It is so easy to 
 change." 
 
 He picked up his pipe from the stove hearth, and 
 looked at it speculatively. 
 
86 
 
 D i f f e rences 
 
 " Won't you please smoke ? " said Genevieve. " I 
 should not mind it in the least." 
 
 " Oh, no, not in the presence of a lady. It would not 
 be proper," said John Wade. 
 
 " But you smoked in the presence of your wife," she 
 argued. 
 
 The man laughed low and happily. 
 
 " You know what I mean," he said, his eyes looking 
 pleadingly into hers. 
 
 " My father always smokes in the library in the even- 
 ing, and I like to sit with him at the time." 
 
 " You are a true woman," said John Wade, taking up 
 the pipe and putting it into his mouth. " Angeline, pet, 
 run and fetch me my tobacco." The child ran, holding 
 the little bag up eagerly. John Wade filled the pipe, 
 lighted it, and puffed steadily, without so much as moving 
 the baby. 
 
 " You will not find my tobacco so fragrant as your 
 father's," he said. " I used to smoke good tobacco, but 
 in these hard times I've had to come down to cheap 
 stuff." 
 
 " I mean to get you a pipe and some tobacco for a 
 present," she said impulsively. 
 
 " No, no. You must not spend your money on me any 
 more," he said, drawing back slightly. 
 
 " But the money will mean nothing to me. I spend as 
 much on a box of candy, and think nothing of it. Be- 
 sides, I want you to let me help you in some little things. 
 I want to make some things for Angeline and the baby. 
 They have run down sadly in your hard luck, and they 
 need a woman's hands at their garments. The old 
 woman I do not need to ask if I may help." 
 
 " Yes, yes. Help her all you like ; but as for us, and 
 sewing things for the children, why, you are a lady," he 
 said, all his objections summing themselves up in this. 
 
D i f f e rences 87 
 
 " But I know how to cut and sew. I am not entirely 
 useless," she replied proudly. " I mean to show you 
 how well I can sew.'' 
 
 Again he looked at her amusedly, as he would look at 
 a child. "Yes, you are different from most ladies," he 
 said at length. 
 
 The child Angeline was nodding drowsily. 
 
 " Come, little girl, it's time you were in bed," the 
 father said suddenly. He rose, carrying the sleeping 
 baby toward the other room. " You must excuse me a 
 moment," he said politely. 
 
 " Certainly," said Genevieve, as if she had been in a 
 drawing-room. 
 
 He came back soon, and took up the little girl in his 
 arms, her head snuggling in the hollow formed by his 
 chin and shoulder. " Say good-night to the lady," he 
 said fondly, taking up the night-gown as he spoke. 
 
 " Good-night," said Angeline, sleepily. 
 
 "I must stay with her till she's asleep," he explained. 
 " It will only be for a minute, and then she won't move 
 till morning ; but young Joe, there, may wake up in the 
 night, and demand a pull at his bottle." He left Gene- 
 vieve alone with the old woman in the lowly, poor little 
 room. 
 
 Mrs. McLennan made a move as if she was ready for 
 recognition. She had not been actually asleep any of the 
 time. Perhaps she had followed the conversation more 
 closely than she had given evidence of. 
 
 " I am from the Highlands, — Scotch," she said in brisk 
 tones. " He is from the Low country." She nodded in 
 patronizing, superior fashion toward the door where 
 John Wade had gone in. 
 
 " Have you been long in America ? " asked Genevieve, 
 sympathetically. 
 
88 
 
 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 " Forty year, forty year," said the old woman, shaking 
 her head. " And now I am left alone. I have no one 
 in the world to look out for me except just him." Again 
 she nodded toward the door. "He's very good," she 
 went on. " He's very good to me, but of course these 
 Lowlanders cannot understand. He does not know what 
 I've been used to." 
 
 " Do you cook and eat in your own room ? " asked 
 Miss Radcliffe. 
 
 " Yes, deary, I do, when I have coal. He don't know 
 what I like. But just now the times are so hard, I am 
 out of coal, and he has plenty in the shed ; but he says it 
 is wasteful having two fires all the time. He's from the 
 Low country." 
 
 " I'll send you some coal of your own to-morrow," said 
 Genevieve, " and I will come and see what else you need 
 as well." 
 
 The old woman nodded cautiously. "He's coming 
 back, he's coming back ! Not a word to him from the 
 Low country, deary, the Low country." She settled 
 back in her apathy behind the stove. 
 
 Genevieve was forming her plans. At last she had a 
 family on her hands to help and be responsible for, just 
 as she had intended long ago in her theorizing. She had 
 been crowded out of all personal contact with the poor 
 by this extravagant giving of the cold weather. She 
 resolved there, as she had often done before in the last 
 week, never to be guilty of such wholesale squandering 
 again. 
 
 " Now I am ready to accompany you," said John 
 Wade. 
 
 They put on their wraps for going out, the man's being 
 a hat and some mittens. He turned his coat collar up, 
 and fastened it with a long pin. 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 89 
 
 " You should have an overcoat," said Genevieve, think- 
 ing of an old one of her father's. 
 
 "Oh, I'm that strong I don't think of it," said John 
 Wade. 
 
 Genevieve went to say good-night to Mrs. McLennan. 
 " I will come to-morrow," she said. 
 
 The old woman nodded her head knowingly, but with 
 mysterious glances toward the Low countryman. " Yes, 
 yes, deary, good-night, good-night." She seemed to be 
 hurrying them off. 
 
 " She is old and queer," said John Wade, " but she 
 keeps some watch of the children. I hate to leave them, 
 though, even with her, for the whole day. I think I'll 
 get a small girl to come mind them, now I'm to be 
 working." 
 
 "Why not bring them to the creche?" asked Gene- 
 vieve. 
 
 " What's that ? " 
 
 "Why, at the Settlement we have a nursery for such 
 children, whose parents are working. We have nurses to 
 care for them all day, and little girls to play with them 
 and amuse them. Then there is a kindergarten down- 
 stairs. Angeline is large enough to go to the kinder- 
 garten." 
 
 " But who pays for this ? " asked John Wade. 
 
 " It is partially a charity," admitted Genevieve, " though 
 the charge is fifteen cents a day or two children for 
 twenty-five cents. The children are given four meals 
 a day, breakfast in the morning after they come. Very 
 many fairly well-to-do parents bring their children." 
 
 '' But I go to work so early in the morning." 
 
 "So do other people. The nursery is open at six 
 o'clock, and you can get the children as late as seven in 
 the evening." 
 
go D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 " I get off at six." 
 
 " Well, as soon after six as you like." 
 
 " It would be a comfort to know the children were in 
 safe hands," said the man, thoughtfully. " That young 
 Joe is a lively little chap; and I'm always afraid he'll get 
 at the fire, though Angeline watches him like an old 
 woman." 
 
 Genevieve went into further explanations about the 
 creche and kindergarten. " I will speak to the nurse 
 about the two, and you need only give your name when 
 you bring them in the morning. You can pay each night 
 or by the week." 
 
 " Very well, I'll bring them around," said John Wade, 
 pausing ; for they had reached the Settlement gate. " You 
 help me in everything," he said simply. 
 
 " Why not ? Good-night now," said Genevieve, cheerily. 
 
 " Good-night," returned John Wade ; and he watched 
 her into the house. 
 
XI. 
 
 THE next morning, immediately after breakfast, 
 Genevieve went up to the nursery to see if the 
 two young members of what she now thought of 
 as " her family " had been left according to previous ar- 
 rangement. Sure enough, there they were with the crowd 
 of thirty others. The baby Joe had already become a 
 favourite with the nurse-girls, and was quite at home in 
 his surroundings. The girl Angeline was more back- 
 ward, and was sitting sad-eyed in a corner ; but, when 
 Genevieve had called her by name and she saw who it 
 was, she ran and threw herself into the beloved lady's 
 arms with an affection that was pathetic in its genuineness. 
 
 Miss Radcliffe herself was scarcely less moved. The 
 child had a way of getting close to people's hearts. 
 
 " You shall come with me, Angeline. You shall come 
 with me up to my room, and stay till the kindergarten 
 begins ; and then I will go down with you and introduce 
 you to Miss Mary." 
 
 " My papa has left me here for all day," said the child, 
 slowly ; " and I am to do just as Mrs. Belden says." 
 
 " But Mrs. Belden will let you go with me for an hour, 
 won't you, Mrs. Belden ? " asked Genevieve, turning to 
 the matron. 
 
 The permission received, the child seemed satisfied, 
 and rode away in the beautiful lady's arms. 
 
 " My papa said I was to be a good girl and not give 
 any trouble to any one," she announced, still seriously. 
 
 Genevieve carried her up to her room, and sought to 
 find her some playthings from the toilet table ; but the 
 child each time came back to her lap, and looked at her 
 trustingly and lovingly with her great animal-like eyes. 
 
 " Are you quite warm ? " asked Miss Radcliffe, kindly, 
 making excuse to learn how she was clothed. 
 
92 D i f f e rences 
 
 " I have on my best clothes,'' said the child. 
 
 " How fine you look ! But your dress seems thin for 
 winter." 
 
 " It is almost as thick as the other ; and, then, it is 
 cleaner, besides." 
 
 " Suppose we make you a new dress, and some new 
 underclothing as well," suggested Genevieve, as if the 
 thought had just struck her. " That will be like playing 
 at house, and so we will get better acquainted." 
 
 " And you will play the mother, and I the little girl," 
 said Angeline, entering into the spirit of the game. 
 
 " That's it ; and play now that I will take your meas- 
 urement." 
 
 A tape measure was produced, and the game begun at 
 once. The measuring had been more a ruse to see how 
 the child was dressed than the taking of the actual meas- 
 urement. Genevieve found herself employing all the deli- 
 cacy with this sober child of four that she would ordinarily 
 use for a girl of ten. The condition of the child's ward- 
 robe more than once brought the tears to her eyes, it was 
 so scant and thin. The little cotton garments were clean 
 as clumsy washing could make them ; and they had been 
 patched and mended after a man's fashion, with coloured 
 thread, sewed in large stitches, and puckering the rents at 
 the turns. The stockings were sadly the worse for wear. 
 They would tear almost at the touch, and were darned to 
 the last extremity. The shoes were completely worn out, 
 and were patched over with coarse woollen cloth. This 
 was even worse than Genevieve had feared. She sat 
 thinking for some time, undecided. It would be an easy 
 thing for her to purchase enough clothing ready made for 
 both children. She could do it without stinting herself, as 
 she had a generous income from her uncle, whose favour- 
 ite she had always been. But could she do this thing? 
 
D i f f e rences 93 
 
 She felt a delicacy now about giving to the poor that 
 before she had never imagined. It seemed so coarse to 
 send the children home comfortably dressed, it had so 
 little in it of the personal service of right giving. And 
 yet the children would be naked before the week was up. 
 Indeed, when could the father get away from his work 
 to make any purchases for them ? At length Genevieve 
 decided upon a middle course. She would get the ma 
 terial for the clothes, and make it up herself. Part of it 
 she would do in the evening and in the father's presence. 
 He would not feel the coarseness of the gift when he saw 
 her in the pleasure of making it. 
 
 At nine o'clock she took Angeline by the hand, the two 
 having become fast friends now, and led her down to the 
 kindergarten. " She belongs to the nursery, Miss Mary," 
 she explained, " and is to go back with the rest of the 
 children. Now good-bye, dear," she said, stooping to 
 kiss her on the cheek. " I shall not see you again until 
 this evening." 
 
 Angeline slipped her soft clinging arms about the lady's 
 neck. It was a new sensation, being loved in this childish 
 way ; and again the tears started to Genevieve's eyes. 
 
 " It was a good game," said the sober little maid. 
 " Perhaps we can play at it again some time." 
 
 The children were being called to their places, and 
 Genevieve went to her work for the morning. It had 
 become almost a monotony now, this endlessness of har- 
 rowing stories, — no work, no food, no coal, the rent not 
 paid, and the landlord complaining or threatening ; and 
 yet she had learned to be patient under it, to listen to the 
 details of the stories, and to try to find out, if possible, 
 some point at which advice could be put in wisely to keep 
 the people from pauperism a little longer. There was 
 only one hope ahead, — a vague hope of better times. 
 
94 Differences 
 
 All spoke of it, all seemed to possess it ; yet no one vent- 
 ured to speculate on the reason for hoping. To-day 
 Genevieve was sometimes less attentive than usual in her 
 interest, and between cases there were decided periods of 
 abstraction. A new tenderness was feeling its way into 
 her heart. She was thinking of the soft childish arms 
 around her neck, the gentle, trusting eyes, and the steady 
 little voice that said : " It was a good game. Perhaps we 
 can play it again some time." 
 
 She thought of the words again in the afternoon, as she 
 was making her purchases in the city. When the soft, 
 warm stuffs were unrolled on the counters before her, she 
 thought of the scant garments to be replaced, all sewed 
 and darned with the coloured thread in the clumsy, igno- 
 rant fashion. The tears started to her eyes so many 
 times during the day that she felt almost as if she had a 
 cold. " I am really growing sentimental," she said 
 merrily as she walked ; and then in the midst of the 
 merriment the sentiment would stir again. 
 
 Having finished her shopping, she went direct to 
 Goose Island to make the promised call on Mrs. Mc- 
 Lennan. It was the first time that she had had leisure to 
 look at the house, and she remarked its surroundings 
 with interest. It was surely a bleak, desolate place. On 
 one side, the huge overshadowing bulk of the elevator ; on 
 the other, a barren plain of waste land, used for a general 
 dumping-ground. The melting snow had nearly all dis- 
 appeared from the ground, leaving the yellow-white piles 
 of lime, like the snows of hell, perhaps, that refused to 
 dissolve with the heat. Piles of stone stuck out, too, as 
 if they were obstinate ice ; and over all hung the dull, 
 heavy smoke, the sulphur of which added realism to the 
 picture. Genevieve turned to the house for comfort, as 
 it rested in its little fenced enclosure. But here there was 
 
Differences 95 
 
 little more satisfaction. It seemed only to speak of the 
 past, of people and habits that were dead, — all smothered 
 out by the city. The gate swung dejectedly open on its 
 hinges. The willow-tree looked like a dead tree that 
 earthly decay would not pity. Genevieve shuddered at it 
 all as she ran up the path to the door. She knocked on 
 the front door this time : before, she had always gone to 
 the back. 
 
 Mrs. McLennan was long in making herself known. 
 Surely, she had not forgotten the promised visit. Indeed, 
 she had been watching the approach of her visitor from 
 the window. But either she was old and feeble or it was 
 her whim to keep young people waiting. 
 
 " Oh, it's you, is it, deary ? " said the old Scotch- 
 woman, at length, appearing at the door. " Come right 
 in. This is not my room that you are going through. It 
 belongs to him," nodding toward the door of the kitchen 
 where they had been the night before. 
 
 Genevieve looked around, feeling guilty of intrusion as 
 she did so. There was little in the place to be seen. 
 The window shutters were closed, but they were racked 
 so much that they let in considerable light; and there 
 were no curtains at the windows. 
 
 A bed was the principal article of furniture, the covers 
 thrown back as they had been left in the morning, — old, 
 scant covers, and not very clean in appearance. Evi- 
 dently, everything of any value at all had gone to the 
 pawnshop. There was a disused trundle-bed against the 
 wall, some worn dresses of a woman tumbled into it. 
 There were no chairs, no tables, no wardrobe. The very 
 walls had been stripped of their ornaments, the dust 
 marks still showing where the pictures had hung. The 
 floor was bare save for a piece of old carpet. The ceiling 
 was smoky and black. A newspaper was pasted over 
 
96 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 the hole in the wall where the stove-pipe should enter 
 the chimney. 
 
 This was all, and this was where an honest man lived, 
 a willing man, who was frugal and thrifty ; one, moreover, 
 who was skilled and intelligent in his labor, who was well 
 read and could talk with feeling. Here he lived with two 
 children. He had come near dying here, perhaps. The 
 girl moved on with indignation now drying up all her 
 tears. " He shall know that I see all these things," she 
 said to herself, " and he shall not be ashamed." 
 
 The old woman led the way into her own room, which 
 opened off the first, and had formerly served as a bed- 
 room. It, too, had little furnishing, but, serving as living- 
 room, sleeping-room, and kitchen, was not so barren as the 
 first. Mrs. McLennan had a rousing fire in her little stove. 
 " I borrowed the coal of him. He won't be back until the 
 night, and I like my own room best," she said senten- 
 tiously. 
 
 Genevieve told her that she would order some coal so 
 that she would not have to borrow, and then went to 
 work to find out what groceries she should send, till the 
 old woman was all aglow with pleasure. 
 
 " And now, to pay for this, I want you to do what I 
 ask," said Genevieve, when it was over. 
 
 " I can do so little," said the old woman, fearful of the 
 demand. 
 
 "You can do this easily enough," returned her visitor. 
 " I want you to make Mr. Wade's bed. Make it up nice 
 as you can, and then have a fire in the kitchen and 
 supper ready at seven o'clock. Sweep the kitchen, too, 
 and have the dishes washed up. He will be tired enough, 
 coming home from his work. I mean to come with him 
 this evening, and do some sewing for the children. You 
 must have a good supper, too. I will send bread and 
 
D i f f e rences 97 
 
 meat from the butcher's. If he has no tea or sugar, you 
 can take some from what I send you. In fact, I think I 
 may as well have some things sent to him, too. He has 
 work now, and can pay for them all, though he has little 
 time to buy." 
 
 Mrs. McLennan promised everything. She had " rheu- 
 matiz," she said, in her bones, but she could do for the 
 lady, and everything should be ready by seven o'clock. 
 Genevieve went home to rest and make ready for dinner 
 before Wade should come for the children. She knew 
 almost to the minute how long it took to make the trip 
 from the Randall Electric Company's factories to Settle- 
 ment House. Maynard Neville had travelled it often 
 enough. It took just three-quarters of an hour, and 
 work did not stop until six. 
 
 Promptly at a quarter to seven Genevieve was on hand, 
 nor did she have long to wait for the workman's coming. 
 She heard his heavy shoes on the stairs, and was just 
 opening the sitting-room door to speak to him, when a 
 little white figure sped noiselessly around the banisters 
 and threw herself passionately into the man's arms. It 
 was Angeline, who had been watching for him a good two 
 hours. 
 
 " Poor little girl, poor little girl," he kept saying 
 tenderly ; and Genevieve stepped back into the shadow of 
 the doorway. 
 
 A long, low, happy laugh rippled from the working- 
 man's lips. " Were you so lonesome," he said, " that you 
 hug me so tight ? Look up now, and tell me about the 
 baby." 
 
 " Joe, papa's come," called out the child, shrilly. 
 " Come, Joe, it's time to go home now." There was 
 a scuffling sound in the hall, followed by the pattering of 
 baby feet, then a joyful exclamation from the father and 
 
98 D i f f e rences 
 
 shouts of baby laughter and chatter, followed by sounds 
 of hugging and kissing. Genevieve was not four feet 
 away. 
 
 She was suddenly sad now, and then was as suddenly 
 light-hearted again. She ran hastily to her room for the 
 basket of parcels that she had made ready for the night's 
 work, and stopped only when she saw her hat and coat 
 lying ready, where she had put them when she made her 
 plan to accompany Wade and the children. 
 
 " I was a fool, an impertinent fool, to think I could 
 crowd myself into their privacy. All day I have been 
 pitying these three, but they are still richer than I." 
 
 She was down by the nursery door in time to meet 
 them coming out, as she had intended. She was not 
 dressed for going out, however ; and this was not as she 
 had intended. 
 
 " Is it you, Mr. Wade ? " she said cheerfully. " I wish 
 you would wait a minute. I have some parcels to give 
 you." She came out in a moment from the sitting-room 
 door. He was standing, with a child in each arm. 
 
 " I had intended going over with you for a call on Mrs. 
 McLennan," she said, " but you seem to have such 
 excellent company that I will not intrude. I have been 
 getting some things for the children, — shoes and stock- 
 ings and stuff for their clothing. I knew that you would 
 not have time to get them ; and I was in the store doing 
 other things, so it was no trouble." 
 
 " I don't see how I'm going to carry all those things," 
 he said, smiling. " They are 'most too much for my 
 pockets." 
 
 " Perhaps I'd better go, after all," suggested Genevieve, 
 eagerly. " I promised Mrs. McLennan I'd come, and 
 Mr. Nugent agreed to call for me. You start on. I'll be 
 with you in a minute, as soon as I get my coat and hat." 
 
D i f f e rences 99 
 
 John Wade stood undecided in the hallway. In a 
 moment she was back again, dressed for the street. 
 
 " It's not right for you to go out this way," he said. 
 " Isn't there a boy or some one you could send ? " 
 
 " Since I promised Mrs. McLennan, I think I'd better 
 go myself," replied Genevieve, resolutely. " It's only four 
 blocks, and the walk will do me good. Besides," she 
 added, " I'd like to do a little work on the things for 
 Angeline. I get so little time to do any sewing in the 
 day." 
 
 Together they went out into the street, Genevieve 
 carrying the parcels, which she had now dumped into a 
 basket. 
 
 John Wade walked on without a word to say. In fact, 
 he was not pleased with this sudden taking of possession. 
 " Why should the woman come pottering along ? " he 
 thought. " It's kind of her, to be sure ; but she overdoes 
 her kindness." In reality, it was not her actions he 
 objected to so much as the embarrassment in which it 
 placed him. He thought of his poverty and neglect, of 
 the cold, vacant house to which they were going, the 
 dishes unwashed as he had left them in the morning, the 
 floor not swept, the bed not made ; for he knew that she 
 would have to go through the front room, in order to see 
 Mrs. McLennan. And then he thought of the children's 
 clothing. If she was making more, she would see the 
 miserable things that he had been patching and darning. 
 Perhaps she had seen them already, and was coming 
 because she pitied him. He blushed hot and red in the 
 darkness. 
 
 Genevieve, too, was already regretting her rashness. 
 
 " How he wishes I were at home, where I belong, so 
 that he might enjoy the evening with his children 1 " she 
 thought. " Now I must stay and make them miserable 
 
ioo Differences 
 
 till nine o'clock, when Mr. Nugent promised to come for 
 me. Perhaps he will be even later if he is interrupted on 
 his beat. If I dared, I should go home alone without 
 going into the house at all. How he must pity me for 
 a sentimental charity-doler 1 " Then the humour of her 
 embarrassment came to her. To think of her humility be- 
 fore this labourer, — she who could do as she chose, and 
 depend on the world's calling it right simply because she 
 did it; she who was to be her uncle's heiress, and to 
 possess one of the finest old houses in America 1 
 
 " You will find supper ready, I hope, and everything 
 tidy. I was over to see Mrs. McLennan this afternoon, 
 and I made her promise to have everything done. But 
 I had hard work to persuade her to do it, for she scorns 
 you for being a Lowlander." 
 
 " So you have been there already ? " said Wade, in sur- 
 prise, but relieved that the worst was over. " I suppose 
 you found things in a pretty bad way in the house." 
 
 " No worse than could be expected under the circum- 
 stances." 
 
 They were at the door now, and good humour came 
 back to the hungry man as they stepped into the little 
 kitchen. Faithful enough, the old Scotch woman had 
 done all that she promised. The table was spread, the 
 teakettle was steaming on the stove, the food was warm 
 in the oven. 
 
 " I couldn't find a teapot," she said to Genevieve, 
 " but we can make the tea in this tin cup." 
 
 " Oh, let me make it in the pitcher," said Genevieve, 
 "while you put the things on the table. You must sit 
 right up, Mr. Wade. The rest of us have all had our 
 suppers." 
 
 " I haven't had mine," said Mrs. McLennan, severely, 
 interrupting. 
 
D i f f e rences 
 
 IOI 
 
 " Oh, but you haven't laid a place," said Genevieve. 
 
 " I prefer to eat in my own room," said the old lady, 
 with dignity. " A cup of tea is not a cup of tea unless 
 taken in my own house." 
 
 Her look said that she scorned to eat with a Lowlander, 
 but she did not utter the words. As soon as the meat 
 was on the table, she tramped off to her own apartment. 
 
 " It smells good," said the man, sitting down ; " but I 
 don't remember leaving these things in my cupboard this 
 morning." 
 
 " The Highland lass is your stewardess now. I insist 
 that she earn what I pay her." 
 
 " Don't you want something, Angeline ? " he asked, as 
 he was about to begin. 
 
 " They have eaten already in the nursery," said Gene- 
 vieve, busy with the tea and the pitcher. 
 
 " We had chicken," said Angeline. 
 
 " But I have corned beef and cabbage. How did you 
 know what I wanted ? " he asked, helping himself gener- 
 ously. 
 
 " Oh, all Englishmen like corned beef and cabbage," 
 said Genevieve. " That's the only thing I know about 
 the English." 
 
 He was watching her furtively to see if she noticed his 
 rude table manners, but she was intent with the tea. 
 
 " Now it is ready," she said at length. " You can turn 
 it when you like. I must be at the sewing, for I want to 
 get some things done for Angeline to-night." 
 
 " I suppose you saw my sewing on their things," he 
 said, half sullen again. 
 
 " If you did as well as you could, I see no reason to be 
 ashamed of it," she returned with some spirit. 
 
 He went on with his meal in silence, but slowly it was 
 dawning upon him that this girl had a mind of her own. 
 
102 Differences 
 
 He had always disliked a woman with a mind, and now 
 he was setting this up against her. Still, in his fairness, 
 he was forced to admit that she spoke sense. 
 
 She was sitting with her back partially toward him, so 
 that the light would fall over her shoulder; but it fell 
 over her beautiful hair as well, and illumined the shapely 
 head. Wade was not insensible to her womanly beauty. 
 It soothed him, and made him think of his childhood. 
 He used to be fond of pictures, and in England often 
 spent a Sunday afternoon in the galleries. Now a pict- 
 ure was before him again, — the picture of a beautiful 
 woman, the lamplight mellowing and enriching with un- 
 touched shadow the loose coils of her jet-black hair, 
 heightening also, in contrast, the delicate outlines of her 
 features and the rounded curves of ivory whiteness at the 
 sides and back of her neck. She wore a waist of rich, 
 warm yellowish-pink, her favorite colour always ; and the 
 lamplight rounded the folds of cloth lovingly, and sparkled 
 in a tiny jewelled pin that caught up some lace at her 
 shoulder. It was a long-forgotten experience to John 
 Wade ; and, as he looked, he wondered how all his coarse 
 past was possible. 
 
 His supper ended, he pushed back his chair, and came 
 to the fire. 
 
 " Run for the pipe, Angeline," said Miss Radcliffe, 
 smilingly. " Mrs. McLennan will soon return to clear 
 away the dishes." 
 
 The tired man sighed lazily as he settled himself down 
 for a smoke. 
 
 " What a beautiful place a man's home might be," he 
 thought dreamily, " and how comfortable to rest in after 
 an honest day's work ! " 
 
 The glow of the conqueror was sweet in Genevieve's 
 breast ; but she only said with interest : " How did you 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 103 
 
 find the work? Was it disagreeable to the hands of a 
 skilled labourer ? " 
 
 Wade warmed to the subject at once. " Oh, it was 
 like heaven to me just to feel the hands doing something 
 again. They gave me painting to do, and it is always a 
 pleasure to do painting." He lifted the baby-boy to his 
 knee, and puffed the smoke straight out before him. 
 Angeline seemed to be fascinated by Genevieve to-night, 
 or perhaps it was the new clothes that were holding her. 
 She hovered about, watching the progress of the work 
 with beaming, intelligent eyes. 
 
 " Tell me about the Randall Electric," said Genevieve. 
 She was thinking of the places that Maynard must see 
 every day. 
 
 The workingman began a rambling account of all he 
 had noticed in the day. There was not a little humour 
 in his narrative, a turn that was decidedly literary. His 
 life had been so thoroughly grounded in the novels of 
 Dickens, Captain Marryat, and Charles Reade that he 
 had come to look at the world as through the novelist's 
 eyes; and unconsciously, though in a crude way, his 
 sentences formed in book phrasings. 
 
 Genevieve listened with interest. Mrs. McLennan had 
 returned from her own room, and was washing and put- 
 ting away the dishes. 
 
 " Make the things ready for breakfast, too," said the 
 self -elected mistress of the house ; and she gave a few 
 directions as to what should be done. 
 
 " You work very fast to have so much done at the sew- 
 ing already," said John Wade, looking at the garments she 
 was holding up. 
 
 " Oh, I had a good start, to begin with," said Gene- 
 vieve. " Mrs. Belden did the cutting and machine-sew- 
 ing this afternoon. I am only doing the finishing." 
 
104 Differences 
 
 " When they are done, Angeline must try them on," 
 said the father, turning to her fondly. 
 
 "And that she can do at this minute," replied the 
 seamstress, with alacrity. " Come here, child, and let us 
 see if they will fit you." 
 
 With her own hands she unbuttoned and slipped off 
 the child's thin dress and worn shirt,- — the shirt that was 
 darned and crossed with the clumsy black, puckering 
 thread. The man seemed to have forgotten his shame of 
 his own work in marvelling at the cleverness of this new. 
 So intent were they all in the transformation that there 
 was nothing of embarrassing false modesty as the child 
 slipped all garments from off her, and stepped gleefully 
 into the new union suit. Even grim old Mrs. McLennan 
 stood smiling from her work at the table. Then there 
 was the novelty of searching for the buttons and button- 
 holes, of forcing the first stiffness out of them. Then 
 came the petticoats and new stockings and shoes. What 
 brave new shoes they were 1 The little girl was near 
 exploding with excitement. 
 
 " She'll be for sleeping in them all," said the father. 
 " I think I will hardly get those shoes off her to-night." 
 
 " I shall take them off, and put them under my pillow," 
 said Angeline. 
 
 Genevieve was for putting on the old dress again. 
 " We will make you a new one to-morrow," she said. 
 " Mrs. Belden could not get to that to-day." 
 
 But the child was not willing to cover up the new 
 things, and preferred to strut about and look at herself as 
 she was. 
 
 " It will soon be bed-time, anyway," said Miss Rad- 
 cliffe. " And now we will see what there is for Joe." 
 
 She had purchased ready-made things for him. The 
 coarseness of giving had now all vanished. They had 
 
Differences 105 
 
 only to admire the softness and the warmth of the knit 
 garments, the father himself taking them from the paper 
 parcels and slipping them on the yielding baby arms. 
 There were more ecstasies and praises of shoes, there 
 was more feeling and pricing of stockings. 
 
 Genevieve told frankly what every article had cost, and 
 a look of dismay began to show itself in the poor man's 
 face. 
 
 " I do not intend to let you pay for these things now," 
 she explained. " I want you to take what money you 
 have, and get some things for yourself to-morrow. You 
 can get away to a store at the noon hour ? " 
 
 " There is a store not far off," said Wade, doubtfully, 
 and hesitated. Then he began again bluntly. " I see no 
 place to be stopping," he said hopelessly. " You go on 
 doing things for me, and I get deeper and deeper in your 
 debt." 
 
 " I do not see the stopping-place, either," she replied, 
 as she looked at him, smiling. " I mean to do a great 
 many things for you yet, and I see no hope of your pay- 
 ing me. We will let it all go at present. To-morrow 
 you will get the things for yourself." 
 
 He assented with the yielding good-nature that so fitted 
 him. 
 
 Then she spoke more seriously. " As it seems to me 
 now," she said, " we are destined to become very good 
 friends. Let us not make haste about the evening-up 
 process. Just now, it is true, you are my debtor ; but let 
 us trust in time and in the friendship. We have both of 
 us many years to live yet ; and who can say what will 
 happen ? " 
 
 He was silent for a time, as if looking backward instead 
 of ahead. 
 
 As for Genevieve, she had all her romance to learn. 
 
106 D i f f e rences 
 
 It was more natural for her to look ahead. She thought 
 of Maynard Neville, — of how, perhaps, he might fall into 
 some great danger, and be saved by this man whom she 
 had befriended, " perhaps even at the sacrifice of his own 
 life," she said to herself. Then her glance fell upon the 
 children, and she shuddered at the thought. 
 
 Both were startled from their reverie by a solid tramp- 
 ing on the path outside and a knock at the kitchen door. 
 
 "Why, it is Officer Nugent," said Genevieve, suddenly. 
 " Sure enough, it is half-past nine 1 I shall see you often, 
 Mr. Wade ; and sometimes you may like to attend some 
 of our entertainments at the house. Occasionally I shall 
 send things by the children. The new dress will be ready 
 to-morrow ; but I shall hardly need to trouble you again 
 by coming over, except to see Mrs. McLennan." 
 
 He tried to say that he had not' been inconvenienced, 
 all the time feeling that he was hardly making his grati- 
 tude understood. 
 
 " All ready, Mr. Nugent, and thank you very much. 
 Good-night, Mr. Wade. Good-night, Angeline and Joe. 
 Good-night, Mrs. McLennan. Don't forget about the 
 things that I told you." 
 
 She was going out into the night ; but a feeling of bless- 
 edness remained in the little room, like the perfume of 
 flowers that have been shaken. 
 
XII. 
 
 THE winter was looking toward spring, and a dull 
 hope began to grow in sick, worn eyes. 'Even 
 the most dejected were watching and listening for 
 indications of better times. 
 
 To Genevieve Radcliffe the winter had been a revela- 
 tion. She had never realized before what wealth of 
 meaning there was in the world for those who were will- 
 ing to step out into it. Before this she had been always 
 learning rules. " This is the way people do," conven- 
 tionality had been constantly saying to her in her home 
 or in college or in church. Here things were changed. 
 " This is the way people are," was what she found her- 
 self constantly facing now. 
 
 During the short winter she had come to know John 
 Wade very well. She spent on an average perhaps two 
 evenings in every week working at the brightening of his 
 home. On one thing she secretly prided herself: the 
 poverty smell had been completely scrubbed, aired, and 
 driven from the house. Sometimes she went in the day- 
 time when he was gone, and worked with Mrs. McLennan 
 till the old Scotch woman grew quite jealous of her ser- 
 vices to the Lowlander, and worked like a slave to keep 
 even with her. 
 
 " Since I knew you," said John Wade one evening, 
 watching her as she sat sewing, " I have grown to be a 
 different man." 
 
 " It is your work that has done that," said Genevieve, 
 smiling. " Any man degenerates without work." 
 
 " That's so, especially if he has to crawl on his knees 
 before every surly fellow, begging for it. And, still, you 
 have been good to me. I don't underrate the effect of 
 that, either." 
 
108 Differences 
 
 This time she made no comment, but smiled and went 
 on with her sewing. A great deal of their most satisfac- 
 tory companionship was when they were silent or listening 
 to the babble of the playing children. 
 
 " That's what I like about a woman," John Wade would 
 say to himself, " one that knows enough to keep still now 
 and then. A man who has worked all day, as I have, 
 wants a rest sometimes.'' 
 
 As he smoked, Wade liked to look about the room, and 
 mark all the things this woman had done for him. There 
 were the curtains that hung at the windows. They gave 
 the place quite another appearance. They were of red 
 print, too ; and red was his favourite colour. It was like 
 her to ask of him first. Miss Crawford would not have 
 consulted him about the colour, but would have purchased 
 those she thought most suitable. 
 
 After looking long and satisfyingly at the curtains, 
 John Wade would let his eyes roam to the next point and 
 the next. There was the cloth Genevieve had brought to 
 spread on the table after the dishes were removed. That, 
 too, had some bright colour in it. When he was eating, 
 he had the table covered with a piece of white oilcloth. 
 This had been his own purchase. He liked it, he ex- 
 plained, because his mother had always had her table so : 
 it was easier to keep clean than linen, and looked more 
 homelike to him. 
 
 " But, when the supper is cleared away, it looks so bare 
 with the lamplight shining on it 1 Then we may have a 
 cloth ? " pleaded Genevieve. 
 
 " Oh, yes, then, certainly. That will make it look like 
 a parlour. Besides, it is better to put your work on. The 
 cloth is more befitting a lady." 
 
 Then there was the rug on the floor. It was so com- 
 fortable to have the children, with their playthings, talking 
 
D i f f e rences 109 
 
 and keeping house there between them. The rug had 
 been an old one in Genevieve's own nursery. There were 
 patches and darns in it ; but it was warm, and did very- 
 well for the children to play on. 
 
 After the rug were the pictures on the wall, — mostly 
 simple prints and photographs. Some were taken from 
 the art journals, and stuck up lightly with pins. Still, 
 they were bright spots to look at, and relieved the dul- 
 ness of the smoked plaster. 
 
 There were two easy-chairs, one for him and one for 
 Mrs. McLennan. Genevieve preferred a little rocker 
 which he had made by putting a back of carpeting on an 
 old frame. 
 
 Wherever he looked, he saw the things she had given 
 him. The overcoat that hung behind the stove had been 
 an old one of her brother's. His slippers, too, she had 
 brought from home. What matter if they were a bit 
 worn and shabby ? He liked better the things that did 
 not cost her money. She spent too much as it was. 
 
 In one thing Genevieve had been extravagant, — a 
 meerschaum pipe and several boxes of the best tobacco. 
 
 " I am particular about the tobacco I breathe," she 
 explained. 
 
 John Wade held that pipe next in his affections to his 
 children. The warmth of the gracefully rounded bowl 
 was almost human, the long stem, with its clear amber 
 tip, fitted so snugly to his teeth. And, then, the joy of 
 watching it colour 1 It was like watching a rare flower 
 develop from the mystery of the bud. Even Genevieve 
 took an interest in the process. 
 
 " I must not smoke it too fast, and I must not smoke 
 it too long at a time," John Wade would explain. " I 
 once knew a man who had a meerschaum, and he ruined 
 it inevitably in one night." 
 
no Differences 
 
 John Wade had a curious way of half misemploying 
 words in his talk, the result, doubtless, of his novel-read- 
 ing. Once he had used a long word so unintelligibly 
 that Genevieve had only puzzled in wonder. The man 
 laughed evenly and with good-nature. " You must always 
 tell me when I don't go right, and you may laugh as 
 much as you like." 
 
 She brought him a few books, that he might read when 
 she was not there and he was tired of Mrs. McLennan. 
 
 " None of the new-fashioned American books," he told 
 her. " I don't like American books. Bring me some- 
 thing I like. I don't feel like educating myself after a 
 day's work is done. I just want company and rest." 
 
 She found that the books he liked were Scott's and the 
 early classics of the century. She was surprised to learn 
 that he knew Fielding and Smollett, as he in turn was sur- 
 prised that she should know them, though his reasons 
 were different from hers. He did not consider them 
 proper books for a young lady to read ; and, being urged 
 on the point, he said so bluntly. 
 
 She told him she read them as a piece of historical 
 study. 
 
 " There are many things in history you had better let 
 alone," said John Wade ; and she could not move him 
 from his position. 
 
 " Of course, it's not proper for me to be dictating to 
 such as you," he added ; " but it's what I think." 
 
 She enjoyed getting his opinions and criticisms of the 
 various books as he read them. He liked the translations 
 from the French, grading from Balzac to the best of Zola. 
 " Downfall " was a favourite book. That, and " Les 
 Miserables " and the " Three Guardsmen," he had read 
 over and over again. 
 
 " Hugo thinks it was all chance that the Duke of Well- 
 ington won at Waterloo," he said to her one night, " and 
 
D i f f e rences i r i 
 
 he sets his case very well ; but I can't agree with him in 
 that." 
 
 Genevieve confessed that she had never followed the 
 battle closely enough to be a judge. 
 
 " Oh, that's the best part of the book," he replied ; and 
 immediately he set to work with books and cloth on the 
 table to lay out the field of the great battle and explain to 
 her the movements of the day. To facilitate matters, he 
 used beans from the cupboard for armies ; and so famil- 
 iarly and intelligently did he shift them that she became 
 interested in military tactics, and argued and read to 
 defeat him. 
 
 Sometimes, as he talked, Genevieve thought of the 
 friends of her own station in life, and asked herself 
 which ones among them conversed so rationally and 
 with so much thought as this workingman. Maynard 
 Neville was clever, but she had sometimes wondered if 
 his cleverness were grounded on reflection. It seemed to 
 her to lie more in the picturesqueness of his language. 
 He appeared to talk best on subjects on which he had 
 never thought at all. A certain healthiness of mind that 
 comes with manual labor Genevieve had never experi- 
 enced before. The men she had known were fickle and 
 uncertain of their position ; but here was a man who ac- 
 cepted hard experience and early prejudice as first prin- 
 ciples of the universe, and built his philosophy upon 
 them. As for inducing him to doubt or shift his posi- 
 tion, she might as well have tried to argue the sun into 
 shifting its course in the heavens. And yet in a way she 
 liked this steadiness of disposition, even when it bordered 
 on stupidity. It was a comfort to know always where the 
 man stood. Never did he give her the feeling that he 
 might be here to-day and there to-morrow. 
 
 So the winter looked on toward the spring, and the two 
 were growing together. 
 
XIII. 
 
 THE spring was warming into summer before John 
 Wade began to feel uneasy about Miss Radcliffe's 
 visits to the little house on Goose Island. He 
 had been so benumbed at first with his long poverty and 
 endurance of cold and of hunger,— a cold and hunger 
 that was not merely physical, but spiritual and intellectual 
 as well, that, when the beautiful young girl had come 
 into his life, he had looked upon her as an angel, not sub- 
 ject to the laws that govern human beings at all. But 
 gradually, as he rose to better and more natural estate, 
 doubts and questions came to him. 
 
 As for the girl herself, it seemed never once to have 
 occurred to her that there was any possible impropriety in 
 coming to sit with this man as often and as long as she 
 chose. The enthusiasm of having a poor family on her 
 hands had not yet died out from her sympathies. The 
 spell of this man's loneliness, poverty, and helplessness 
 was still upon her. 
 
 One evening Genevieve came over earlier than usual 
 on some errand to Mrs. McLennan, though it was often 
 her custom to walk home with the children as soon as 
 dinner was over instead of waiting for the father to 
 return from his work. In the mildness and light of the 
 spring evenings it was pleasant for her to do so, and then 
 she could go back alone before the darkness had 
 gathered. 
 
 To-night the sky was very beautiful ; and she remained 
 outside, wandering about the desolate little yard, thinking 
 sometimes of its past, sometimes of its possibilities in the 
 future. Among other things, she had been investigating 
 the little enclosure where once the old garden had been, 
 poking sticks into the soil to learn its adaptability to 
 
Differences 113 
 
 horticulture, and measuring the space, with the economic 
 eye that she had acquired in charity-reading, as to where 
 might be rows of potatoes and beds of vegetables. 
 
 John Wade had come in from his work by way of the 
 alley and kitchen, and, though he had seen her with the 
 children in the yard, had not walked round to speak to 
 her, but had gone immediately into the house to his 
 supper. It was his manner to do this, and Genevieve 
 thought nothing of it. His supper ended, his slippers on 
 in comfort, and his pipe all ready for lighting, he saun- 
 tered out for a little chat with Miss Radcliffe. How like 
 the healthy, contented workman he seemed as he ad- 
 vanced toward her, a familiarity with fatigue evident in 
 his gait, though there was no hint of exhaustion 1 His 
 head was bare, the light wind playing with the fine, scant 
 locks on his high brow. His coat was off, and the black 
 sateen shirt was slightly open at the throat, showing the 
 soft, veined skin as firm and delicate as the cheek of a 
 boy. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and the 
 rounded, tapering arms set off the delicate beauty of his 
 wrists. The working hands were none the less pleasing 
 for the scars of toil on the fingers. As if to complete the 
 brand of service, an anchor was printed on his arm in 
 blue India ink. It was a small one and deftly drawn, 
 showing that even in his acknowledgment of caste the 
 author had a sense of refinement. 
 
 He came forward to where she stood, and leaned over 
 the old picket fence, his eyes on the western sky. 
 
 " A pretty night," he said quietly. 
 
 Genevieve turned as well toward the sunset. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " see how the light catches in the dust 
 and smoke." 
 
 His eyes signified their understanding. At length he 
 drew a match from his pocket, and slowly scratched it 
 
H4 D i f f e rences 
 
 across the board of the picket. Young Joe left his play, 
 and ran up to seize his father around the knee, shouting 
 and hugging till he had attracted the attention of all of 
 them, after which he hid his face in the rough cloth and 
 refused to be drawn out by their coaxing. 
 
 " I have been speculating on your garden," said Gene- 
 vieve, after watching the two for a time. 
 
 " It's of no use," he replied. 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " 'Cause things won't grow : too much gas hereabouts." 
 
 " There are old stalks of something out there." 
 
 " Oh, those I They are sunflowers. Sunflowers will 
 grow anywhere." 
 
 " Have you tried other things ? Potatoes, for instance ? " 
 
 " I tried a few last year, but they wouldn't grow. Still, 
 I'll try more this year, though, as I say, it will be of no 
 use." 
 
 " Then why try ? " 
 
 " Oh, that's what life is," he said good-humouredly, — 
 " trying things that are no use. At least, that's what a 
 workingman's life is. The majority of us who are com- 
 mon men just go along trying without the hope of 
 success." 
 
 " But still you try ? " 
 
 " I like to tinker about here in the garden," said John 
 Wade, coming back to the original subject and plainly 
 shunning an argument. " I like putting the seeds in the 
 ground, no matter if the young plants do die with two 
 leaves on. I like to keep a few chickens, too ; and I 
 have bought a hen, now that I was able, and given her a 
 nest full of eggs. She'll be coming off to-morrow. I 
 fixed up a nest in the old shed, and we will have some 
 nice fat poultry for Christmas. 
 
 " It'll be different from last Christmas, I guess," he 
 
D i f f e rences us 
 
 continued after a moment's reflection. " I'm getting to be 
 more of a man now, and think of a bit of life yet before 
 me. Yes, I like to tinker around. You will see me 
 make lots of things this summer. It's a workingman's 
 breeding, I suppose ; but I like it better than music and 
 poetry." 
 
 " Why are you always talking of a workingman as if he 
 were entirely different from other people ? " said Gene- 
 vieve, warmly. " You seem to think that I and my 
 friends, for example, move in another world." 
 
 " Why so you do," said John Wade, a trifle startled. 
 
 " I think you must admit that I understand and can 
 move in your little world here," she argued. 
 
 " Why, yes, so you can and do," he said ; " but that is 
 because your world is the superior. Besides, you are an 
 exception to your class." 
 
 " But show me that my world is superior. Show it to 
 me in this one instance." 
 
 " You talk of art and literature," he said, " and use 
 words like the writing in books." 
 
 " The words are simply those we are taught. You say 
 things about literature with just as much meaning in 
 them as I do." 
 
 Again his eyes showed assent. There was something 
 of the pleasure of appreciation in his face which modesty 
 turned to the appreciation of his tobacco. 
 
 " But I can't talk art," he said. " I don't know that." 
 
 " Neither can I talk mechanics," she replied. " But in 
 your line I doubt not you know as much as I in mine." 
 
 " But my line, as you call it, is coarser." 
 
 " I will not wholly grant that. Besides, you do things 
 in yours ; and I only talk in mine." 
 
 His manner of smoking showed that he yielded the 
 point lightly. 
 
u6 Differences 
 
 " I have convinced you," she laughed triumphantly. 
 
 " No, you haven't. The real statement of the case I 
 have not made at all yet." He hesitated here, as if he 
 would avoid her eyes and her questions. 
 
 " What is that ? " 
 
 •' It's too personal, and I don't like to say it." 
 
 " It was my fault that I made it personal. I called it 
 our case for an example. Go on. What is the real dif- 
 ference between your class and mine ? Between you and 
 me, if I insist ? Why am I your superior ? " 
 
 " It's just this," he said fumblingly. " I tell you all 
 about my life. You know my thoughts, and read me like 
 a book. You know all about my money affairs, all my 
 work, what I think of my children, what I did when I was 
 a kid, my mother, my brothers and sisters ; and, if there's 
 anything you want to know, you ask. It is all right for 
 you to ask. Don't think that I resent it." 
 
 She saw what he was coming to, but she did not inter- 
 rupt or assist him. 
 
 " Well," he blurted out, " since you have insisted on 
 knowing, you don't tell me anything about yourself. It 
 is not proper that you should tell me. I don't know any- 
 thing about your affairs, your childhood, or your folks, or 
 anything. I haven't any right to know, because your 
 world is superior. You talk to me of principles, but not 
 of persons. You say things that are like philosophy in 
 books, but I talk only of myself and those I know. You 
 understand all my world, and keep your own to your class. 
 My world is only an incident to you. You look into it, 
 and it furnishes amusement. I don't mean to say that 
 you are not sympathetic and sincere in what you do, — I'm 
 getting all balled up in this, — but what I mean is that your 
 world includes ours as a part ; and that's the reason it's 
 superior." 
 
Differences 117 
 
 His confusion pressed like a rebuke upon her ; and for 
 some time they stood in silence, looking at the fading sky. 
 
 " I am not sure but you have spoken something of the 
 truth," she said humbly ; " and yet I think that what you 
 accuse me of is merely a personal weakness, and not the 
 weakness of any class. I admit that I have assumed a 
 superiority, but you must not blame my friends for that. 
 It is I who am the prig, and not they." 
 
 " Now see here, Miss Radcliffe, don't be calling your- 
 self names," he laughed uneasily. " Just tell me if you 
 ever saw one among all your friends who could come and 
 talk to me in anything like the way you have done." 
 
 Genevieve had to think but a moment. " I don't know 
 of one who could. I don't know of one who would not 
 laugh at me for being queer if she knew that I did it. I 
 confess that I have never dared tell them." 
 
 " It is a proof that I have won my point," he said, 
 laughing easily again. " I have shown that your world is 
 superior." 
 
 " But Mrs. Purcell — all our theories at the Settlement 
 are that men are equal, so far as rank and class are con- 
 cerned. Superiority is only a personal matter. It may 
 appear in the slave as well as in the master. Why, his- 
 tory has shown us that. How often an artist or poet or 
 philosopher has risen from the lower class 1 " 
 
 " That is the exception," said the man. " There are a 
 few who know no class distinction. They may appear in 
 the upper class as well as in the lower. But it is of the 
 great majority I was speaking. They cannot cross the 
 line of their birth." 
 
 " I don't believe it is birth at all," she said warmly. 
 " I believe that, if you had been born the son of rich 
 parents, you would have been as much of their class as 
 you are now of the workingmen." 
 
n8 Differences 
 
 " Education, then, if you like. I don't believe much in 
 the accident of birth, either, though a child does take from 
 its parents, — we all know that." 
 
 "Yes. But the parents may be refined, even if they 
 are in the lower class." 
 
 " Yes, I grant you all that." 
 
 " Then my world is not superior to yours ; and it is I 
 who have won my point," said the girl, gayly. 
 
 A troubled look swept across his face. 
 
 " The difference is there, though you have outwitted me 
 in the argument," he said. " I am not clever at these 
 things." 
 
 " The difference is in your prejudice," said Genevieve. 
 
 '' It is in yours, too ; and it must be so," said John 
 Wade. 
 
 " But I declare it is not ; and, surely, I know best what 
 is in my own mind. I do not recognize any social distinc- 
 tion. Do I not deny all class distinction when I leave my 
 own home, and come to the Settlement to live as I do ? " 
 
 " No," said John Wade, stoutly, now seeing his ground, 
 and determined to stand on it though he die for it, " you 
 do not deny the difference by coming here. You recog- 
 nize it instead." 
 
 " Don't I come to your house as one of your own class, 
 as you say, might do ? " 
 
 " No, you don't. Do you mean to say that you would 
 come week after week as you do to visit a man of my age 
 if I were of your own class ? You wouldn't dream of call- 
 ing on me once. And I, — could I receive in my own 
 home a young woman who belonged to my class ? Could 
 I let her come and work for my children and play with 
 them, as you do ? Suppose a girl from the factory or one 
 of your mother's maids should come and visit me here, 
 and do all the things you have done : what would you 
 
Differences 119 
 
 think of the girl, and what would you think of me for 
 allowing it? " 
 
 There was another interval of silence. His pipe had 
 gone out, and he was breathing fast. 
 
 "It is growing dark. I should have started home 
 before this," said Genevieve. 
 
 " You do not think that I meant in any way to speak 
 against all you have done ? " he questioned humbly. 
 " You know that you have saved life for me as well as for 
 my children. I do not mean to imply " — 
 
 " I know, I know," she said hurriedly. 
 
 "I am very thankful for the difference of class," he 
 said, " and I should never wish to evade it. It is the 
 class difference that permits you to act as my friend." 
 
 "I shall be your friend still, Mr. Wade," she said, 
 turning to him and putting out her hand in her old society 
 fashion. " Now it is time to say good-night. It will be 
 dark before I am started." 
 
 When she came in sight of Settlement House, she found 
 Maynard Neville standing impatient on the steps. 
 
 " How ridiculously funny these people are," she thought 
 with a laugh, her mind still on her argument with Wade, 
 " and how odd that I should take them so seriously I " 
 Then she ran up the steps, and thought no more of them 
 till morning. 
 
XIV. 
 
 IT may have been something in this personal conver- 
 sation, it may have been that Genevieve was looking 
 toward the summer at Niagara ; she could hardly have 
 given a reason to herself ; but, at all events, she did not 
 go to the little house on Goose Island alone again in the 
 evening during her remaining month in the city. 
 
 There was nothing of awkwardness, however, between 
 herself and Wade. She gave him to understand in a 
 hundred little ways that she had not been offended at his 
 frankness. On one evening she did go over for a long 
 visit ; but she took Hester Carr with her to show her, as 
 she said, the picturesque place on the island. When she 
 decided to go, and made up her mind to ask Miss Carr to 
 accompany her, she wondered why she should not ask 
 Bettine instead ; but she had to acknowledge that there 
 was something about the cheery Miss Crawford that she 
 did not think John Wade would like. Notwithstanding 
 all his feeling of social inferiority, there was a sturdy in- 
 dependence about Wade that she had noticed in but few 
 of her equals. She had a vague feeling that, in the faint- 
 est way, Miss Crawford might be patronizing ; and, though 
 Genevieve knew that Wade would be polite and pretend 
 not to notice, she was sure that it would rankle in his 
 heart. In regard to Hester Carr, she had no such mis- 
 givings. 
 
 It was the usual hour, about sunset, when they started ; 
 and the smoky sky was filled with yellow light. 
 
 "I like Chicago, and dearly I like this island," said 
 Hester, pausing on the bridge. 
 
 " Do you come here often ? " asked Genevieve. 
 
 " Why, yes. I often walk across it. I have seen you 
 at your little house one or two evenings." 
 
Differences 121 
 
 " I thought the island belonged all to me," said Gene- 
 vieve. 
 
 " Oh, no. It is mine, too. I like to stand here and 
 look over the level of the docks, through the forest of 
 masts. They are crowded in thick to-night." 
 
 " But the smell of the river is unendurable." 
 
 " It is not like a bed of violets ; but look at the brown 
 wall of that great block of iron there, the elevator. It's 
 like the wall of a cation. If the sky were only dewy at 
 the top ! How parched and gas-choked the sky is in 
 this region ! " 
 
 " A boat is coming," said Genevieve. " Come away. I 
 can't endure the smell when the water is stirred up. 
 What a disgrace this is to a city ! " 
 
 " It is as good as the city, I suppose. It is a comfort- 
 able philosophy of mine to say that the world is always as 
 good as people deserve. The people of Chicago are free. 
 This is their own river, and they choose to have it as it is. 
 They don't see the horrors of this sewer because they are 
 foul themselves." 
 
 " They are not so foul as this," said Genevieve, with 
 feeling. " The people who live near it can't help it ; and 
 the rich and well-to-do, who don't see it, — well, they know 
 how terrible it is, but they forget because they don't see 
 it constantly." 
 
 " Only twice a day, the most of them. But their foul- 
 ness lies in the fact that they can forget. They are foul 
 enough to go on in their selfishness." 
 
 " I don't see any good in calling names," said Genevieve. 
 
 " I don't see any good in running around the truth with 
 your eyes shut," replied Hester. 
 
 And they walked on in silence to the little house. 
 
 " Perhaps Mr. Wade is eating supper," said Miss Rad- 
 cliffe. " Suppose we go into the garden till he comes 
 out" 
 
122 Differences 
 
 " Let us first go into the house, and tell him that we 
 have come," said Hester, stepping up to the kitchen door, 
 and rapping on it smartly. 
 
 They could hear the rattle of knife and fork on a plate, 
 and then the scurrying of children. 
 
 " Come in," said the voice of the master. 
 
 "Good evening, John Wade," said Hester, walking in 
 boldly. 
 
 " Good evening, Hester Carr," said Wade, with a daring 
 flash in his eye, half of humour at the boldness of his 
 challenge. He looked more courteously toward Genevieve, 
 though his eyes wore their amused look still. He did not 
 rise from the table, but told the children to place chairs. 
 
 Genevieve sat down formally, as if she were a stranger 
 in the house. She almost wished she had brought Bettine 
 instead of Hester, even though she might have been pat- 
 ronizing. It annoyed her that this artist should seem 
 more at home here than she herself. 
 
 "You should show more appreciation, John Wade," 
 Hester went on gayly. " Here are two young ladies call- 
 ing to see you, and you neither rise to greet us nor so 
 much as offer us from your table." 
 
 " You wouldn't eat the things I have. It would be an 
 insult for me to offer them," said the man, confusedly. 
 
 " Would it, then 1 I call that a slur on Mrs. McLen- 
 nan 's cooking, and I mean to tell her of it." 
 
 " I told the children to offer you chairs," said he, rally- 
 ing in self-defence. 
 
 " But I want a chair at the table," she replied. " That 
 water-cress looks particularly dainty." She was seating 
 herself at the table opposite him. 
 
 " Have some bread and butter ? " said Wade, pushing 
 the cresses toward her. 
 
 " Thank you, and a spoonful of tea, if you have it. 
 
Differences 123 
 
 You would hardly think I had just risen from the table. 
 Are you going to join us, Genevieve ? " 
 
 Genevieve was startled at the proposal. 
 
 " Yes, do, Miss Radcliffe," urged Wade. " I will place 
 a cup for you at the end." He rose, and went to the cup- 
 board for more cups and plates. 
 
 " Oh, he is finding his hospitality at last 1 I wondered 
 when he would wake up," laughed Hester, merrily. 
 
 " You are enough to wake any man up, coming down on 
 him the way you do." 
 
 " Bring the tea, too, and a pitcher of hot water," com- 
 manded the autocrat. " Now sit down, and be thankful 
 that we let you sit without your coat and eat with your 
 knife, if you want to." 
 
 Genevieve was feeling so out of place, seated at the 
 bare, oilcloth-covered table, that she could hardly be suit- 
 ably shocked at the wild girl's recklessness and daring. 
 She expected to see the man sink through the floor in 
 shame, but instead he looked straight into Hester's eyes. 
 
 " Isn't it proper to eat with your knife ? " he asked 
 simply. 
 
 " Why, no, it is not proper to put your knife into your 
 mouth," said Hester, coolly, measuring out the tea. 
 " I'm sure I don't know why all workingmen do it. The 
 fork is a great deal more convenient." 
 
 " I suppose it is the way we are brought up," he said ; 
 "but I do believe the knife is more convenient. Why, 
 everything would spill through the fork. How could I 
 get any gravy ? " 
 
 " You may get the gravy on your potato or put a small 
 bit of bread on your plate to take it up." 
 
 " With my fingers ? " he asked, to be teasing. 
 
 " With your fork, of course," she replied precisely. 
 
 " Well, I learned with my knife ; and I shall stick to it, 
 I think," said John Wade in his stubborn manner. 
 
124 Differences 
 
 " So he says," commented Hester, turning to Gene- 
 vieve ; " but I bet he will practise with his fork from 
 now on." 
 
 " You know too much for a woman," said the man, 
 laughing guiltily, like a boy who has been found out in 
 some trick. " Perhaps I ought to do it, so as to teach 
 the children properly.'' 
 
 " Is there anything else I do wrong ? " he asked after 
 a pause. " I suppose there is nothing I do right." 
 
 " Well, gentlemen do not sit at table without a coat," 
 said Miss Carr, deliberately. " But, on the whole, I think 
 labouring men ought to be an exception to that rule. It 
 is much more comfortable and sensible to go in shirt- 
 sleeves, especially in warm weather." 
 
 " And you look a great deal better without a coat," 
 urged Genevieve. "I always like to think of you so. 
 The black shirts, too, are becoming, and almost take the 
 place of a coat." 
 
 John Wade was pleased with the phrase, " I like to 
 think of you so." It sounded on his inner hearing for 
 days and days after she had gone. Was it possible that 
 she should ever think of him, and find pleasure in it ? 
 
 " Yes, the shirt-sleeves by all means," said Hester, in 
 her clear, passionless voice. " And meanwhile, if I see 
 anything else in your manners that ought to be changed, 
 I shall tell you of it." 
 
 " You'll find me a dull scholar," laughed Wade. 
 
 " I might begin," she went on, " by objecting to your 
 eating this bread. I hope you don't give it to the chil- 
 dren ? " 
 
 " It's white and light enough, isn't it ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes: it's white with terra-alba and alum. At 
 least, I don't know about the clay ; but I am very sure of 
 the alum. How can any one sell good bread at three 
 
Differences 125 
 
 loaves for five cents ? Look at this chaffy stuff ! It 
 chews like so much cloth." 
 
 " I know it isn't good," said Wade ; " but I am trying 
 to get my debts paid before winter." 
 
 " Well, you can get good bread of the German on the 
 corner ; and it will pay you in good health in the end." 
 
 They stopped, to get the exact description of the baker ; 
 and Hester promised to instruct Mrs. McLennan. The 
 old lady came in as they were talking. It was her time 
 for the evening work. She seemed much more active 
 than when Genevieve had first known her, and was 
 pleased at the company. 
 
 " Let us go out into the garden," said John Wade, 
 rising. 
 
 " You and Genevieve may," said Miss Carr, employing 
 the Christian name as if she were speaking to one who 
 had a right to use it. " I'll come out by and by. Just 
 now I'm going to help Mrs. McLennan with the tea 
 things. I always think that, if I do that when I am 
 young, some one may help me when I am old." 
 
 " The likes of you will never be washing dishes, lady," 
 said the old woman, highly delighted with this attention. 
 " You will be marrying to some bonnie gentleman who will 
 have a house full of servants." 
 
 " May the Lord hurry the time I " said Hester, laugh- 
 ing. " At present I can hardly afford a respectable frock." 
 
 John Wade and the children and Genevieve went out 
 to look at the garden. 
 
 " The first time she has ever been in the house," he 
 said with a laugh as he was filling his pipe, " and you'd 
 think she was my sister, and had made everything here 
 herself." 
 
 "She is a clever girl," said Genevieve; "and you 
 mustn't mind her peculiar, blunt ways." 
 
126 Differences 
 
 " Oh, I don't mind her at all. I like to hear her talk 
 so plain. She says what she thinks, does Miss Carr ; and 
 she thinks about things, too. But I shouldn't like to have 
 to live with her," he said, after smoking for a time to get 
 the pipe well lighted. " She talks too much. She would 
 wear me out." 
 
 They walked around to look at the potatoes. 
 
 " It's little use," he said, stooping over the young 
 plants and caressing the leaves with his firm fingers as if 
 they were the curls on a child's head. " The gas here 
 kills everything that grows. It will kill us in time, I 
 suppose." 
 
 They walked across to the old picket fence, and stood 
 looking out over the barren waste of land toward the 
 western twilight. 
 
 " I am going away next week," said Genevieve, bluntly ; 
 " and I shall not come to see you again for a full three 
 months." 
 
 " Are you going to leave Chicago ? " he asked almost 
 timidly. 
 
 " For the summer, yes : I always do." And then, re- 
 membering his accusation that she told nothing about her- 
 self, she went on : " I am going to Niagara Falls. I have 
 an uncle who lives on the Canada side. He has a beauti- 
 ful old mansion close in the sound of the fall. I always 
 spend my summers there. I am his favourite niece ; and, 
 as he is a bachelor, he means to will the place to me when 
 he dies." 
 
 John Wade did not make any answer ; but she could 
 see he was listening, and would remember. Suddenly a 
 wave of sympathy and comradeship for this lonely man 
 swept over her. He had so little in his life, — absolutely 
 nothing outside the confines of this ugly yard. She was 
 the only friend he had in the world. 
 
Differences 127 
 
 " My father and mother and brother and sister join me 
 there in August ; and many other guests come, too, among 
 them Mr. Neville, the gentleman I am to marry." 
 
 " He is the one who got me the work at the Randall 
 Electric ? " said Wade, interrogatively. 
 
 " Yes, you have seen him. Well, he will be there in 
 August. In fact, he will come once a week during June 
 and July, for he camps out and takes hunting trips in 
 Canada all summer. He is a great hand for sports and 
 summer hotels." 
 
 John Wade wanted to say something in his praise, but 
 he could not think of a word. 
 
 " My brother is fond of sports, too ; but he is a young 
 fellow, and still has a year in college. He is conceited 
 yet, but good-hearted in spite of his teasing." 
 
 " Is your sister like you ? " asked the listener, manifest- 
 ing the first interest he had been able to put into speech. 
 
 " Oh, no, she is taller and fair. You know she is older 
 than I. Winifred is musical and clever. Oh, she is a 
 favourite everywhere." 
 
 " And you don't care for such things as society ? " 
 There was something almost pleading in his voice. 
 
 " Very little. I have always worked with my father a 
 good deal; have helped him in little things about the 
 church." 
 
 " Oh, then your father is a clergyman ? " 
 
 For the first time she realized what a starved compan- 
 ionship she had given to this man, and all the time she 
 had been proud of the graciousness of her society. 
 
 " Why, he is pastor of the Clarendon Street Church. I 
 supposed that some one had told you." 
 
 " Who was there to tell me ? " he asked frankly, looking 
 into her eyes. 
 
 " It is better that I should tell you myself, Mr. Wade," 
 
i28 Differences 
 
 the girl replied, humbled into generosity. " And, now that 
 I am going away, I am going to write to you this summer, 
 for I don't want you to forget me while I am gone ; and in 
 return I want you to write to me. I shall need to know 
 all about the children, and how you are getting on with 
 the garden and the work and everything." 
 
 " You must give me your address," he said, feeling for 
 his pencil and book. 
 
 She took the book, and wrote her name and address in 
 it in a firm, fair, even hand. 
 
 " You have pretty writing," he said. " You will find 
 my letters clumsy and sprawling. I am not used to writ- 
 ing letters." 
 
 " Don't you ever write back to your sister ? " 
 
 " Oh, maybe, once in two years or so. I did write to 
 her after the wife died, but since then I have been so 
 poor I haven't had the heart. It never has been our way 
 to write much." 
 
 He opened his waistcoat, and put the book carefully 
 back in the inside pocket. The action gave Genevieve an 
 opportunity to notice what a columnar body he had. It 
 was sturdy and rugged, like the trunk of an oak, but with 
 more than the oak's suppleness and freedom. She saw, 
 too, that he was conscious of her glance. 
 
 " You must be a strong man, Mr. Wade," she said in 
 reply to his appreciation. 
 
 His chest raised, and he squared himself proudly. 
 
 " Among the young lads of my set I've whipped many 
 a one who outweighted and outmeasured me," he said 
 with a laugh in his voice. 
 
 He stood with his feet well apart, his shoulders lifted, 
 and head thrown back and saucily tipped on one side. A 
 flash of remembered merriment was soft in his dark blue 
 eyes, the knowledge of strength and power was quivering 
 
Differences 129 
 
 in his delicate nostrils : only the student brow was calm 
 and placid as ever with the light hair blowing caressingly 
 back. For the first time Genevieve had a vague percep- 
 tion that this workingman was handsome, more comely, 
 in a way, than Maynard Neville. This man was shaped 
 by real struggles with the questions of life. He stood like 
 a warrior from the field, with the calm and the tried 
 strength of battle. 
 
 Hester Carr came running out of the house, her blown 
 hair flying about her head and the lightness of a nymph 
 in her motion. She picked up baby Joe as she ran, and 
 did not stop until she stood close by the father. The 
 baby reached out his fat, spreading hands, and made 
 grasps to get hold of the pipe. The girl teased and 
 taunted. The easy workingman turned his face away, 
 but did not move so but that the baby palms should 
 strike on his cheek and his neck. When the child blows 
 came close to his eyes, he would blink, and pretend great 
 pain from the onslaught. 
 
 Genevieve acknowledged the prettiness of the picture, 
 and enjoyed it. At the same time she felt something 
 that was more like jealousy than anything she had ever 
 before experienced. Why should Miss Carr be so bold ? 
 She herself, who knew them so very well, had never 
 played with the child in this way. She rarely held it, in- 
 deed, in the father's presence. The children loved her, 
 she was sure of that; but they regarded her as the 
 beautiful lady, who was only to be loved genteelly and 
 with consideration. But they had accepted this visitor as 
 one of their playmates the first time that she chanced in 
 to see them. 
 
 There was no denying the beauty of Hester Carr, any 
 more than there was the wine of her laughter. The cool 
 evening wind was carrying her light hair about her face 
 
130 Differences 
 
 and swinging the folds of her dress. Hester was a child 
 of the wind, and seemed most to bloom in its vigour. 
 Most women are put out by the wind. It sets their laces 
 and ribbons all awry, and wheels their stiff skirts about 
 them in ugly, lumpish masses. Hester Carr was only 
 beautified with the disorder. The folds of falling cloth 
 gave themselves naturally to the air or clung to her 
 slender form like the draperies on a Greek statue. Rib- 
 bons and laces with her only flagged themselves daintily 
 in the motion. Her hair was leading them in gladness, and 
 her eyes were sparkling with the freedom. The baby's 
 arms waved like a windmill. The strong father laughed in 
 his pleasure. Genevieve was certainly not with them. 
 
 " Let us look at the chickens," she said, and moved on 
 in advance down the path. They followed noisily after 
 her till they came to the little shed ; and John Wade took 
 the door down carefully, and set it away with its braces. 
 
 "I am afraid of the dogs and the rats," he explained. 
 "Already we have lost three of the chickens." He crept 
 in at the small door, and they could hear the old hen 
 clucking and scolding at being roused so early in her 
 sleep. Joe and Angeline were hysterical in their excite- 
 ment as the father emerged with the hen, chickens, box, 
 nest, and all under his arm and covered with his open 
 waistcoat. The box was deposited on a chair, which 
 Angeline brought with as much ceremony as if it had 
 been for the queen's jewels. Then John Wade carefully 
 lifted the hen, who was still clucking a comfortable re- 
 monstrance, as if she understood that she was in the 
 hands of friends. 
 
 " Ain't they pretty ? " he said. " There are only five 
 now. The black one and two spotted ones are dead." 
 
 Hester Carr gave a scream of delight, and gathered 
 the chicks in her lap. 
 
Differences 131 
 
 " They are dear, dear, dear," she cried, as she fondled 
 them. " How I long to be back in the country ! " 
 
 The baby Joe was shrieking with delight ; but Angeline 
 took hold of Miss Radcliffe's hand, and said, in her 
 sober fashion : " We buried the dead ones in the garden. 
 The wicked rat did not eat them at all, but only sucked 
 their blood." 
 
 " I heard the fracas, and came out. Otherwise he 
 would have killed them all," said the father. " The old 
 hen was frightened half to death, and was cackling alone 
 in the corner." 
 
 He stood looking at Miss Carr's delight and smiling 
 fondly at the baby. The hen was settling to sleep under 
 his arm. With the palm of his free hand he was sooth- 
 ingly hooding her head, and her murmuring " cut-a-cut- 
 a-cut " showed how she trusted him with her children. 
 His pipe was still smoking serenely. It had gone with 
 him into the shed, and came out with him, still peace- 
 fully smoking. The quiet, even draught seemed as simple 
 as breathing to him, and faint little wreaths came from 
 his lips. 
 
 " She's as pleased as the child," he said, nodding toward 
 Hester Carr. 
 
 " There, John, give the dear things their mother," said 
 the girl, placing the chicks gently in the nest. " Once I 
 bought an incubator," she said, when he had put them 
 all back, " and I started to raise chickens. It was all 
 rational, scientific, and excellent ; and yet I had no pleas- 
 ure in those chickens. What a monotonous life it must 
 have been, that sleeping and feeding and chirping ! No 
 anticipation of the beetles or worms that might be un- 
 covered by the mother hen's scratching. No running at 
 the cry of a hawk, no cuddling when they were loved or 
 pecking when they were greedy. Wouldn't it have been 
 
132 Differences 
 
 better to grow up in neglect, and to know the love of the 
 mother hen ? I was a girl of fourteen then, but never 
 from that time to this have I been a good socialist. My 
 father might argue and argue." 
 
 " Was your father a socialist, Hester ? " asked John 
 Wade, unconsciously employing the Christian name as he 
 would with a girl from the factory. 
 
 " In a lonely, hermit fashion he was," replied Hester, 
 without so much as noticing his form of addressing her. 
 " My father was a curious man. He had been a 
 physician in New York, and fashionable enough when he 
 married my mother. But she died ; and he was restless, 
 and went West. His health required that he give up 
 practice. So he took to teaming for a living, and was 
 one of the best mule-drivers in the mountains." 
 
 " He is dead, then ? " said John Wade, softly. 
 
 " Yes, he is dead. He fell off a precipice. The snow 
 had drifted over, and he walked out beyond the edge 
 without knowing. Perhaps his judgment was at fault 
 from too much drinking. He used to drink heavily at 
 times. It was like a disease with him, but he was never 
 coarse or brutal." 
 
 " I used to drink, too," said John Wade, as if to con- 
 sole her. 
 
 " But you stopped in good season, John ; and you will 
 never begin again. You are a strong man. But with my 
 father it was different. He began late, and it was done 
 to keep up his strength ; for he was always broken and 
 nervous. You drank more from a motive of good 
 fellowship." 
 
 " I have sometimes thought that, if I took to it again 
 because of some great trouble or something, I could not 
 stop a second time," he said, thinking. 
 
 " But you will never take to it, John Wade. Your days 
 
'Differences 133 
 
 of recklessness are over. Why, I would rely upon you 
 as I would on the rock of ages." She put out her hand 
 to him so frankly, and he clasped it with such natural 
 humanity, that Genevieve was touched in her sympathy. 
 She ceased feeling harsh toward the strange girl who 
 could address workingmen by their first names and 
 allow them the same privilege with her. 
 
 The time had come to say good-night and good-bye. 
 
 " Miss Carr will take an interest in what you are 
 doing," said Genevieve, extending her hand ; " and I want 
 you to answer my letters." 
 
 He promised bashfully, giving her hand a shoving 
 shake that was awkward and yet not unpleasing. 
 
 They made their adieus to the old Scotchwoman, who 
 was sitting on the steps, and kissed the wistful faces of 
 the children. 
 
 " I like your friend John Wade," said Miss Carr, as 
 they walked home together. There was little else spoken 
 on the way. 
 
 After watching the two girls around the great elevator, 
 the man left alone on the island called the children to 
 make ready for bed, and went on with his life as usual. 
 Only, when the rest of his small household were long 
 asleep, he went out again, and stood by the old picket 
 fence, enjoying the quiet night air. 
 
 " I always like to think of you so. The black shirts, 
 too, are becoming, and take the place of a coat." 
 
 They were words that were sweet in his memory. 
 
XV. 
 
 JOHN WADE was very unwilling to think that he 
 was learning to love, and yet gradually the idea was 
 forcing itself to his notice. " An unnatural, villain- 
 ous treachery," he would tell himself in his anger; 
 and then he would put all thoughts from him, and try to 
 keep only with his work, his cares and hopes for the chil- 
 dren. Then, when his love was controlled, his conscience 
 would not let him forget. " Was it right ? Was it not 
 the height of ingratitude to refuse to think of Miss Rad- 
 cliffe, when she had done so much for him ? " 
 
 " Why was it villainous treachery to think of the sweet- 
 natured woman who had come as a friend to him, and 
 asked him to remember her and write to her ? " He 
 replied, holding out with himself, that his guilt was the 
 way he loved and remembered. 
 
 " I like to think of you so," were the words that John 
 Wade best remembered. And, when he pictured her there 
 in his house, how was it that most often he saw her? 
 Was it giving to him and his children? Was it lifting 
 him to higher things ? 
 
 John Wade would ponder and ponder. " Yes,'' he 
 would conclude at last, "it is because she lifts me to 
 higher things. She teaches me cleanliness and neatness 
 and health of body. She ennobles my mind, and gives 
 me high aspirations, elevated lofty thoughts ; and with 
 that, alas I what is it else I see in the picture ? It is the 
 shape of her beautiful head, with the yellow lamplight 
 caressing the lithe coils of hair. It is the curve of her 
 ivory neck. It is the nimbleness of her active white 
 fingers." The doubts had triumphed now; and once 
 again John Wade was desponding, was cursing himself 
 for an animal. Those things that in a gentleman would 
 
Differences 135 
 
 have been regarded only as artistic appreciation were in 
 him the most deadly sin. 
 
 In the habits of his daily life he was much affected by 
 his image of her. " If my thoughts will not quite be in 
 my control," he would say, " the body that contains them 
 shall be as pure and as worthy as possible." 
 
 He had always been a man punctilious in his personal 
 habits, — much more so than most of his class. Even in 
 the days of his poverty and degradation he had taken 
 pains with the washing of his scant linen, and had never 
 dreamed it possible that a Sunday morning could go by 
 without the bath that his mother had taught him was 
 necessary. It was only in his clumsy housekeeping that 
 he had allowed himself to be negligent, perhaps a little in 
 the care of the children. It is so easy for a man to neg- 
 lect this work which is properly the woman's, even a man 
 of higher breeding than John Wade. But now the inter- 
 est and hired attention of the old Scotch woman made 
 these things easier for him. He still did the washing and 
 ironing of the linen, he still kept all care of the children ; 
 but this was not irksome to him, being naturally domestic in 
 his tastes and very fond of the children. It was a pleasure, 
 almost, to do this, once he had finished a comfortable 
 supper and had no care of the dishes. 
 
 But other things that he had not considered before 
 were forcing themselves upon him now. In a little con- 
 versation with Miss Carr it came out one day, in some 
 thoughtless fashion, that it was the custom of gentlemen to 
 bathe every morning. Hester had used the expression of 
 the "great unwashed," and he had asked what it meant. 
 Perhaps she guessed the effect it might have upon him. 
 It was her frank way to tell the truth, whatever might 
 happen. 
 
 It might have seemed a little thing to any one else ; but, 
 
136 Differences 
 
 after listening to all that Miss Carr had said, John Wade 
 went home with a firm resolution. " I am different enough 
 in my ways," he said; "but I need not be different in 
 that." His resolution was soon to take shape. He im- 
 mediately began to clear the rubbish out of one of the 
 little sheds, and to turn the building into a bath-room. " It 
 will do very well for the summer, and perhaps I can have 
 a little stove by the winter," he said as he worked far into 
 the night. There was not so much to be done, for he had 
 so little material. The sides and ceiling of the shed he 
 papered carefully with newspapers, and drove in some 
 nails on which to hang things. Then an old wooden 
 chair was mended and set up. A piece of carpet was 
 spread down to stand on. When three evenings' work had 
 completed this, he went down to the corner grocery and 
 purchased a new wash-tub. " It is only a dollar," he 
 said ; " and I can afford a little extravagance." 
 
 As time went on, he improved the simple arrangements 
 by constructing a trough from the hydrant in the yard 
 direct into the bath-house, and then there had to be a 
 drain to the sewer. All of this served to take up his 
 thoughts and to pass the time till he might look for the 
 letter Genevieve had promised to write him. 
 
 He used to think of this promised letter all the way in 
 coming from his work ; and he came to yearn for its 
 arrival. " Perhaps she has forgotten, after all," he would 
 say, when he reached home and did not find it. Then 
 the next evening he had the same yearning again. 
 
 With Genevieve the joy of getting out into the free air 
 was so great that for the first few weeks she thought but 
 little of the smoking city she had left behind or the 
 people that dwelt therein. What constant pleasure there 
 was in the freshness of cool, green leaves that had known 
 the clean dew every morning ! The clearness of the sky 
 
Differences 137 
 
 had never been so welcome before. Even a gray day was 
 refreshing, for the tints even then were born of pure 
 water and sunlight. And, after a year in the slums, the 
 transparent colouring of the sunsets seemed like a return 
 to the freshness of childhood following the cares of 
 maturity. Then the roar of falling water in the distance, 
 the chirping of live things in the grass near by, the 
 gentle response of springing turf, — here was the mother 
 in Nature, and her welcome to men from their sinning. 
 
 If at any time Genevieve tired of these things, there 
 were others to interest her. Her own little bay mare, 
 Madge, was always ready for a gallop along the beech- 
 shaded drives. Her uncle's dogs must have their share of 
 attention. There was a goat. There were geese at the 
 barn. The horses, the cattle, the sheep, all must renew 
 their acquaintance. And the dear, precise, courteous 
 Uncle George was always ready to give detailed histories 
 of each animal for the past winter, and then to wander 
 back to the pedigree, to make sure that his niece would 
 not forget it when she should be mistress of Beechwood. 
 
 The protection, the rest and seclusion within the gray 
 stone walls of the mansion, the freedom and hospitality of 
 the great hall, the cosey chats and conferences in the re- 
 tirement of the little stairway sitting-room, — Genevieve 
 enjoyed these first six weeks by herself more than the mer- 
 rier half of the summer with the guests. There was the 
 sweetness of exclusive ownership, the seclusion that is 
 company to the proprietor. 
 
 There were serious things to think about, too ; for May- 
 nard Neville was dissatisfied with his occupation, and 
 was thinking of literary ventures. 
 
 " It is no place for a man of my tastes, Genevieve," he 
 began one day. " This eternal monotony of a factory, 
 — you don't know what a dog's life it is." 
 
138 Differences 
 
 " You will rise in time to the point where it will be 
 more interesting, Maynard. I suppose it is necessary to 
 do the drudgery in the beginning." 
 
 "I know; but I had that preached to me all through 
 college, and now it is still going on. I suppose that, by 
 the time I am old and not fit for anything but drudgery, 
 I shall be told that I am free from it. 
 
 " Moreover," he went on, " I can't force myself to care 
 for the interests of the firm, even when I am involved in 
 them. It really doesn't make the slightest difference to 
 me whether the Randall Electric furnishes the New 
 Orleans Electric Railway with its dynamos or whether 
 some other company does it. I don't take any intense 
 delight in the fact that we can do it a few hundred dollars 
 cheaper than some firm in St. Louis. Other fellows seem 
 to ; but I tell you, Genevieve, it is the Chicago craze for 
 dollars. That's all it is. Now, if my college education 
 has done me any good at all, it has shown me the idleness 
 of this one thing." 
 
 Through quite a different process Genevieve had ar- 
 rived at the same conclusion, but she remained discreetly 
 silent. 
 
 " The thing that I think it is most important to do," 
 Neville went on, " is to show people in this new Western 
 city how to enjoy their money, to show them the value of 
 culture and refinement." Then he went on to tell her of 
 his plans and hopes. 
 
 "You know I have been chumming a good deal 
 lately with Braidwood, the editor of the Dilettante." 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't, Maynard. I don't like Mr. 
 Braidwood." 
 
 "Why, what harm can he do me? This is merely a 
 business relation. I don't have to take pattern after him." 
 
 "It is his intellect that I object to," said Genevieve. 
 
D i f f e rences 139 
 
 " I don't know anything about his actions, but he is so 
 cynical and purposeless. The very name of the magazine 
 betrays it." 
 
 "But I think a little cynicism is just what Chicago 
 needs. It is too fresh ; too raw, if you object to slang." 
 
 " I don't like Mr. Braidwood," said Genevieve, returning 
 to first principles. 
 
XVI. 
 
 SCARCELY had Neville taken his departure when 
 Genevieve began thinking of the city, of the Settle- 
 ment, and then of John Wade. 
 
 " What a shame that I have not written before 1 " she 
 said with compunction. " I shall take my portfolio out 
 to the hammock this very morning, and will not go for a 
 ride on Madge until evening." It was as great a sacrifice 
 as she could have made. 
 
 Once established under the cool shade of morning, it 
 was hard to make a beginning. 
 
 " My dear Mr. Wade," she began ; and this called up 
 some pictures which set her dreaming. She seemed to 
 see him standing by the old picket fence, looking into the 
 smoky sunset. His hat was off. The wind was blowing 
 his hair. The sturdy figure was poised in the easy atti- 
 tude that seems to suggest resting from labour. 
 
 Then she seemed to see him again on the day he came 
 to her a beggar. She remembered the restless shifting 
 of his eyes, the sensitiveness of shame-mounting colour, 
 the conscious hands that kept nervously twirling the old 
 hat, and the deep voice that trembled with humiliation. 
 
 Then a moment when she had first been to see him ; 
 and he had followed her like a dog to the door, when she 
 had turned and found him — 
 
 " Dear Mr. Wade," she wrote again, hurriedly now ; and 
 her tears were falling on the paper. 
 
 " How stupid of me to write that twice ! " she said 
 crossly, taking up the sheet and crumpling it. " I shall 
 have to begin on another." 
 
 But she did not yet begin. She looked out across the 
 green pastures, and listened to the roar of the fall. 
 
 " How hot and gaseous and sticky it must be there on 
 
Differences 141 
 
 that filthy island 1 " she thought. " I wonder if the chil- 
 dren can stand it. I must write to Miss Carr to look 
 after them." Then she fell to thinking of the children, — 
 that jolly, rollicking baby Joe, that laughed from the 
 eyes of his father, and the sweet, sober little maid, 
 Angeline : she could feel her warm arms around her 
 neck. How would they grow up ? she wondered. How 
 fortunate that they had no children to play with in the 
 alleys, teaching them evil ways and low talk, but lived off 
 there all by themselves 1 But in time they would mix 
 with the others. " No, I must see that that is avoided," 
 said Genevieve ; " and now I must begin on my letter." 
 
 " Dear Mr. Wade," — she had decided to leave off the 
 " my " as it sounded too formal, — " You must be thinking 
 that I have forgotten all about my intention of writing to 
 you ; but, to tell the truth " — " Now did I intend to 
 tell the truth in saying that I had been so busy ? That 
 would be a regular society letter." 
 
 Another sheet was torn across and crumpled, and 
 another formal beginning made. 
 
 " I've been thinldng about you this morning, — thinking 
 of you and the children ; and it is just beginning to come 
 over me how selfish I've been not to think of you before. 
 It is not only you that I have forgotten : it is all of the 
 people I have left in the city, — my own father and 
 mother, my sister, my friends, almost, even, the man I 
 promised to marry. Mr. Neville came to see me yester- 
 day, and I hope brought me back to myself. It is all so 
 beautiful up here, just like getting outdoors again after 
 being shut up in a close room all winter and spring. I 
 wish you could get away from that hateful Goose Island. 
 I wish you and the children were up here in the country, 
 somewhere, and you working at some good, healthy work, 
 where you could be your own master. When I think of 
 
142 Differences 
 
 you all in the filth and smoke down there, hurrying and 
 shouting and never stopping to look to those who have 
 fallen, and then when I ride out along these roads and 
 see the peace and the security of everything, I tell you I 
 come to think that cities are all wrong someway ; and it 
 seems almost as if I were living a lie, when I go back and 
 try to help perpetuate them. 
 
 " And yet I know, when I stop to think, that it is not 
 systems that are wrong, but people. That's a pitiful thing 
 to say, isn't it ? And it seems harsh for a young woman 
 to be saying it, but it's true. Don't you feel it yourself ? 
 If individuals were better, if you and I did what we could 
 to help our fellows, would the system either of city or of 
 country life matter so much ? 
 
 " I don't know why I should talk with you about these 
 things, but I always have talked with you frankly. 
 
 " Perhaps I ought to tell you something of my holiday 
 here. It might give you a breath of air on Goose Island. 
 Tell Angeline, then, that every morning I go out on a 
 beautiful bay pony named Madge, who is every bit my 
 own. Only this morning I am staying in to write this 
 letter, — not indoors, you must know ; for I am out in a 
 hammock under some great beech-trees. Poor Angeline 
 doesn't know, I'm afraid, what a beech-tree is. Take her 
 to Lincoln Park next Sunday, and show her one, if you 
 can find any. It won't be like one of my beeches, not so 
 large by a third ; but it may give her a little idea. 
 
 " Every day, when I am riding, I stop for some time by 
 the great Horse-shoe Fall. There is a strange fascina- 
 tion about that. I cannot let a day go by without seeing 
 the whirling water. 
 
 " My uncle is very much interested in everything that I 
 do. He wants me to know all about the place that is to 
 be my own when he is through with it. I pray that that 
 
D i f f e rences 143 
 
 may not be for many years. It is mine now as much as I 
 could possibly like. Anything that I happen to suggest 
 is done at once. 
 
 " How I wish you could just go to the barn 1 We have 
 so many chickens you would be an hour counting them. 
 There are ducks, too, and geese and pigeons and guinea- 
 fowls. There are even two surly old peacocks. Then 
 we have eight horses and a herd of cows, and a big, big 
 barn to shelter them all in, with hay in the mow and 
 grain in the bins, enough to last them two or three years. 
 I can't begin to tell you of everything. 
 
 " When I think of how we have such plenty of all these 
 good things of the world, and remember all the poor that 
 I met last winter ; and when I reflect that we do not work 
 for our comforts, but live only to enjoy them, and all those 
 who were working so hard get none of the comforts at 
 all ; and then, again, when I see that we are not superior 
 to them in any of the natural attributes, — my friend, I 
 feel so helpless in the midst of it, so much like a foolish 
 young girl who has no hope of being wiser ! I try to 
 enter upon some little work, intending to be kind of 
 heart; and then, when I find it all a mistake, when I 
 go on spending the money that is given to me, — I have 
 not worked for this money, but some one has produced it : 
 money doesn't grow like grass, — perhaps if it were traced 
 back, these very poor people that I pretend to be helping 
 are actually supporting me. There, you see how con- 
 fused I am ! I wonder if you will make anything out of 
 this letter. I meant to tell you only of the country, to 
 bring pleasant things into your life ; and, as usual, I 
 bring confusion and trouble to one who is already bur- 
 dened." 
 
 She stopped here, breathless, as if she had been speak- 
 ing the jumbled sentences instead of writing them, and 
 
144 Differences 
 
 wondered at what she had written. " I set out to tell 
 the truth," she said wearily ; " and see where it has 
 brought me ! 
 
 " I wonder if I should dare say these things to uncle. 
 No, I'm sure I shouldn't. Nor to my father. And, as 
 for Maynard, he would only tease me." She knew, too, 
 that he would not understand ; but she did not confess it. 
 
 John Wade, — would he understand ? As she thought 
 of it, she decided that he would not altogether. At least, 
 he would not understand the economic side. The moral 
 side he would understand, and he would appreciate her 
 motives. To show his appreciation, he would never 
 speak of them to her. She was thankful for that. It is 
 the only return that is worthy of confidence, — absolute 
 silence forever after. Genevieve did not generalise on 
 the fact, but she was dimly conscious of it. 
 
 After musing some time in the hammock, she returned 
 again to the letter ; but there seemed to be nothing more 
 to say. She looked at her watch. It was already time 
 for lunch, and Uncle George delighted in punctuality. 
 
 "Give my love to the babies and to Mrs. McLennan," 
 she wrote, "and think of me always as your sincere 
 friend, Genevieve Radcliffe." 
 
 She sealed the letter then without reading it. A ser- 
 vant was starting for the village with letters as she 
 reached the house. " Here, Dave, take this with the 
 rest," she called to him, and then hurried in to make 
 ready for the table. 
 
XVII. 
 
 JOHN WADE had grown heart-sick with waiting. 
 He knew that he had no right to become so. He 
 cursed himself a hundred times a day for his pre- 
 sumption. Yet every day as he counted the hours 
 till it should strike six he knew, in spite of his curses, 
 that it was only in one hope that he was counting ; and 
 that was that perhaps, as he returned in the evening, 
 Angeline would come running out with a letter that he 
 had told her to keep when it should come. 
 
 Sometimes, when he had come home disappointed, he 
 would think of all sorts of excuses. Perhaps she was not 
 well, or perhaps she had met friends and gone somewhere 
 else ; but in that case she might have written. It seemed 
 most probable to him, with his little knowledge of mail 
 service, that the letter had been lost on the way or the 
 carriers did not know of the house on Goose Island; 
 though this could hardly be, either, since he saw them 
 often in passing. Sometimes he thought of writing to her 
 to inquire, and he would take out the little book and open 
 it where her name and address were written in the firm, 
 even hand. There was hardly need of the book to re- 
 mind him of the place. Already he knew every bend of 
 the letters as they traced out the names she had written. 
 But it would be so presuming to write, especially if she 
 had really forgotten ; and perhaps she now wished to for- 
 get. Why should she care to remember this poor man 
 she had smiled on in passing? 
 
 Now he was heart-sick and weary. If only Angeline 
 would come running, carrying something for him. 
 
 Then one night she did come down dancing, and put 
 the small square in his hand. There was the well-known 
 firm writing, and this time it had traced his own name. 
 
146 Differences 
 
 Never had his name seemed so pleasing before. He 
 remembered how silly he had once been with the factory 
 girls' simple love-letters, when he was a boy ; and he was 
 ashamed that he should feel the same now, and tried to 
 be sensible and ordinary. 
 
 After supper he lighted his pipe leisurely, and sat for a 
 time on the front step, holding the letter in his hand. 
 
 " You children must run and play now, while I read the 
 letter; and, when I am ready, I will call you." 
 
 Angeline went off dutifully, and it seemed almost as if 
 the baby understood. Then methodically the man opened 
 the letter, and read it through to the end. 
 
 There was a start at the "Dear Mr. Wade." The 
 form that seems so matter-of-fact to the sophisticated held 
 something personal for him. It thrilled him, too, when 
 she called him " my friend," and signed herself his friend 
 at the bottom. But, as he read wonderingly and steadily, 
 there came into his heart a strange sense of sorrow and 
 confusion. This woman was writing to him as she had 
 never spoken, and, with the joy it gave him, there was a 
 deep grief at her trouble ; for he could see at the very 
 first reading that she was in trouble. She was thinking 
 of serious things, and perhaps he himself was the cause. 
 At all events, it was quite beyond him ; and he could not 
 help her. He was too ignorant and stupid. He saw 
 plainly now that she was a good girl. He had seen it 
 before, but only as a stranger might see it. Now he 
 seemed to be looking at her with her own eyes, and she 
 was trying and longing and praying. What a difficult 
 knot and tangle of argument she was in ! He would read 
 it again by and by, and try to understand it. " And think 
 of me always as your sincere friend, Genevieve Radcliffe." 
 That was enough for him now. 
 
 The child Angeline got tired of waiting to be called, 
 and shyly came to stand by her father. 
 
Differences 147 
 
 " Come here, dear, and see what Miss Radclifle writes 
 to you. Bring Joe, too, so he can hear." Then he read 
 to them all about the animals and the barn and the trees, 
 and from his own poor knowledge of such things he tried 
 to build on to the description till they saw a real fairyland. 
 
 " It must keep them busy buying hay," said Angeline, 
 when he could think of nothing more. 
 
 " Why, child, they have hay on their own ground. It 
 grows there. It is all grass there, like Lincoln Park. 
 Don't you remember when Miss Mary took you there last 
 spring ? " 
 
 " Does the hay grow in Lincoln Park, too ? I never 
 saw any there in the grass." 
 
 " Why, child, hay is grass, — dried grass. Didn't you 
 know that ? " 
 
 " And are you going to take us to Lincoln Park next 
 Sunday, as she says you must? " 
 
 "Why, yes, I suppose I must if she says so." 
 
 " Come and let us play Lincoln Park," said the child to 
 baby Joe, after a moment's thinking. " We will get some 
 wire for the trees and bushes. Next Sunday we will go to 
 the real park." And the father was left to his thinking. 
 
 It took a great deal of thinking and a great many 
 readings of the letter before John Wade was sure of what 
 he was to say. The letter was quite worn with perusals. 
 But always, as he reread it when work and supper were 
 over, always he seemed to get something new from it, — a 
 point he had not noticed before, a depth he had not 
 fathomed. And yet he was not sure of his conclusions. 
 " Anyway, I will wait a week," he said, " or she may think 
 I was impatient.'' The week grew into two, and the 
 third had begun before the appointed time came. It 
 was Sunday afternoon when he sat down. The letter 
 had been in his mind all the morning. 
 
148 D i f f e rences 
 
 •' Dear Miss Radcliffe," he began in his uneven, clumsy 
 handwriting. How bold and forward the address seemed 
 to be ! " Dear Madam," he had decided, was too formal. 
 " Dear Friend " he would not dare to write. Finally, he 
 concluded that she knew best as to the form ; and he em- 
 ployed the same, though with some doubt as to his right 
 to use it. 
 
 Then he began thinking what he could say ; and where 
 her delay had only made her impulsive in the end, with 
 him, who was much more conscious of his feelings, the re- 
 flection led only to a greater conservatism. At length he 
 began in a workmanlike manner, and wrote on steadily to 
 the end. 
 
 " I received your letter on Wednesday, that is now 
 seventeen days ago. It found us all getting on well, and 
 told us that you were the same. 
 
 '' I took Angeline and the baby to Lincoln Park the 
 Sunday after I got your letter, but we couldn't find the 
 beech-trees. I asked two of the policemen, but none of 
 them seemed to know. The children enjoyed the park 
 very much, capering about like young lambs. They fed 
 the elephant pop-corn, and it all cost us only fifteen cents. 
 The conductor wouldn't take any fare for Angeline. I 
 think we will go again next Sunday. 
 
 " You will be glad to hear of the good news that has 
 come to me. I have been put to a machine at the factory, 
 and now get two dollars and fifty cents a day. This hap- 
 pened soon after you went away, — the following Saturday, 
 in fact. 
 
 " I see Miss Carr quite often. I stop at Settlement 
 House for a chat or go over for a class in literature that 
 she has Tuesday evenings. She is a curious girl. I 
 wonder what will become of her. She is crazy to go to 
 Europe and study. 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 149 
 
 "I have improved my place, too. The garden is all 
 dying except the sunflowers. I knew it would, when I 
 planted it. The chickens are all dead but two, and they 
 are getting their feathers. I have made a bath-house 
 out of the other shed. I papered it inside, and made a 
 trough to run the water right into the tub. Now I can 
 have a comfortable bath every morning, and the children 
 are wild when I bathe them. 
 
 " Next week I will finish paying my back rent. It is 
 an awful load lifted from my shoulders. 
 
 " It is no use for one so ignorant and dull as I am to be 
 trying to explain to you about your money. What you 
 say seems to me true, though I should never have thought 
 of it by myself. 
 
 " I have read your letter a great many times, and I 
 can't tell you a thing to do. If I were in your place, I 
 should probably go on taking what I could get without 
 any questions, and enjoying it. You can help the poor 
 if you like, but most of the poor that are helped do not 
 deserve it at all. The lazy ones beg, and the worthy ones 
 starve in silence. Your money may come from the earn- 
 ings of the labouring classes. I have always said it did 
 myself. Not your money especially, I mean, but all of 
 the money of the rich. As you say, money does not 
 grow like grass. Somebody has got to work for it. 
 
 " I have wished that I could tell you something to do, 
 but I can't. With me it is altogether simple and easy. 
 I do my work, and earn my bread and my living. Some- 
 times I think I earn it three times over; but, if I can 
 only get it, I am not one to complain. Before Christmas 
 I mean to have paid you back all that you have given me. 
 
 "I must close now. The children send their love. 
 Mrs. McLennan is well, but cranky sometimes. 
 
 " From yours respectfully, 
 
 "John Wade." 
 
i so D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 He read the letter over twice, and corrected its punctua- 
 tion and capitals as best he knew. It sounded so strange 
 and stiff. He tried to think of something else to say or 
 of some way to shape what he had said in better fashion ; 
 but it was of no use, — his invention was equal to no 
 further demands. 
 
 If he could only write something worthy of her reading. 
 But that was hopeless for him. He could never hope 
 even to do it. A grayness and bleakness had settled 
 down in his heart that he had not remembered before. 
 Once he had thought that, if he could pay his debts, he 
 would never feel sad again. Now he learned that there 
 were other debts that he could not ever pay. 
 
 He folded his letter carefully, and methodically wrote 
 out the direction, sealed it, and put on the stamp. Then 
 he placed it with the letter he had tried to answer, and 
 slipped them both into his pocket. 
 
 " It's like getting a day's work done," he said, laugh- 
 ing. " If it is badly done, it is my best. What is the 
 use of fretting ? " 
 
 He put on his hat and coat, and walked away to a 
 post-box. It was a very good feeling, as he thought of 
 it, — this knowledge of the thing done. 
 
 It was a very good feeling, too, to know that the two 
 letters were touching each other in his pocket, his letter 
 touching hers. 
 
XVIII. 
 
 IT is one of the curious processes in the workings of 
 the human mind that a conclusion long since reached 
 may not become active until it has been put into 
 speech, often through some chance conversation, and that 
 ever after it may be a foundation principle on which the 
 future is erected. 
 
 So it was with the economic ideas which Genevieve 
 Radcliffe had expressed in her letter to John Wade. She 
 knew before that she had long been dissatisfied with 
 the doling out of charity which had engaged her during 
 the winter. She knew also how impossible it was to go 
 back to her old life of ease and society with anything like 
 content. She had often lamented that there were no plans 
 for the coming year, and wondered if her way was always 
 to be so full of doubt and failure. But with these dis- 
 couragements she had stopped, and said that she would 
 not think of them until the summer vacation. And, now 
 that the summer had come, it was so easy and restful to 
 give herself up to the enjoyment of sky and trees and to 
 put away all thought of the city and its problems. 
 
 Often during the winter she had thought that it was 
 the giving of money not her own that made her charity 
 so irksome ; and, when she had given from her personal 
 income, as she had to John Wade, she had remarked how 
 different was the feeling. But even with this, though she 
 hardly recognised it, she was not content. The denial of 
 self was a distinct pleasure, — of that she had made sure ; 
 but with the denial there was a suggestion of the hypoc- 
 risy of denial, and sometimes she had asked herself 
 whence came these goods she was denying herself. Did 
 they really belong to her ? There was one gift, indeed, 
 that her conscience had never questioned : that was the 
 
iS2 Differences 
 
 gift of service, the running of errands for people, the 
 work in the house with Mrs. McLennan, and the sewing 
 and mending for the children. That was an unalloyed 
 pleasure, but it was the only one that had not led to self- 
 questioning or ended in misgivings. 
 
 It is a truism that if we are to try to make the world 
 better, we must first make sure of our own standing. If 
 we would preach honesty to the world, we must our- 
 selves be honest. He who says to the poor, "Work, 
 and justify your right for existence," will, if he be 
 honest, surely in time turn the question to himself, and 
 ask : Do I work, as I advise them to ? Do I produce, and 
 justify my existence ? This was the question which 
 Genevieve had, half by accident, asked herself in writing 
 to John Wade, and at the same time answered. 
 
 One evening not many days after the writing of the 
 letter her uncle asked her to remain in the hall after 
 the dinner was removed, as he wished to talk with her. 
 
 She knew at once that it was something of more than 
 ordinary importance that he wished to say, — some busi- 
 ness matter, no doubt. It was his way to make all offi- 
 cial announcements in the dignity of their fitting sur- 
 roundings. She brought down her embroidery from the 
 sitting-room, — her uncle always liked ladies to embroi- 
 der, — and sat smilingly waiting till the servant should 
 remove the cloth from the table and retire to leave them 
 alone. 
 
 " My dear niece," he began, when they were alone, " I 
 think that the time has come when you should begin to 
 know something about business. You know I am not 
 one of those who think women should leave everything to 
 their attorneys. I am perfectly willing that the attorney 
 should undertake all the work. Indeed, it is quite 
 proper as well that they should undertake most of the 
 
Differences 153 
 
 worry, — they are paid for it, and it is their profession ; but 
 still I am inclined to think that the master or mistress 
 should direct, or at least she should intelligently ask for 
 and understand their explanations concerning the man- 
 agement of her property. So I desire to instruct you 
 from time to time in the securities of the small sum that 
 is to be yours, so that you can give an intelligent hearing, 
 though you may not care to enter into discussion." 
 
 "I shall try not to be dull, uncle," said Genevieve, 
 smiling, as he liked. " But you must remember that 
 I am only another woman." 
 
 " My idea of the first lesson," went on Mr. Radcliffe, 
 blandly, " is to put you in charge of your own income. 
 Heretofore the check has been sent you every month, and 
 you have known no further of the matter. If there was 
 a deficit in the income from certain stocks, my attorney 
 was instructed to make it good from some other, and you 
 would know no difference. Now, however, it has been 
 my plan to turn immediately into your hands the invest- 
 ments that I have seen fit to devote to you ; and by 
 knowing the fluctuations in value you may get some idea 
 of depending on them, and in shrewdly looking ahead, to 
 avoid difficulties. Perhaps you will decide to save and 
 invest something of the interest, when you know what the 
 principal is doing. 
 
 " It will all come easily enough at first. You need not 
 be alarmed at complications," he explained kindly, seeing 
 that she was somewhat dismayed. '' I have given you 
 the simplest of problems. Your income is all from one 
 source. It is in a transcontinental railway, and the pay- 
 ments are remarkably uniform. It is only that I wish 
 you to have the documents in your own hands, and be re- 
 sponsible for their safe deposit." 
 
 As he spoke, he took from his pocket a large envelope, 
 
154 D i f f e rences 
 
 and drew out the beautifully stamped, authoritative-look- 
 ing papers that were henceforth to furnish her with 
 money. What kindly things they would have seemed to 
 her a year ago, to just go on forever giving, without so 
 much as a question ! 
 
 Even now she looked at them pleasantly. " They are 
 very pretty," she said. 
 
 " They are very pretty in more ways than one," said 
 her uncle. " They are among the steadiest investments 
 I have." He went on explaining their meaning and 
 advantages. Genevieve listened with attention. 
 
 " I like your plan of making me acquainted with busi- 
 ness," she said at length, "and I shall do my best to 
 learn it this summer. You must make your lessons fre- 
 quent. 
 
 " Doesn't it seem strange to you ? " she added impul- 
 sively, — ■ " doesn't it seem curiously strange that these 
 papers should go on forever giving us money without our 
 doing anything for it or without the papers doing anything, 
 either?" 
 
 Mr. Radcliffe laughed good-humouredly. " Where is 
 all your political economy, Genevieve ? " he said. " Don't 
 you know the value of capital ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but why should we have this capital ? We did 
 not earn it." 
 
 " No ; but our grandfather did, and he has bequeathed 
 it to us." 
 
 " But other people all around are working and earning, 
 as our grandfather did, and yet are not getting these 
 papers." 
 
 " Yes, because they will not save. Some people never 
 know the value of saving." 
 
 " But they do save, Uncle George. They pinch, and 
 save and save, and only get barely enough to keep them 
 in their old age." 
 
Differences 155 
 
 " Ah I but they don't invest properly." 
 
 " Oh, then it is in the investing, and not in the saving," 
 said Genevieve. 
 
 " Well, I suppose it is that, though we usually put it the 
 other way." 
 
 " But then they lose all the honour of self-denial." 
 
 " How is that ? " 
 
 " We have these money-making papers because our 
 grandfather spent wisely his earnings, not because he 
 saved them." 
 
 " Precisely." 
 
 " But other people's grandfathers may have given to the 
 poor or to the public institutions or to other great needs 
 of their time, while our grandfather did none of those 
 things." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I suppose you are right." 
 
 " Then why should we be proud of his expenditures, 
 and call them only wise since they give us interest ? " 
 
 " But they are a part of the great capital that makes the 
 world go. Think of the commerce that has been opened 
 up, the industries that have been created, furnishing food 
 and employment for thousands of workers." 
 
 " The other grandfathers gave to the world's capital, 
 too, when they shared their earnings with the needy or 
 gave to public institutions ; but they asked nothing in 
 return for their children." 
 
 The bachelor was silent for a time : he may have been 
 thinking of the cleverness of his niece. At length he 
 spoke. " After all, my dear, we have these money-making 
 papers, as you call them ; and we must use them wisely 
 as we can. They are a trust, and we cannot loose our- 
 selves from their responsibility. Think of the usefulness 
 of this great railroad and how many cities depend on it.'' 
 
 " If the trust is in any one's hands, it seems to me to 
 
156 Differences 
 
 be in the hands of the men who manage the road, and 
 not with one who knows nothing about it. Why, until 
 to-night, I never knew my money came from there." 
 
 Mr. Radcliffe said nothing. He was thinking that these 
 clever people are often unfortunately a little queer. 
 
 " Uncle George, last winter I found out a man who had 
 been a brakeman on this same railroad. He had worked 
 for it for more than twenty years ; and then, because he 
 was getting old in the service, they had turned him off, 
 and left him to go on alone. Well, he had set up a. little 
 candy store, and lived on for some years, all the time 
 getting lower and lower. He had never been used to the 
 best ; but hard times came on, and the man grew sick 
 through want and exposure, and when we were sent to 
 him he was far into consumption. He was in a hemor- 
 rhage the first time I went to see him. We had him sent 
 to the poorhouse hospital. He is dead now. He died in 
 the spring ; but all the time he had been working for that 
 road this money was being spent on me, who had done 
 nothing. I seem to see that man's blood on those papers I " 
 
 " My dear girl, you pain and distress me exceedingly," 
 said Mr. Radcliffe, hastily putting the papers out of sight. 
 " The fact is you have quite overworked yourself this last 
 winter in Chicago with all your philanthropic fads, and 
 I must forbid your speaking further of them to-night. 
 Why, you are positively morbid, my child, — positively 
 hysterical and morbid. There, there, now ! What can I 
 do with a woman who cries ? I have always thought you 
 so remarkably sensible for a woman." 
 
 They spent the remainder of the evening in the brown 
 and yellow sitting-room, reading. Mr. Radcliffe was very 
 fond of the poems of Mr. Alexander Pope, and the 
 penitent niece chose them as a peace-offering. She was 
 humiliated with the outbreak that came from her. It 
 
Differences 15; 
 
 seemed hardly befitting a lady who was just coming into 
 her property. 
 
 George Radcliffe, too, was unusually discomposed in 
 his thoughts. " I wonder if I have made a mistake, after 
 all, and have been letting my sentiments run away with 
 my reason? Here is the first result of introducing a 
 woman to business. But, then, young Robert is such a 
 prig," he added, to console himself, " and Winifred has 
 chosen the town house, and I have only my brother 
 James's children." 
 
XIX. 
 
 A LL the time she was looking forward to his letter. 
 l\ " I am sure there will be help in it," she said to 
 •*- -*- herself. "I am sure that he will understand me 
 and help me, he is so simple and straightforward in his 
 reasoning. He is not encumbered with a great mass of 
 ossified convention known as a university education." 
 
 But the days passed, and the letter did not come. Gen- 
 evieve was determined not to show any further senti- 
 mentality with her uncle, and the very next evening said 
 to him : " Let us go on with the business now. I will not 
 trouble you with foolish theories. I was rather silly last 
 night." 
 
 Mr. Radcliffe was relieved at this, and from time to 
 time gave his niece such information and advice as he 
 considered necessary to the wise handling of the property 
 which he had put under her exclusive control. The small 
 safe was soon entirely familiar to her ; and, noticing that 
 her own bonds were kept there, she herself suggested 
 depositing them in the bank across the river. Upon her 
 uncle's approval she transacted this small piece of busi- 
 ness in so practical and matter-of-fact a way that Mr. 
 Radcliffe quite forgot the uneasiness Genevieve's first 
 outbreak had caused him. 
 
 In time Wade's letter came. She found it one morn- 
 ing on the tray in the hall. How her hopes fell, when 
 she looked at it ! It was so cheap and illiterate in appear- 
 ance I "Miss Genevieve Radcliffe," read the superscrip- 
 tion, in an awkward, cramped, spiderly hand. There 
 was evidence of trying in vain to write in a straight line 
 across the envelope. Toward the last the effort had been 
 given up, and the letters had risen almost to the stamp. 
 
 The first " s " on the Miss was a long, old-fashioned 
 
Differences 159 
 
 one. The paper was poor, thin stuff, an air of shabby 
 poverty about it. Genevieve took the letter up hastily, 
 and started away for the hammock. She wondered if 
 her uncle had seen it, and if he would say anything about 
 it. How unnatural for the moment all her life in Settle- 
 ment House seemed, as she looked back upon it ! 
 
 It was some time after she was seated before she 
 opened the letter. When at length she did open the thin, 
 carefully folded sheet, it was without any expectation that 
 her problems would be solved. 
 
 " How could I have been so silly," she asked herself 
 before beginning, " as to think that this man could solve 
 my difficulties ? " Then she read the poor letter through. 
 
 At first she was pained, almost shocked, at the childish 
 poverty of the language. Surely, the man had not talked 
 this way to her. What petty accuracy of the days I 
 Why should he say that it was seventeen ? More than 
 two weeks would have been so much more elegant. " It 
 found us getting on well, and told us you were doing the 
 same." Why should he have written that? And then 
 the ride to the park : "It cost only fifteen cents. The 
 conductor wouldn't take anything for Angeline." Proba- 
 bly Wade had urged him to. But, as he went on, she be- 
 came more interested and less critical ; and at the end 
 she was reading eagerly. The letter once finished, she 
 laid it down in her lap, and, lying back in the hammock, 
 looked up for a long time at the leaves and shifting 
 clouds. In some strange way it had given her the peace 
 she sought. 
 
 Then she seized the letter, and sat upright to read it 
 again. It was only the part about herself that she read, 
 and she was not thinking of the awkwardness of the 
 writing. " Your money may come from the earnings of 
 the labouring classes," she read. " I have always said it 
 
160 D i f f e rences 
 
 did myself. Not your money 'especially, I mean, but all 
 of the money of the rich. As you say, money does not 
 grow like grass. Somebody has got to work for it." And 
 here came the true message. 
 
 " I have wished that I could tell you something to do, 
 but I can't. With me it is altogether simple and easy. 
 I do my work, and earn my bread and living. Sometimes 
 I think I earn it three times over ; but, if I only can get 
 it, I am not one to complain." 
 
 Poor, blundering, straightforward John Wade ! He 
 had given the help he despaired of. His own life was 
 altogether simple and easy. Why should not Genevieve's 
 be simple and easy as well ? 
 
 " He did not mean it; but he has told me," said Gene- 
 vieve, " that I must earn my own living, as he does, as all 
 do that I have been professing to help." 
 
 For a long time she lay there quietly, thinking ; and 
 the white clouds were high overhead. She looked at them 
 from time to time, at first seeing them dimly, through 
 tears ; but at length the clouds and the blue of the sky in 
 which they floated gre.w clearer than she had ever seen 
 them before. The great world was taking her back to 
 natural things. It was the "peace that passeth under- 
 standing." 
 
XX. 
 
 THEIR letters would pass oftener now. " Dear Mr. 
 Wade," she wrote. " Your reply came to me yester- 
 day. I had been expecting it for a long time, and 
 was thankful enough to receive it. I suppose that I have 
 only myself to blame, because it was I at first who delayed 
 in writing to you. I mean to be more prompt in the 
 future, and I want you to answer at once. I have a great 
 deal to talk over with you, for I have still many things 
 on which to decide. Your letter helped me more than 
 I can tell, more than you can ever understand. I am 
 going to explain now all about it. There is no one 
 else I can tell here. There is no one who will try to 
 comprehend. 
 
 " Since I wrote you, I have been getting more restless 
 and restless. I was preparing for it all last winter, but 
 lately I have seen that my life is quite unendurable. My 
 uncle has been explaining all his business matters to me. 
 I have seen where all my money has come from. At least, 
 I have seen that it came with no effort on my part nor on 
 the part of my grandfather before me. Beyond that 
 point and where the effort lies I do not dare to conjecture. 
 I wish that you may not misunderstand me in this. The 
 money was honestly got, — every cent of it,- — if honest 
 means legally and fairly in methods of business. I know 
 that the learning I have acquired explains to me how 
 wealth can multiply of itself. I shall not argue with that. 
 What I know better than all the learning is that which 
 comes from my own conscience and from yours as you 
 spoke it in your letter ; and that is that, if I would justify 
 my life in the world, I must give back the cost of its 
 keeping. I must give this, too, with the work of my own 
 hands or brain. I cannot be feeding from others. 
 
162 Differences 
 
 " Dear Mr. Wade, I am going to work. I want to earn 
 my own living. You must not discourage me in this, be- 
 cause all of my other friends will. I want one at least 
 who will stand by me in this decision, who will under- 
 stand what deep meaning it has to me. I know that I 
 am breaking away from all of the traditions of my family. 
 I know that my friends will think me crazy. But I want 
 you to know why I do this thing, and I want you to tell 
 me how to do it. 
 
 " I have been thinking of work in some factory. That 
 seems to me the easiest way, and it is what I should most 
 like to do. I want to be in touch with the great indus- 
 trial system. I know that you will be opposed to this, 
 but don't oppose it without offering some substitution. 
 You see I am expecting you to be my staff, and my staff 
 must not turn upon me. 
 
 " I have not yet announced these intentions to any of 
 my family, nor shall I do so until everything is arranged. 
 I know that they will oppose ; and I do not mean to ad- 
 vance theories for their opposition, but shall give them 
 practical facts instead. I have no idea as yet of throw- 
 ing up my regular income. The money will go on grow- 
 ing just the same. I think I may spend it as wisely, at 
 least, as would my brother. 
 
 " Now set your wits to working, and tell me something 
 that I can do. You have seen so many at work, and will 
 look from the practical standpoint. 
 
 " Give my love to Angeline and Joe, and remember that 
 I am awaiting your counsel. 
 
 " Sincerely yours, 
 
 " Genevieve Radcliffe." 
 
 He took his tone from her own. 
 
Differences 163 
 
 " Dear Miss Radcliffe, — I do not see how I have helped 
 you. What I said was what every one knows. But, since 
 you ask me to advise you, I will do the best that I can. 
 
 " I want to beg you, first of all, not to think of working 
 in a factory. The work is too close and confining. You 
 have not been used to such a life, and would play out in 
 a week. Then how could you get work, when so many 
 experienced girls are out of employment and begging at 
 the factory doors ? Even if you got in through some influ- 
 ence, you would only have the satisfaction of knowing 
 that you were keeping some poor girl out of a job, who 
 could do it much better than you can. 
 
 " I am opposed to women working, anyway. They have 
 taken the work all away from the men as it is, and have 
 cut wages down until a workingman can't live respectable, 
 even when he is so lucky as to get a job. You will 
 excuse my saying it ; but I think that, if you want to work 
 for a living, it would be much more reasonable and natural 
 to learn to cook and keep house for your husband, and 
 let him provide the living for both. That is the man's 
 duty ; and, if the women would only keep out of the mar- 
 ket, he would be able to do it. 
 
 " But there is work that you might do in case you don't 
 want to marry yet. You can sew and are tidy with your 
 fingers. Why don't you be a milliner or a dressmaker ? 
 That is more ladylike work, and would allow you to stay 
 at home. 
 
 " I can't think of any more now. 
 
 " From yours respectfully, 
 
 " John Wade." 
 
 " Dear Mr. Wade, — I have thought over all you have 
 said about the factory, but I can hardly be of your opinion. 
 
164 Differences 
 
 If the work is close and confining, why should I not en- 
 dure it as well as the other young women ? I know that I 
 am but entering employment where there are already 
 more workers than places ; and yet can you find me the 
 place where that is not true ? It is a situation that holds 
 in all the field of work, be it manual, professional, or 
 artistic. The trouble is not that there are too many 
 workers, but that the work is not evenly distributed. We 
 ought all of us to work shorter days, each doing his share. 
 And, as for the work itself, there is an unlimited supply. 
 There are always plenty of useful and beautiful things to 
 be done. The trouble, again, is that a few people control 
 the labour market, and will not let the work be done un- 
 less they can get profit out of it. They demand so large a 
 profit, moreover, that the labour market is always glutted. 
 They need the profit, as I know, to keep up their luxuries 
 and extravagances, morally and industrially diseased and 
 morbid as they are because they have no healthy work of 
 their own. You see I have been thinking of these things 
 lately, and you will find it difficult to put me down. You 
 cannot preach to me that things are made better by letting 
 them alone. I know that they are made better by earnest 
 people going into them, and making them their own per- 
 sonal interest. 
 
 "Nor am I willing to go into the dressmaking and 
 millinery that you admire. The first, I think, should be 
 much improved and modernized in its methods. The 
 second I think absolutely foolish and wicked. It seems 
 to me nothing short of a sin to encourage the horrible 
 creations that women wear on their heads. 
 
 " Besides, I do not want to work alone. I am longing 
 to join the ranks of the great industrial army of the world, 
 and I am willing to stand as a private. How shall I 
 begin if I wish to get employment in a factory ? I do not 
 
Differences 165 
 
 wish to get in through influential friends. I wish to stand 
 on my own merits. „ Good . bye now> 
 
 " Genevieve Radcliffe." 
 
 " My dear Miss Radcliffe, — You have no right to throw 
 away all of your life in toil and weariness, when there are 
 so many things that you can do. It is not because I say 
 it ; but it is true, and you know it is true, that you are 
 not a woman of ordinary ability. You have a good edu- 
 cation, and a way that will carry lots of power. Now 
 most girls can do nothing better than work at what they 
 are told, but you should be in a place to direct. I do 
 not know that you could manage a great business, but I 
 am positive as anything that you could do more intelli- 
 gent labour than tend a machine. 
 
 " You have no right to throw yourself away. If we 
 lived in your ideal time of a few hours' work for every- 
 body, it would be very well for you to drudge ; but fac- 
 tory work now means nine hours a day for six days in the 
 week, and fifty-two weeks in the year. 
 
 " I have been thinking a great deal about you. Why 
 don't you take up teaching ? That is good work, and I 
 have heard you say often that both the teachers and 
 methods are very bad. Why don't you go in for making 
 them better ? It is an important question, teaching the 
 children. I feel it more and more, when I think of my 
 own. What a burden would be lifted from my shoulders 
 if I knew that I was putting them into such hands as 
 yours instead of the women that I see ! Here, at least, if 
 you crowd some poor worker out, you may know that you 
 put in a better. 
 
 " The hot weather here is terrible. The children send 
 
 you their love. , _ . , 
 
 J " From yours sincerely, 
 
 "John Wade." 
 
166 Differences 
 
 " My dear Mr. Wade, — Always you are helping me. 
 Always you are the wise counsellor who does not oppose, 
 but skilfully directs my action. Your letters have been 
 so different of late, — such vigorous, helpful letters. 
 
 " You have opened a fruitful field to me with your sug- 
 gestion about teaching. Perhaps I was mistaken about 
 the factory work. Perhaps I was something wrong in my 
 eagerness, and overlooked real differences between my- 
 self and the factory girls in trying to demolish the false 
 differences. It will avoid great opposition, too, from my 
 family, which, when I come to think soberly of it, I see 
 should have weighty consideration. I think now that my 
 plan is fully formed, and I am sure that you will approve 
 of it. 
 
 " I shall begin by learning sloyd and manual training, 
 with the avowed intention of teaching. My plea for this 
 will be the need of reform in educational matters, and my 
 own desire to advance it. I shall tell my friends of my 
 conviction that every woman should earn her own living ; 
 but, since I am going into work that is recognised as 
 more ladylike, I shall not be considered quite hopeless. 
 I have talked already with you about my belief in manual 
 training in the public schools of cities, and you know that 
 I shall undertake this work conscientiously. It seems 
 strange to me now that I had not thought of it before. 
 
 " I have had such a struggle this summer. I feel full 
 ten years older, and only six weeks are gone ; and no one 
 has known anything about it. 
 
 " To-morrow the guests begin to come, my father and 
 mother and brother and sister along with the rest. And 
 I shall be merry and light-hearted with them, and shall 
 tell them quietly of my plans for the winter. In six 
 weeks more I shall return to smoking Chicago, and then 
 shall see you again ; and, please, we will go on as be- 
 fore, as if I had not been confidential. 
 
Differences 167 
 
 "I have been so taken up with myself, and have 
 dragged you along with me, that we have left off all talk 
 about the children and about Miss Carr and everybody 
 and everything. Suppose you write me once more, if you 
 are not too weary of writing, and tell me about them all 
 and about yourself. 
 
 " I, too, will write you if I can, and give you some ac- 
 count of our guests. 
 
 " Ever most gratefully yours, 
 
 " Genevieve Radcliffe." 
 
XXI. 
 
 THE meeting when Genevieve had returned to the 
 city was ordinary and commonplace enough. 
 Each of them was a little disappointed in the 
 other. She was only a lady as he looked at her, and he 
 was but a workingman to her. There were doubtless 
 hundreds of others. So extravagant are the dreams of 
 the absent. 
 
 Miss Radcliffe was overseeing the establishment of her 
 trunks in Settlement House, and John Wade came in 
 for the children. She was standing in the institutional 
 hall, but back in the shadow, so that he did not see her 
 till he was half-way up the stairs. 
 
 " How do you do, Mr. Wade ? " she called to him. His 
 heart seemed to stop for an instant, then to begin 
 violently beating again, sending the blood to his head 
 till he was dizzy and almost gasping. His face was a 
 flame of colour ; but, when he turned awkwardly and 
 came down to where she could see him, he was quite as 
 natural as usual, possibly a little more clumsy. 
 
 Genevieve held out her hand. " I am just in the 
 midst of my moving," she said. " I was going to inquire 
 for you as soon as I was settled." 
 
 " I was coming for the children," he replied. " I am 
 just away from the factory." 
 
 She asked about the children ; and he was telling her 
 something about them, when the expressman called her to 
 see about the trunks. When she came down again, the 
 children were ready for the street. They were just on 
 the point of departure. Baby Joe shouted at once on 
 seeing her, and ran to be taken into her arms. She lifted 
 him up with a jump, and planted a kiss on his lips. 
 What father would not have been pleased ? Angeline was 
 
Differences 169 
 
 more timid than her brother, and needed a little wheed- 
 ling. 
 
 " How thin she is, and how pale ! " said Genevieve, with 
 a pang of self-reproach. " She does not look well, Mr. 
 Wade." 
 
 "The weather has been something terrible," replied 
 John, shifting his position. " The heat was so great in 
 that little box house that we could not endure to go inside 
 sometimes, maybe all night. The afternoon sun seemed 
 to reflect back from the iron sides of that big elevator." 
 
 " Did you sleep out of doors ? " asked Genevieve. 
 
 " We had to, in order to breathe. I suppose that gas 
 and the smell from the river are not very good things to 
 sleep in. We've got to get out of that place. By spring 
 I will have all of my debts paid if I keep work, and I 
 can't stand that hole another summer." 
 
 " She ought to have a week in the country," said Miss 
 Radcliffe, thinking how she might arrange it. 
 
 " She would cry her eyes out if she was away from me 
 for the night. I believe she would be worse off than 
 here." 
 
 At the very mention of being sent away from her 
 father, Angeline crept close behind him, and slipped her 
 hand into his own. 
 
 Genevieve saw how impossible it was, and did not urge 
 her plan further. 
 
 "Well, I will try to see you again soon, maybe to- 
 morrow," she said. " Just now I suppose you are hungry 
 for supper. How has Mrs. McLennan stood the sum- 
 mer ? " 
 
 " Very well, only a little cranky," said John Wade. 
 " Perhaps you and Hester will come over and see us, 
 when she gets back. She went for two weeks to Kanka- 
 kee. She will be coming back now in a few days." 
 
170 Differences 
 
 " I am sure we can come, but I will try to ,see you even 
 before then. I want to talk with you about the children. 
 Perhaps you can come here for some evening." 
 
 John Wade promised. He seemed relieved to find that 
 she was not coming to see him alone, as had formerly 
 been the custom. There was something sullen in his 
 manner to-night : he felt it, and hated himself for it. Nor 
 did Genevieve quite understand. But she said good- 
 night, and was busy with other things. 
 
 In fact, her time was so occupied with getting estab- 
 lished for the year, in making her arrangements for 
 lessons at the training school, and in puzzling over theories 
 of education, that there was little left during the first days 
 to be given to people at all. Moreover, there were her 
 last year's duties to remember, and to put into the hands 
 of another. Poor Miss Crawford was left bemoaning her 
 fate that she must go on with investigating, relieving, and 
 advising. She begged that Genevieve would help just 
 a little, would take charge of a few easy cases. But the 
 new convert was always firm to her conversion. No, she 
 would have no more of doling charity now. Let those 
 who did not work for their living turn in and help, if 
 their consciences pricked them. When the four days were 
 up, Hester Carr came back into the house with the 
 breeziness of a country whirlwind. The police officer, 
 Mr. Nugent, was as merry as a piper. Everywhere were 
 whistling, laughter, and jokes. Everybody was glad to 
 see Miss Hester. One would think she had been gone 
 for the summer. That was Thursday. On the next 
 evening Hester came up to Genevieve with a business- 
 like air that meant decision. 
 
 " Let us go and see our friend John Wade," she said. 
 " Of late I think he has been getting lonesome." 
 
 The visit was one that Genevieve herself had been try- 
 
Differences 171 
 
 ing to propose, but had felt a bit timid about doing so. 
 She hardly knew why it should be so, unless she was im- 
 pressed by Miss Carr. 
 
 They found him sitting on the step, looking at the great 
 elevator. 
 
 " Why don't you turn your face the other way ? There 
 is still some light in the sunset," laughed Hester, after 
 their greeting. 
 
 " The light is fading," he replied, " and the darkness 
 is coming from the east. That old elevator looms up there 
 like some huge goblin. Sometimes I think it represents 
 fate, it is always so grim and immovable." 
 
 Genevieve could see that his thoughts and his manner 
 of speaking had changed in the three months she had been 
 absent. It was due to the companionship of Hester Carr. 
 
 Nothing was said by the two. He was getting chairs 
 for the ladies ; but Hester refused hers as usual, and sat 
 beside him on the step. He liked the acknowledgment 
 before Miss Radcliff e, but he did not show that he liked it. 
 
 " I was thinking of Angeline when you came," he 
 resumed after puffing at his pipe. " She isn't quite 
 healthy, I'm afraid." 
 
 " Couldn't you get a week off at the factory, and take 
 her into the country ? " asked Genevieve. 
 
 " I daren't ask," he answered, as if he had already con- 
 sidered. " They would never take me back, I'm afraid. 
 There is talk now of shutting down some of the machines, 
 and I should be among the first to go anyway then, for 
 the other men are old in the employ of the company, and 
 the rule is to keep the oldest men last." 
 
 " Let's arrange a day in the country for Sunday," said 
 Hester, impulsively, " with Mrs. McLennan and everybody. 
 We will go to Glencoe. That is a beautiful place, just 
 real fields and pastures and woods. We'll take dinner 
 
172 Differences 
 
 and supper, too, if you like, and books, and everything, 
 and have a regular family picnic." 
 
 There was something taking in the proposal ; and they 
 agreed upon it, and began discussing the preparations. 
 At first Genevieve thought that she ought not to go, as it 
 was the custom to go home for Sunday ; but she argued 
 that she had just been six weeks with her parents, and she 
 could easily write them. Besides, Hester Carr's enthusi- 
 asm of anticipation was something very hard to withstand. 
 They went in to secure the good will of Mrs. McLennan, 
 and made announcements to the dancing children. The 
 old Scotchwoman grumblingly consented to go, after bring- 
 ing up all the objections she could think of, such as 
 rheumatism, no shoes suitable for the country, no bonnet 
 good enough for Sunday, not time to get the dinner ready, 
 and various other half-mentioned obstructious. But each 
 time Hester would have her own way. Take a bottle of 
 liniment along for the rheumatism, sew up the old shoes 
 that she had. Even now the brilliant young lady was pre- 
 paring a needle and thread, and going at the shoes with 
 her own hands. 
 
 " Come, Genevieve, can't you fix up that bonnet ? All 
 it needs is to wash the ribbon in cold coffee. Have you 
 got any cold coffee, John ? Now what shall we have for 
 our dinner ? " 
 
 " Hester is a great one for having her own way," 
 laughed John Wade, walking about with the baby under 
 one arm. 
 
 Later in the evening, when the children had been put to 
 bed, they went again into the garden. The stench that 
 rose from the river, mingled with the coal gas and fumes 
 from the factories, made the night heavy and oppressive. 
 
 " How horrible it is ! " said Genevieve, shuddering with 
 the contact. 
 
Differences 173 
 
 " Oh, it's roses and violets compared with what it was 
 in the summer," laughed John Wade. " It was all this 
 warmed up to boiling-point when the heat rolled out 
 from that old iron block of an elevator." 
 
 " You should have moved from this place in the spring. 
 I had no idea it was like this." 
 
 " I couldn't move very well. I hadn't the money to do 
 it. Besides, the landlord here has trusted me and done 
 me many a favour ; and he needs some one here who will 
 look after his property. If this house was once deserted, 
 the boys would find it out in a week ; and it wouldn't be 
 fit to stable horses in after they had been at it a few 
 times." 
 
 " It's hardly that now, I should say," said Hester, drily. 
 
 " Oh, it's not such a bad house for the money ; and I 
 like to be a little secluded. Any other place, I should 
 have to live with some one else in the house ; and I never 
 can abide that, — old women always quarrelling and med- 
 dling." 
 
 " Then the children do not come under the influence of 
 the alley children," added Genevieve. 
 
 " Still, I'm going to move in the spring. I'm going to 
 move, sure, if I'm working. But what is the use to look 
 ahead ? I may be fired any Saturday. I'm getting so 
 that I hate to go up for my money any more, glad as I 
 am to get it. It always seems as if the superintendent is 
 going to say : ' I guess you needn't come any more, John : 
 I'm sorry, but we've got to turn some off.' He's a nice 
 man is the superintendent." 
 
 " I'll speak to him myself, and see that you are not dis- 
 charged," said Genevieve. " Why should you be if you 
 have given satisfaction ? " 
 
 " No, no : you must not do that. I should be ashamed 
 to look anybody there in the face if I knew I was staying 
 
174 Differences 
 
 in on a pull. If they shut down some of the machines 
 and turn off a number of men, it's right that the new 
 man should be the first to go. That's expected, and it's 
 what all the men expect. No, it was humiliating enough 
 to accept a place that was made for me ; but, now that I've 
 worked up and got acquainted there, I could never stay 
 on when the old hands were going. I'd rather starve 
 first. I'd rather go back to what I was last winter." 
 
 " You'll never do that while I have any money," said 
 Genevieve, warmly. 
 
 Hester Carr blazed out like a bonfire. 
 
 " What cursed civilization is this ! What hell-like con- 
 ditions of labour, when the men who are most willing and 
 capable are forced to be fed by the idle ! " 
 
 " Miss Radcliffe is not the idle," said John Wade, in- 
 dignantly. " She is going to earn her own living." 
 
 " But the money I should take to help you with would 
 not be the product of my labour nor even of my self- 
 denial." 
 
 "Well, what's the use of arguing? It never gets us 
 anywhere," said John Wade, striking a match and hold- 
 ing the flame to his pipe. It was very beautiful to watch 
 the reddening flicker play with the shadows on his peace- 
 ful face. Hester Carr was soothed into mildness. Her 
 artist nature was more impressible to such things than 
 Genevieve's, though the latter did not care to speak 
 further. 
 
 " Let us go home praying for a fine day on Sunday," 
 said Hester, after a pause. " I want to see Angeline out 
 in the fresh air. She was thin and weak to-night. I 
 noticed it when I undressed her. How thankful we are 
 for the cool weather 1 Of course, she will be better now." 
 
 John Wade caught at the encouragement. " Yes, yes. 
 The frost will be a good thing for Goose Island." 
 
Differences 175 
 
 " Don't you want to see the convenient bath-house he 
 has made ? " said Hester, turning to Miss Radcliffe. 
 " John, get the lamp, so that Genevieve can see better." 
 
 He went in, pleased that they should be interested, and 
 returned, shielding the light with his hand. The place 
 was neat and fresh. He showed them all the improve- 
 ments, the trough and the lines for the towels. " I have 
 bought a little stove now for winter. I got a cheap 
 little one for a dollar. It has no legs. You shall see it. 
 It is just back of the kitchen. I was waiting till Sunday 
 to clean it, but I can easily put it off another week. I 
 will set it on bricks for legs ; it will do me for that very 
 well. Then in the winter I can dry all my clothes in the 
 bath-house. It won't cost much for the coal. Hester, 
 here, says only heathen dry their washing in the kitchen. 
 Whether she's right or wrong, she always gets her own 
 way." 
 
 They were quite merry on parting. John accompanied 
 them within two blocks of the house. 
 
 " On Sunday at nine o'clock, and don't you fail for a 
 minute," called Hester back to him as he was going. 
 
 He laughed a response, and they turned out of sight at 
 the corner. 
 
XXII. 
 
 ON Sunday morning Miss Carr came down to 
 breakfast with doleful looks. " A messenger has 
 just come from the Kendall Street Church choir- 
 master," she explained to Genevieve, " saying that I am 
 to play there this morning. I promised him day before 
 yesterday that I would hold myself in readiness for any 
 Sunday ; but I had no idea that he would call on me for 
 the first." 
 
 " Can't you send word that you have a previously made 
 engagement ? " said Genevieve. 
 
 " I don't dare to do that. They might not send for me 
 again. Besides, if I go, it means three dollars in my 
 pocket ; and I am poor, and can't well lose three dollars.'" 
 
 " We shall have to put off the picnic till another Sun- 
 day." 
 
 " No, you must never do that. That child must have 
 the fresh air. Besides, who knows what the weather may 
 be in a week? We often have rains in the fall. No, 
 you must go without me. It will be an excuse for going 
 again, when I can go." 
 
 Genevieve was forced to consent, though she felt some 
 hesitation about undertaking the day all alone. 
 
 " Perhaps Bettine can go with me," she said, " or Miss 
 Morton, the new resident." But both of these had 
 engagements, and she was half-relieved that they had. 
 
 Promptly at nine o'clock John Wade and the children 
 appeared, arrayed in their holiday attire. He had pur- 
 chased a white shirt for the occasion, and his cheap 
 clothes were brushed to the very limit of perfection. He 
 looked somewhat awkward and self-conscious. There 
 was a suggestion of the disagreeableness of the lower 
 class man that never appeared when he was dressed in 
 his work-clothes. 
 
Differences 177 
 
 " If there was time," said Hester, " I'd send you back 
 to put on a comfortable shirt. The idea of a working- 
 man's boxing himself up in that ugly thing, and that 
 when he's going to the country 1 " 
 
 " Would you have me go out in my working clothes, 
 then?" 
 
 " Why, yes. If they are better looking than any others 
 you can get, I should. Why, you'll be coming out in 
 pointed shoes next, and a stiff hat." 
 
 " No, I don't like a stiff hat. I always wear this kind," 
 he said seriously. 
 
 " But where is Mrs. McLennan ? " asked Genevieve, in 
 dismay. 
 
 " I was going to tell you when Hester, here, began to 
 exclaim about the white shirt," said John. " The old 
 lady backed out the last minute. Said that her rheuma- 
 tism was worse, and that she was sure it would rain before 
 night. She felt the rain in her bones. That's Scotch. 
 Once they get an idea, there is no moving them out of it." 
 
 " Perhaps it's only feminine, and no more Scotch than 
 English," laughed Hester, amused at the situation. She 
 was more merry, indeed, than the occasion would seem to 
 warrant. 
 
 " Well, she was fussing all yesterday with the basket," 
 said John Wade, " and no doubt did overdo a little. I 
 suppose she is pretty old for a long day out in the country. 
 Lord knows what ain't in that basket I " 
 
 " Now don't stand here talking and miss the train," 
 said Hester. 
 
 " I'm not the one who is standing. Why ever don't 
 you get your hat? Miss Radcliffe has everything all 
 ready." 
 
 " Oh, I can't go. Just got word that I've got to play in 
 the church. I told you, you know, that I had promised 
 to go when they asked me." 
 
178 Differences 
 
 " Then we may as well go back home," said John, 
 turning about disappointed. 
 
 Angeline began to drop the corners of her mouth. She 
 had been so looking forward to the country. 
 
 " No, we must go alone," said Genevieve, decidedly. 
 " After all, we are doing it for the children ; and I have 
 some books in the basket to read. We will go again the 
 first Sunday that Miss Carr can get off." 
 
 " I don't have the money to go off on a picnic every 
 Sunday. It's all I can do to make both ends meet by 
 staying at home," said John. 
 
 " Oh, well, I will lend you a half-dollar," said Hester. 
 "I'll get six of them for playing at this church. Go on 
 now, and don't stand to argue." She almost pushed them 
 out into the street. 
 
 The excitement of catching a car, the disposal of the 
 baskets and the children, the regrets that Hester could 
 not come, and the wondering if they would be in plenty 
 of time for their train took away all thoughts of embar- 
 rassment that they should be setting out to spend the day 
 alone. There was a turbulent undercurrent of exultation 
 in the feelings of John Wade, as he saw Miss Radcliffe 
 sitting on the other side of Angeline in the car, and 
 thought of the long day before them ; but his face was as 
 calm as usual, and he talked only of the ordinary things. 
 
 They had not long to wait at the station, but soon were 
 bowling along through the black city with thoughts on the 
 green country beyond. How the children seemed to 
 enjoy it, as they looked from the windows I There were 
 the river and the ships just as they saw every day, 
 only now they were flying along on the train. Then 
 came the thinner air of the suburbs, and flowers, and 
 grass about the houses. Finally, they were in the real 
 openness of the country. The trees were rich with 
 
Differences 179 
 
 autumn colours, and the sky was blue and far above them. 
 Father and children alike were transformed at the sight 
 of it ; and when they stepped off the train at the little 
 country station, Glencoe, they walked as in an exhilarat- 
 ing intoxication. 
 
 With the children, indeed, the walking was a veritable 
 dancing. They shouted and rolled and gambolled. Here 
 was grass 1 They filled their hands with it. Flowers I 
 and they tugged at the mullein stalks and burdock. Birds, 
 too, and bright leaves fluttering like butterflies I And 
 look 1 there was a gay little squirrel. Maybe they would 
 find the nuts he was after. Eagerly on through the half- 
 wooded pastures they walked, looking for a quiet place to 
 stop, wondering at everything they saw, most of all de- 
 lighting in the hills. At length they were satisfied with 
 a place, and began arranging the baskets and wraps. The 
 children dashed off for more flowers, coming back each 
 moment to tell of some new wonderful discovery. Wade 
 began telling of the days of his boyhood, when he had 
 gone out with his chums for a Sunday in the dear English 
 country. 
 
 He took off his coat and his hat, and very soon pulled 
 off the stiff standing collar. . 
 
 " After all, Hester was right," he said apologetically. 
 " A workingman has no right to dress up." He took a 
 black kerchief from his pocket, and tied it around his 
 throat instead. Once more he was picturesque and fit- 
 ting. His pipe, too, came out of his pocket; and the 
 fragrant smoke rose in the air. How happy he was, and 
 how handsome, his sturdy figure gracefully reposing on 
 the ground, his head lifted up with hand and elbow I 
 Genevieve, too, was happy with him. There was nothing 
 unnatural in their situation now: there was no social 
 barrier between them. They were two good friends, he 
 
180 Differences 
 
 and she. He had given her as much as she him : he 
 was strong, and she beautiful and sympathetic. She told 
 him of her life the past summer, of the things she had 
 known in her childhood. It was a peaceful, happy grow- 
 ing together ; and always they came back to the children. 
 
 Then at noon there was the simplicity of the dinner. 
 Almost they seemed to have gone back to primitive 
 times : the man went off to get water, and the woman 
 began preparing the food. When he came back, he 
 threw himself down on the grass and related the inci- 
 dents of the chase as she busied herself with arranging 
 the table. He told of the dog he had had to encounter, 
 and of the farmer's wife who had scolded and thrown 
 stones at the dog. 
 
 " She came near hitting me once with a chip," he said, 
 laughing ; " and all the time we talked the dog kept bark- 
 ing and growling." 
 
 Then Genevieve began serving the food so sweetly in 
 the woman's place and manner. She helped the children 
 each to what was most pleasing, and was desirous that the 
 man should be favoured. What matter if the smallest part 
 were left to her ? But he would not listen at all, and she 
 was forced to share the best, in order to please him. The 
 eating was long delayed, and the children skipped away 
 in the midst of it. There was quiet reminiscence, still, 
 at times, and long pauses of looking at the woods and the 
 sky. 
 
 When at length it was over, she arose and put, the 
 things back again into the basket. He did not offer to 
 help, but lighted his pipe, and sat smoking and watching. 
 He could see that she liked him to do so. There was 
 a new sweetness of service that Genevieve never experi- 
 enced before. To-morrow this man would be working: 
 all the year he was labouring for others. Why should he 
 not rest now while she, womanlike, waited upon him? 
 
Differences 181 
 
 When all was cleared up neatly and in order, she took 
 a magazine, and wandered off for a walk by herself. Part 
 of a day in the country, never to be overlooked by any one, 
 is to take a walk in the woods all alone with nothing but 
 the things God has put there, — the crickets chirping, the 
 eddying of falling leaves, sticks cracking under the feet, 
 the sadness for the summer that is past, the yellow ripe- 
 ness of the sunshine. 
 
 Meanwhile the man John Wade was left to his pipe and 
 his dreams. Shall we be able to forgive him if the dreams 
 were not of heroism and ambition ? Who has known the 
 sweetness of the rest that comes after six days of labour ? 
 To have finished a good dinner that the woman one loves 
 has prepared for him ; to lounge on the freshness of wild 
 grass, with the fall sunshine yellow and caressing ; to in- 
 hale the soothing fragrance of tobacco, and watch his 
 children playing about him. John Wade was not a hero. 
 He accepted his life, and was thankful. He thought some- 
 times of the Indians who used to inhabit these glades. 
 How happy and natural they must have been without any 
 great folk and any masses 1 Just to meet a young maid 
 and to love her, to have her love him in return, to be 
 married and have children, together with the comfort and 
 peace of the household. Genevieve Radcliffe had some- 
 thing of the Indian in her face. It had never occurred to 
 him before, but he now likened it to the pictures he had 
 seen. The straight black hair, black eyes, and high 
 cheek-bones ; then a certain severe strength in the feat- 
 ures that was not concealed by the bloom of youth. Her 
 voice, too, was liquid, mellow, and sweet, as if learned in 
 the wild school of nature. Running brooks had that 
 sound, the wind and the fall rain encouraged it. Birds 
 and beast of the field would recognize and not be startled 
 hearing it. Beautiful Genevieve Radcliffe ! 
 
182 Differences 
 
 To-day she was dressed in a soft gray cloth, that was 
 fitting, yet free in its motion. She had moved about with 
 springing, elastic step, waiting on him and his children. 
 Her hat was off, and hanging on the branch of a tree. 
 Some coloured leaves were in the loose bands of her hair. 
 The bands were loosened from leaning against the rough 
 bark of a tree trunk : they rested negligently on the won- 
 derful curve of her neck. Her eyes, they were shining 
 like stars I Beautiful Genevieve Radcliffe I Happy John 
 Wade in his dreams 1 
 
 Rollicking baby Joe came to rest in the arms of his 
 father. Angeline, too, was tired, and came to lay her 
 head on his lap. With his coat he made a comfortable 
 bed for her, the garment serving for mattress and cover. 
 Her tangled golden hair floated over the coarse cloth of 
 his knee in fine-spun silken threads. She was sleeping 
 languidly in a few moments, long before the boy was 
 through laughing. In time, however, the boy as well 
 succumbed, and lay in healthy sleep on his father's soft 
 breathing body. The strong, warm arms folded over him : 
 the pulsing heart sang him lullaby to sleep. From his 
 chubby, mischievous face Wade looked down to the paler, 
 more beautiful face of Angeline. How frail and pallid it 
 was growing I Suddenly a great fear struck his heart, 
 coming like a cold wind. Even the sleeping boy seemed 
 to notice it. Why should the singing heart stop ? Then 
 it continued again, but the chill was not lifted from the 
 father: it became more and more real in his conscious- 
 ness. " What if Angeline should die ? " it said ; and it 
 would not loose its grip on the laboured beating heart. 
 
 After the first fright was over, when he had reassured 
 himself again and again, by touching her, by reasoning 
 that it was only the effects of the hot summer, John Wade 
 returned to his dreams. 
 
Differences 183 
 
 As he looked at the sleeping child, he was glad that he 
 had not been unkind to the mother. He knew that he 
 might have been kinder, and yet it was nature for a man 
 to be mean. He was probably not worse than other men. 
 There was regret, but no pangs of remorse. The mother 
 had loved the children, though not with his deep 
 animal affection. Hers had been more the love of a 
 monitor. She had striven to see them dutifully brought 
 up. The father had often been chidden for being as free 
 from morals as the babies : he seemed to get their point 
 of view. She was a true mother, however, and had the 
 mother's strong love of possession. 
 
 The dreams went noddingly on till John Wade himself 
 was asleep. He was awakened by the kicking of the 
 baby. There was the feeling that he had been sleeping 
 some time. He found that a light soft shawl had been 
 thrown over him and the children. Miss Radcliffe was 
 sitting under a tree a little way off, engaged in reading 
 a story. 
 
 Hearing them stir, she looked up, and laughingly took 
 out her watch. 
 
 "You have been sleeping an hour since I came," she 
 said. " Did you begin immediately after dinner ? " 
 
 John Wade was in no way confused. " I always have 
 a nap after Sunday dinner," he said : " it is the best part 
 of the Sunday." 
 
 The children had already awakened, and soon began 
 again with their play. Angeline seemed hearty and well. 
 There was only a suggestion of the chill remaining with 
 the father. 
 
 " Suppose we go toward the lake," said Genevieve, " if 
 you think the children can stand the walk. I should like 
 them to look at the lake : it is the very best part of the 
 country." 
 
184 Differences 
 
 " Oh, I can carry them if they are tired. I can carry 
 one at a time." 
 
 " Then I will carry the basket," she said, rising and 
 putting on her hat. " We will have supper down on the 
 shore, and maybe we can find wood for a fire. We will 
 get home in good time if we catch the eight-thirty train. 
 The children will be bright after their sleep." 
 
 They sauntered along under the quiet trees, watching 
 the children's play, often stopping to look at their dis- 
 coveries. The last was the wide blue of the lake, and 
 they all hurried eagerly toward it. John Wade lifted the 
 baby in his arms ; and Angeline walked between him and 
 Miss Radcliffe, holding a hand of each. 
 
 As they crossed the drive where the carriages and bi- 
 cycles were rolling, it suddenly occurred to Genevieve, 
 " And what if some of my acquaintances should see me ? " 
 Her face burned red at the thought, but they did not en- 
 counter any one. In some way Wade seemed to know 
 what she was thinking, and wished to screen her as well. 
 He was glad now of his white shirt and stiff collar : per- 
 haps the people would not notice. They walked steadily 
 along until they came to the high bluff of the bank. Then 
 they sat down for a time ; but, as people were occasionally 
 strolling near them and no one was now on the sand, they 
 yielded to the demands of the children, and descended the 
 bank to the water. 
 
 As the sun was getting low, the majority of the people 
 were going home. On the sand they were quite unin- 
 terrupted. They watched the waves for a time where the 
 clear tints were deepening in the shadow. Miss Rad- 
 cliffe tried to teach the children how to make a fort in 
 the sand ; but baby Joe thought they were piling up heaps 
 for him to walk through, and insisted on demolishing 
 them all. The father collected some bits of driftwood, 
 
Differences 185 
 
 and lighted a tiny fire. Then they opened the basket for 
 supper. 
 
 The wind had entirely died down; and the smooth 
 waves slipped mysteriously in, whispering of the darkness 
 in the east. What a feeling of seclusion an open fire 
 gives, even in the wildness of the desert. The wall of 
 dark gathers closely around it. The flames are cheery 
 or the smoke is sullen. There are all of the whims of 
 a child in the flickering. Our little family was drawn 
 even closer into the magic of its circle. They put apples 
 on sticks, and set them to roast in the heat. The chil- 
 dren played about at housekeeping. Overhead was the 
 peace of the stars. 
 
 " It has been a long, beautiful day," said Genevieve, 
 after a silence. " I have not known a happier this sum- 
 mer." 
 
 " You have surely known many where you had better 
 company than to-day. I am not much of a talker." 
 
 " I think one does not care much about talk, especially 
 after becoming acquainted. We only keep up conversa- 
 tion with strangers." 
 
 " It strikes me about that way, too," said Wade, with 
 the gentleness of one who is musing. 
 
 " I trust the air will do Angeline good." 
 
 " Do you think that she looks ill to-day ? Don't you 
 see an improvement since Friday ? " There was such 
 a tone of pleading in his voice. 
 
 " She certainly has seemed very well to-day. I am 
 glad that the night is so balmy." 
 
 '' I was scared for a minute to-day," he said hurriedly, 
 lowering his voice. " Her face looked so wan when she 
 was sleeping." 
 
 " You must not be scared," she said comfortingly. 
 The baldness of the world made him near to her. 
 
186 Differences 
 
 They were standing, looking out upon the water. 
 
 " If she is not better on Monday, I will take her to our 
 family physician," she said. 
 
 " I don't know how I can ever repay you for all you 
 have done for me," he began, with a tenderness controlled 
 in his voice. 
 
 She turned to him, and put out both hands. Uncon- 
 sciously, his own came up and clasped them. His hands 
 were hardened with working. 
 
 " You have helped me, too," she said, simply ; " and 
 you will help me in the time that is to come." 
 
 He wished that he might die there for her where he 
 stood, only he did not say this. Indeed, there was some- 
 thing of uneasiness in his hands that caused hers to 
 release their pressure in significance that he was to drop 
 them. 
 
 " It is time for us to be going," she said. " There is 
 quite a walk to the station." 
 
 Their talk was of personal things on the way home, of 
 their work and their plans for the winter. Genevieve 
 told about her work at the training school, and described 
 all the things she had seen and the people she had met. 
 John told her of the summer that was past, of the read- 
 ings with Hester Carr, and of his talk with the men in 
 the factory. 
 
 It was but a little time till they said good-night at the 
 gate of Settlement House. John would have gone in to 
 tell Hester of the day, but the children were tired and 
 sleepy. 
 
 He was tired as well, more than if he had done a day's 
 work. This jaunting about was so different from what he 
 was accustomed to. But he did not get to sleep till after 
 midnight. 
 
XXIII. 
 
 HESTER CARR must have been of elastic nature. 
 There was no doubt that she had been antici- 
 pating the little picnic with a great deal of eager- 
 ness and pleasure ; but, now that she had ushered out John 
 Wade and Genevieve Radcliffe to spend the day without 
 her, it seemed that to remain at home could have been her 
 only desire. She went flying about the house in her most 
 animated and lively fashion, making herself ready for 
 church and singing like a wren in the springtime. 
 
 She was home again in time for the one o'clock dinner. 
 There was the warmth of the three dollars earned still to 
 be felt in her pocket. She put her hand in to feel of 
 them at times. There were such hopes of more dollars 
 along with them. 
 
 She had dreams of Germany now. Who should say 
 she might not go in the spring ? "I will get one of 
 Genevieve's books and read about Europe," she said; 
 " and I will not go out visiting at all to-day, nor think of 
 a soul in Chicago." 
 
 The day was well suited for reading. All of the resi- 
 dents had gone out for the fine air, the boys of the street 
 were far away in some sport, autumnal quiet had settled 
 down over the house and the neighbourhood. Hester 
 found the guide-books she wanted, and, taking the 
 Baedekers in her arms, brought them down to the sitting- 
 room and began the planning of her journey. 
 
 She was almost deciding upon a certain neighbourhood 
 in the city of Berlin for a dwelling-place, when the door- 
 bell rang in the hall. " Nobody in but me, and I 
 promised Mrs. Purcell that I would keep house. Now 
 what if it should be some stupid ! " 
 
 " She has gone out for the day," she heard the girl 
 
188 Differences 
 
 Sadie answer from the hall ; and then it was Mr. Neville's 
 voice : " Do you know what time she will return this 
 evening ? " 
 
 " I'll just run up and ask Miss Carr," said Sadie. " I 
 think she will be able " — 
 
 " Oh, if Miss Carr is in the sitting-room, I may as well 
 speak to her myself. I shall have a message, perhaps." 
 
 Hester could hear him leaving his stick in the hall. 
 She could hardly have been a woman, had she not looked 
 in the mirrour. She was dressed still in her church cos- 
 tume : she had made it for daylight performances. It was 
 only a simple gown of thin black stuff that fell in fine 
 gathered folds, almost severe in its surplice-like simplicity ; 
 a dainty white muslin ruffle at the throat, with others to 
 finish the sleeves that were shirred in close at the wrist. 
 
 But out of this sombreness of colour her blond head 
 rose like a flower. Indeed, since coming home, she had 
 taken a huge yellow chrysanthemum from the table and 
 fastened it carelessly in her belt ; and, it being the only bit 
 of colour about her, the eye was at once drawn by the 
 glow, and the idea called up to the looker, " How very 
 like the queenly chrysanthemum her beautiful, flowerlike 
 head poises there ! " 
 
 In truth, her short yellow hair that was not curling, and 
 yet had none of the effect of straightness, combed lightly 
 as it was from the crown, — this flaky, fine-spun yellow hair 
 had something very suggestive of the chrysanthemum 
 petals ; and her neck was the delicate stem which they 
 turned to. 
 
 Neville was impressed by the likeness immediately on 
 entering. He thought of a design for a cover of the 
 Dilettante. 
 
 " I am informed by the menial that Miss Radcliffe is 
 out," he laughed, bowing. " It was a similar message 
 
Differences 189 
 
 that I received at her home, the family being out as well, 
 I believe, sitting at some tedious dinner." 
 
 " Genevieve is off for a picnic," said Miss Carr, gra- 
 ciously. There was something very personal in her 
 smile when she chose. " She will not be home till nine 
 o'clock in the evening. She is giving some poor children 
 the air." 
 
 " Oh, Genevieve will be getting poky with enthusiasm 
 over her missions. Now don't you regard an enthusiast 
 as the most poky person in the world ? " 
 
 Hester laughed gayly, and offered Neville a chair. It 
 was a deep chair, and showed off his elegance to advan- 
 tage. 
 
 " Now I wonder more and more at you, Miss Carr," 
 he went on. " I can't understand why you should choose 
 these surroundings. With Genevieve, who has a con- 
 science, it is intelligible; but you, who are an artist, 
 and "— 
 
 "Have no conscience at all." It was Hester who 
 finished the sentence. 
 
 " And why not ? " pursued Maynard Neville, boldly. 
 " To an artist, beauty alone should be good. There should 
 be no conscience except the aesthetic." 
 
 " If that were the only criterion, then I should surely 
 stand for an artist. For I do assure you," she said seri- 
 ously, " that I have no conscience whatever." 
 
 "I can readily believe it," he replied, laughing; but, 
 in truth, he was somewhat taken back, there had been 
 such a ring of sincerity in her tone. 
 
 " On that basis we are ready to become acquainted,'' 
 she said lightly. She had no more concern in the matter. 
 
 " But what about my conscience ? " he resumed, to keep 
 up the banter. " Do you not demand a confession from 
 me?" 
 
190 Differences 
 
 " Oh, I need none there," she replied. " It was my 
 first judgment on seeing you last winter." 
 
 " How deucedly agreeable she can be 1 " he thought, 
 pleased, as most men are, to be considered a little 
 wicked. 
 
 " I see that we understand one another," he laughed, 
 and her bewitching head nodded recklessly. 
 
 " But tell me, then," he pursued, " since beauty is 
 your religion, why are you here in this hideous part of 
 the city ? " 
 
 Hester was inclined to tease rather than answer. 
 " And do you have beauty, then, among the rich where 
 you are living ? It is true I have not been in very many 
 houses, but " — 
 
 "Well, we are an ugly lot, I admit," he interrupted, 
 fearing that he might be forestalled in his favourite role of 
 the cynic ; " but we at least have a longing for the beauti- 
 ful, and we try to appreciate it there." 
 
 He saw that his coveted position was evading him. 
 He had been surprised into defending something by this 
 half-wild girl from Colorado. 
 
 " Are you so sure it is the beautiful that you are striving 
 for ? Or is it only because the beautiful is at present the 
 fashion ? " said Hester, laughingly, in exactly the way he 
 would repeat it when among his fashionable friends. And 
 then she went on : — 
 
 " Do you know what beauty is ? Do you think it is the 
 artificial product that you are putting on your magazine 
 posters ? Let me tell you, then, that beauty is not that at 
 all. Beauty — but I will not try to define it," and she 
 broke down, as if with humility. " It is enough to say 
 that, while beauty is much more than truth, it is required 
 that it always be true. Now truth we have here among 
 these tenants of the slums, — open sincerity and frank- 
 ness ; and you haven't it with your neighbours." 
 
Differences 191 
 
 Neville rose and walked to the window. " Your elo- 
 quence is very good here in this cosey parlour," he said ; 
 " but let us put it to the test of cold facts. Look out on 
 this street, and see if anything could be more ugly." 
 
 She also went to a window, but another one apart from 
 his. There were two on that side of the room. 
 
 " If that same street," she said calmly, " were painted 
 on canvas exactly as it is, and done by a certain French 
 artist that we know, you would hang it in your most 
 treasured place, and rave and write books on its beauty. 
 And justly, too ; for you recognize a true thing, when you 
 are told to. Look at the forlorn sagging of the tumble- 
 down houses, not even the spirit of despair in them ; the 
 diagonal line of the street which stretches away to the 
 horizon. See the blue haze in the distance, how it is 
 chilled into a delicate pearl colour. The smoke cannot 
 entirely kill the light. God is nowhere without his wit- 
 nesses." 
 
 She stopped here, breathless with her own enthusiasm ; 
 and he did not dare interrupt immediately with his frivol- 
 ity. But, after a little pause, he said : — 
 
 " There is one thing, at least, in which you cannot ac- 
 cuse us of being uglier than the slums ; and that is in our 
 lack of perfume. Or do you even revel in this smell, 
 because it is true and not manufactured ? " 
 
 The girl felt that her mood had not touched him, but 
 she was not yet out of her enthusiasm. 
 
 " I am not sure," she said somewhat wearily, " that 
 Millet did not love the smell of sweat and soil when he 
 painted his pictures of the peasants." 
 
 " But you did not mean Millet when you spoke of the 
 artist who could paint this street ? " he said, eager to lead 
 the conversation back to something that he was familiar 
 with ; for, in truth, he had been very much bewildered 
 
192 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 with this art talk that was about things instead of pictures. 
 He had never heard things talked of at the exhibits, and 
 had never come across them in the art criticisms. 
 
 " No, I did not mean Millet, of course. I did not know 
 that he cared for the city." 
 
 Neville began eagerly to tell her whom she did mean, 
 and to discourse cleverly on artists and their work. He 
 had a strong desire to talk well before this girl, a feeling 
 that he had not shone to advantage in the late conversa- 
 tion, and must retrieve himself now on new ground. He 
 did talk well, for he did know a great deal about pictures. 
 
 Hester was inclined to listen with interest. Encouraged 
 by her attention, Neville talked on, forgetting all about 
 the length of his visit. Before he left, he had made 
 several offers to take her to see pictures in Chicago ; and 
 there was one that was a definite appointment. 
 
 " I should have to start from my office at one o'clock," 
 he said, " in order to come up here and get you." 
 
 " But why should you come up here at all ? I can 
 meet you in the lobby as well, and for that matter come 
 home alone. I am quite used to looking out for myself." 
 
 He liked the freedom of this arrangement, and easily 
 agreed to it. 
 
 " She is a deuced fine girl for all her peculiarity," he 
 said to himself as he went down the steps. " I have not 
 enjoyed a talk more this summer. Why, I forgot my 
 message to Genevieve I No matter. I can write it." 
 
XXIV. 
 
 FOR a few weeks after the picnic it seemed to the 
 anxious watchers that Angeline was growing strong 
 again. She was bright and responsive enough, even 
 more so than usual, they thought, and played about in her 
 motherly fashion, keeping house with baby Joe. It was 
 only when evening came on and she would fall into a 
 languid sleep in the very midst of her play that the father 
 was frightened again, and would chill at the thought of 
 her death, as he had when it first came to him out in the 
 woods. He would put her carefully into bed at these 
 times, not even waking her from her stupor, and decide 
 to speak to Miss Radcliffe or Miss Carr the very next 
 day about her. But in the morning she would seem so 
 much brighter again, and Miss Radcliffe had done so 
 much for him already and he hated so to trouble her 
 more, that he would put it off still another day in the 
 hope that it would not seem needed. He did not know 
 that Angeline was taking long naps as well in the after- 
 noon. The nurse did not think about mentioning it, 
 since it was the custom of many of the children who were 
 kept up late in the evening. But when the drowsiness 
 came on in the morning as well, and the child seemed 
 heavy with sleep, Mrs. Belden came to be alarmed. 
 
 " I think Angeline sleeps more than is good for her in 
 the daytime, Mr. Wade," she said one evening while 
 John was tying on Joe's hood. " Doesn't she get any 
 sleep at night ? What time do you get her into bed ? " 
 
 His hands fell to his sides. His face was blanched as 
 with cold. 
 
 " Why, she always sleeps like a log the night through," 
 he said breathlessly. " She drops off as soon as I get 
 her home. I don't have time to finish my supper before 
 she's fast asleep." 
 
194 D i f f e rences 
 
 " Well, I don't think it's natural ; and I think you ought 
 to speak to a doctor," said Mrs. Belden. " I will speak 
 to our doctor when he comes in. He will be here day 
 after to-morrow." She turned to other duties of her 
 family, — a poor woman was just asking about her sick 
 baby. 
 
 John Wade went helplessly down the stairs. The 
 report of Mrs. Belden had struck him quite aghast for 
 the moment. 
 
 He sat by the stove a long time that night after the 
 children were in bed and Mrs. McLennan had finished 
 with the work. He did not even think to light up his 
 pipe, though he had filled it and placed it on the stove 
 hearth. It was such a puzzle to study out about the 
 doctor. Mrs. Belden had said that the doctor would 
 come day after to-morrow. He would probably not 
 charge anything. Still, he wondered if he was a good 
 doctor. He wished he could see him himself. He 
 wanted to explain to the doctor how the child really was. 
 If Miss Radcliffe could only advise him. He believed he 
 would write a note, and leave it for her in the morning. 
 On the whole, this seemed the best thing to do. For a 
 long time he sat thinking and puzzling, trying to decide 
 on a way to begin. 
 
 " Miss Radcliffe, — I am getting a little worried about 
 Angeline. As soon as I get her home, she goes into a 
 heavy sleep, and does not wake till I shake her up in the 
 morning. Mrs. Belden says she sleeps in the forenoons 
 and afternoons. I think we ought to see a Doctor. I 
 can pay. I want to see the Doctor myself. Can you 
 think of any way I could arrange it without missing from 
 my work. I have thought a Doctor might go to the 
 nursery, and then I could call on him at night. Do you 
 
Differences 195 
 
 know of a good Doctor to send for ? I don't exactly like 
 the one who attended my wife. Is the regular Doctor 
 who comes to the nursery a good one ? 
 
 " I hope you will excuse me for writing. I was afiaid 
 you might be out again to-morrow evening. I will leave 
 this with Sadie, and you can give an answer to her in case 
 you are going away. 
 
 " Excuse the pencil. 
 
 " From yours respectfully, 
 
 "John Wade." 
 
 Genevieve felt some alarm on receiving the letter next 
 day, and in the afternoon took Angeline with her to visit 
 her own physician. Dr. Brown looked grave when she 
 had recited the circumstances and he had examined the 
 child. 
 
 " She should be breathing the purest country air and 
 have the most nourishing food," he said. 
 
 Genevieve explained that the food was of the best, but 
 that the father could not very well get away with the 
 child, and that she was so attached to him that she would 
 not improve at all if sent among strangers. 
 
 " It is so hard to say," he replied, " what will be the 
 end of this. I do not know that my medicines will be of 
 much use, though I will write you a prescription. If the 
 father wishes to see me, he may call at my house this 
 evening." 
 
 After supper John Wade put on his hat and coat, and 
 walked over to the neighbourhood of the rich. He was 
 shown into the doctor's study, and put on easy conversa- 
 tional terms from the first. It is a way that physicians 
 have, it would seem. It may be only professional polite- 
 ness, but it has doubtless occurred to many that physicians 
 
196 Differences 
 
 are the only democrats in society. With them all classes 
 are one, all people are treated alike. They are simply 
 individuals who are in trouble and have come for help or 
 consolation. 
 
 " Have you any friends in Colorado, Mr. Wade," he 
 asked after some conversation, " or in any of the Western 
 mountain States, who could help you to work, if you went 
 out there ? " 
 
 " No, I'm over here all alone. My brothers and sisters 
 are in England. I have always been in Chicago since I 
 came to America. Do you think my little girl can't get 
 well here ? " he asked timidly, thinking of the impossibility 
 of going so far away. 
 
 " I am not sure," replied the physician, kindly. " If I 
 were sure, I might see that you were able to get away ; but 
 I fear that the evil is done. I very much fear, Mr. Wade, 
 that your child is in a critical condition ; and the outcome 
 must depend on her constitution, and not on what we can 
 do for her." 
 
 " But isn't there something you could give her, some 
 medicine that would strengthen her and build her up ? " 
 asked the man ; for his faith in medicines was strong, per- 
 haps from reading so many advertisements or perhaps 
 with inherited tradition from his ancestours. 
 
 " I have prescribed for her all that I can at present, but 
 it is not the work of medicines to build : that must be left 
 to food, air, and nature." 
 
 " There are lots of remedies advertised in the papers." 
 
 " Look here," said Dr. Brown, warmly, " if I am going 
 to have anything to do with this case, you must promise 
 me that you will not give a drop of patent medicine, or, in 
 short, of any medicine that I do not prescribe." 
 
 " Are the advertised ones all bad, then ? " 
 
 " Most of them are. Some may not be ; but, at all 
 
Differences 197 
 
 events, any trained physician knows the remedies they 
 contain, and can prescribe them if they are needed." 
 
 There was something more of argument on the point 
 till the workingman was finally convinced. He went 
 home with a heavy heart. " We have only to wait," he 
 said. " We have only to wait and hope." Alas, it is the 
 hardest thing of all 1 
 
 And Angeline grew gradually worse. Heavier and 
 heavier drooped the weary head, more and more languid 
 dragged her listless steps. Her flesh was soft and with- 
 out elasticity. Dark sickly shadows settled under her 
 pleading eyes. It came about that they never spoke to 
 her except that they smiled in speaking; but, when she 
 was away and they spoke of her, none of them ever 
 smiled. 
 
 It was nearing the Christmas season when she was no 
 longer able to walk to the nursery. 
 
 " I think she would be better off at home, anyway," 
 said good Mrs. Belden, with the tears in her faded blue 
 eyes. Perhaps Mrs. Belden, too, could relate some 
 sorrow in her life. " I am always fearing here that the 
 noise of the children disturbs her, and we can call over 
 and visit her till she is better and wants to come back." 
 
 Why is it that women will never admit the possibility 
 of death ? Why is it that men are always grateful to 
 them for it ? 
 
 " I will try to get off from my work," said John Wade. 
 " There is no one who can tend her as I can." 
 
 The next day — it was Saturday afternoon — he stepped 
 into the superintendent's office, and asked for a leave from 
 work. He explained that his child was sick. 
 
 " It is as well that you came, Wade," the superintendent 
 said to him kindly ; " for I don't see how we could have 
 kept you much longer. We are forced to lay off some of 
 the men who have worked here for more than ten years." 
 
198 Differences 
 
 He wrote the usual recommendation. " Business is 
 dull now, and I see no hope for the future. However, it 
 may look up in the spring. Call in if you are at the last 
 notch." And the superintendent sighed as he dismissed 
 him. 
 
 John Wade went home almost glad that he was free. 
 He did not fear now, as he had, the being out of work. 
 He could pinch, starve, and get along somehow. Be- 
 sides, he had a little ahead : it would doubtless be made 
 to hold out until — But he choked here. He must not be 
 seen blubbering in the street-car, he told himself gruffly ; 
 and he stepped out on the platform, and entered into con- 
 versation with a man who was interested in politics. 
 
 That evening he made a formal farewell at the nursery. 
 He would take care of the baby at home, now : it would 
 be company for him to be doing it. He tried to thank 
 Mrs. Belden for all she had done, but her womanly in- 
 stinct cut him short. She would come over often to see 
 Angeline, and he needn't be saying things that sounded 
 like good-bye. Nevertheless, she was willing to shake 
 hands with him, — the awkward, shoving shake of the 
 strong, work-hardened hand that seemed now to speak 
 its gratitude. They followed him down to the door, 
 where Sadie must kiss the children good-bye. " Good- 
 night, Joe; good-night, Angie," she called to them as 
 cheery as ever. Then she went up to the attic, and cried 
 like the child that she was. Mrs. Belden found her there 
 a half-hour later, swollen-eyed, and with tousled and tear- 
 dampened hair. She was neglecting her duties, and the 
 mischievous boys were worrying at the door-bell. Only 
 that night Mrs. Belden did not scold the child. 
 
 As for John Wade,, he heard the door close behind him 
 something as Adam and Eve heard the gates shut off 
 Eden. There was warmth, light, and cheer shut within, 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 199 
 
 with him but the dark and the cold. Then, as he neared 
 his own home, he thought of the haven that was there. 
 How often had he crossed the steaming bridge and 
 thought of the rest from his work I Never more tenderly 
 had he looked around the corner of the great elevator for 
 the little house in the yard, though he would never come 
 from work again to the same home. At least here was a 
 shelter till things were over, a quiet till he was ready for 
 a change. Fearfully, yet steadily and methodically, in his 
 workman's way, he entered the little garden and opened 
 the kitchen door. It was a shabby door, even with his 
 mending ; and it objected to being tampered with at first. 
 Then it admitted them with an impulse and closed again, 
 shutting them in from the night. 
 
XXV. 
 
 GENEVIEVE RADCLIFFE came to him often to 
 watch by the drooping life. There was no longer 
 any question of propriety. There was no longer 
 any thought of themselves or the classes to which they 
 belonged. They were two human souls, that was all: 
 one of them was benumbed with great trouble, and the 
 other was offering balm. 
 
 All day at her steady work Genevieve felt the grief 
 within her. Then, when night was come, when the 
 brightness of the dinner hour was over, she would put on 
 her dark cloak and hat, and slip over to the little house on 
 Goose Island. Promptly at half-past nine Mr. Nugent 
 would call in on his beat ; and after a word of kind in- 
 quiry or a cheery " courage, my boy,'' perhaps warming 
 himself a few minutes at the stove, he would escort her 
 safely home with respectful and straightforward conver- 
 sation. They had grown to be good friends, this girl and 
 the stalwart policeman. She had not thought a year ago 
 that she could ever feel this way toward a man of the 
 rank of policeman, but now her feeling was changing. 
 
 And with John Wade ? Night after night, they sat in the 
 little kitchen. The sick child seemed to like the kitchen 
 best, and they would bring her bed out for the evening. 
 Rollicking baby Joe was the common comfort of them 
 both. He could not feel the heaviness that they felt, and 
 they liked him the more that he could not. Old Scotch 
 Mrs. McLennan would come and go, with few words, 
 about her work. 
 
 Genevieve would embroider or busy herself on some 
 garment for the baby, and John Wade would whittle at 
 some toy in the hope to attract the sick girl's liking in 
 case she should be better to-morrow. Sometimes Gene- 
 
Differences 201 
 
 vieve would read aloud softly, and together they would 
 talk of what she read. How like her own appreciation 
 was his 1 It was as delicate and searching as a schol- 
 ar's, and without the stereotype of the academy. She 
 used to wonder at this criticism at first, and then it grew 
 natural for her to expect it. While his views were in 
 sympathy with her own, they were never often agreeing. 
 His was the man's point of view, of strength and of justice 
 and courage. She liked the milder virtues still, compas- 
 sion and diarity and mercy. And yet, strangely in this, 
 his was the narrower of the views. It was his training 
 and education that had made it. He would not overlook, 
 he could not forgive, the breaking of a tradition. " It is 
 wrong because it is wrong," was often a saying of his, 
 " and there is no use of arguing about it." While her 
 reason often objected and her satire often flashed at him, 
 still she knew, — and he knew that she knew it, — she 
 knew in her heart of hearts that this man was right in his 
 judgment, and that, if it came to a point where she 
 should act, she would invariably choose his opinion. 
 
 The life flower did not fade in a day. One week 
 slipped in after another, and the sick child was patiently 
 waiting. Sometimes she seemed to rally for a time, and 
 her eyes would take lustre and interest. At such periods 
 Mrs. Belden and Sadie, who came often for a call, would 
 express their hopes for a quick recovery. Even Hester 
 Carr would clasp more firmly the workingman's hand and 
 look kindly into his eyes. Only Genevieve Radcliffe never 
 spoke of a hope. There was a mute understanding with 
 them : they must wait and be calm and be ready. 
 
 One night she had led him to talk of his future. He 
 was always talking only of the past. 
 
 " You are a young man still, Mr. Wade. The great 
 part of your life is before you." 
 
202 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 His hand sought the yellow hair that floated out soft on 
 the pillow. 
 
 " A workingman's life ends early," he said. " It is dif- 
 ferent with those who have wealth and education. They 
 can live in a world not their own : there are books and art 
 and travel, or they may give their attention to science or 
 politics. With a poor man like me it is different. I am 
 ignorant, but do not feel it in my youth. I have plenty 
 of interest and pleasure. There are sights to see and 
 women to love, and everything goes well for a time. But 
 we soon grow tired of these things. The fervour of youth 
 wears away. Then we are old before our time, when you 
 are still hopeful and young." 
 
 " You are a philosopher, Mr. Wade." He nodded in 
 an appreciative way. 
 
 " I think while I am working," he said. 
 
 " But you might educate yourself yet," she urged. 
 " You might still take an interest in the world. Look, for 
 example, at the needs of the workingmen of to-day ; and 
 who can help them so well as the worker ? " 
 
 He shook his head. " Some men might do that, but 
 I am not born for a leader. I have no taste for politics 
 or any kind of public life. All of my time and thought 
 is given to earning a living. How to get a job concerns 
 me ; and, when I have got one, it is how long shall I be 
 able to keep it." 
 
 The golden head stirred, and Wade rose and bent ten- 
 derly over it. All that he had been saying just now Gene- 
 vieve saw verified in the love of that motion. 
 
 " What does my little woman want ? " he asked. 
 
 " A drink, I guess : I don't know exactly," said the 
 childish voice, now so pitiably thin and weak to those 
 who had formerly known it. 
 
 He brought the water, which her lips hardly tasted. 
 
D i f f e rences 203 
 
 "Does the light hurt your eyes? Is the bed easy? 
 Do you mind our talking? " 
 
 " I like your talking," said the child. " I seem to 
 sleep better when it's going on. Now let me alone to go 
 to sleep." 
 
 He settled back gently in his chair. " No, I have 
 looked at it often," he went on as if he had not been in- 
 terrupted. " I have looked at it often, and turned it over 
 in my mind. My life is for the best part ended. The 
 future is merely to go dragging along. It looks gloomy." 
 
 " But you cannot say that," she said tremulously. She 
 was wondering at her emotion. " There may yet come 
 new things in your life, new questions, new people per- 
 haps." She stopped here for a moment as if breathless. 
 
 Then his voice interrupted, as cold and hard as steel. 
 " It cannot be," he said. He went on speaking more 
 gently, as if in obedience to the child's wish that he 
 should be talking. " Suppose now we turn to some hap- 
 pier question, something more like that of your future." 
 
 " All that you have been saying would tend to drive 
 courage from me, for I am but entering the life you are 
 weary of. To me everything is bright and fresh because 
 I am permitted to work. Why, that is the main thing in 
 life as I see it, — the work that we maybe allowed to do." 
 
 " But if one is not allowed to work, if I tramp and beg 
 and take charity even for the privilege ? " 
 
 " Then it is the temporary conditions that are wrong. 
 It is not life itself that is at fault." 
 
 " I like my work well enough." 
 
 " And is not that the thing you should live for ? " 
 
 " Perhaps, if I could be master of it. As it is, I am its 
 slave." 
 
 " You must make yourself its master, then." Her en- 
 thusiasm did much to brace and arouse him. 
 
204 D i f f e rences 
 
 " But a man needs something else," he said, returning 
 to the old subject after a pause. 
 
 " And that is the outer world interest, I suppose ? 
 Well, it is your own fault if you do not find that." 
 
 "Yes, but something else, too." He turned toward 
 the golden head. 
 
 Genevieve did not say a word more ; but, putting her 
 work on the table, she stepped softly over to where little 
 Joe was playing by the stove. She took him up in her 
 arms, — there was some foolish woman's pretext, — and, 
 instead of setting him down again, she put him into the 
 arms of the father. "Here is your son," she said play- 
 fully ; and by the way in which the strong arms clasped 
 the baby she saw that the man understood. 
 
 Young Joe, quite elated at the transference, was begin- 
 ning a systematic search of his father's pockets. There 
 was great joy at finding a knife ; and stealthily he slipped 
 down and away, lest the treasure should be taken from 
 him. 
 
 " You see what a son is to me," laughed the father. 
 " Your own argument has brought with it an answer. 
 All he cares for me is what he can get out of me. Isn't 
 it, Joe ? " 
 
 The roguish youngster had hid himself behind the 
 oven door. 
 
 " And yet it was a good argument," answered Gene- 
 vieve, laughing softly. 
 
 " Not argument enough, however. In fact," — and this 
 he blurted out doggedly, — " what a man like me needs is 
 a wife, though the Lord knows how I'd support one. I 
 need some one that I can talk to on simple, equal terms. 
 I need some one to look after me, to comfort me when 
 I am lonely, to work for me, be my slave, if you like. I 
 may as well tell you I am selfish." 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 205 
 
 Just then sounded Officer Nugent's firm step on the 
 walk outside. 
 
 " Come in, Sam. Sit down by the fire. I was just 
 saying to Miss Radcliffe that a man like me should be 
 married. There is nothing for him, living alone." 
 
 " Sure, John, now's where you're talking sense." And 
 the policeman caught up the baby, and began to trot him 
 on his knee. " Is Angeline asleep now ? " he asked. 
 
 " She doesn't mind the noise," said the father. " I 
 wish she did." 
 
 " Did you ever see my wife, Miss Radcliffe ? Of 
 course not, for we live out in Austin. Well, you'd ought 
 to see her once ; and then you'd say all men should be 
 married." He began to beg a kiss from the baby ; but 
 what does a boy care for kisses ? Joe wanted the police- 
 man's star. 
 
 Genevieve was ready to go. She stepped over first to 
 the bed, and softly touched the hand of the sleeping 
 child. 
 
 " Good-night, Joe. Good-night, Mr. Wade," she said. 
 They seemed very cheerful at the parting. 
 
 But all the way home, and when sitting alone in her 
 room late that night, her spirits were chilled into a gray- 
 ness that she never before had experienced. She did 
 not know what it was. The remote possibility of a cause 
 had not even occurred to her, and yet there was but one 
 strain in her thinking. 
 
 " What if John Wade should marry again I " 
 
XXVI. 
 
 THEY dreaded the day she should die. When it 
 came, there was nothing to dread. The little 
 woman who had longed much for sleep, and had 
 grown more and more peevish on waking, one day fell 
 into a deeper, longer slumber, from which the physician 
 said she would probably never awaken. It seemed well 
 that it should be so. John Wade sat steadily by the bed, 
 his hand sometimes touching her hair, a look as of stone 
 on his face. Toward the last the women came and went 
 often, but he gave little heed to them. When Genevieve 
 was not there, he felt a terrible loneliness. It was almost 
 fear in its haunting. And once, when she was going, he 
 looked into her eyes in his dumb way. She understood 
 this fear, and laid off her coat and hat, announcing that 
 she need not go just yet. A wild, sweet joy had come 
 to her in that look, tempering her grief for the child 
 by a strange intermingling of feeling. The child was 
 breathing slowly at the time. So light and slow was her 
 breath that it seemed to hesitate for returning. That 
 was in the afternoon. 
 
 Early in the evening the physician came, and told them 
 she could not last through the night. Later on Hester 
 Carr came in. She was breathless, as if she had been 
 running. " It is raining softly," she explained. 
 
 The clock ticked. The fire burned in the stove. The 
 trains could be heard rushing in the distance. Baby Joe 
 had gone to sleep early that night. Mrs. McLennan had 
 shut herself in her room. 
 
 Then came the faintest change in the one they were 
 watching. A long, languid shiver slowly crept up her 
 length from the feet: there was a weak gasping at the 
 lips. John Wade bent over the bed, he was almost lying 
 
D i f f e rences 207 
 
 upon it, — his back was turned to the women, — and took 
 the child's form in his arms. He did not lift her from 
 the bed to do it: his arms were close upon her sides. 
 Genevieve clutched at Hester Carr's hand ; and they 
 stood, frightened, together in silence. 
 
 Then, reluctantly, the father raised himself up, still 
 looking at the dead child's face. 
 
 " Poor little woman 1 " he said. And then suddenly, as 
 if taking their fright, he walked into the adjoining room, 
 and brought out the sleeping Joe. 
 
 " I seem to like to hold him in my arms," he said, piti- 
 fully. 
 
 And the two women fell crying together. 
 
XXVII. 
 
 THEY were all calmer after the outburst, and it 
 was Hester Carr who took the leadership then. 
 " You take Joe," she said to Genevieve, " and let 
 John help me lay out the body." 
 
 It did not seem to occur to one of them that they could 
 lay the sleeping baby down. Genevieve went close to the 
 father, and he put the boy gently into her arms. Hester 
 was busying herself about the bed, smoothing out the 
 folds of the linen and folding the coverlids away. At the 
 very first she had drawn the sheet over the pallid face : 
 the drooping jaw was too ghastly. 
 
 Wade went out to the shed, and brought in a wide, 
 heavy plank. It showed signs of having been planed 
 and made ready beforehand. It had stood in the shed 
 for some days. In the bleak, cold front room they 
 placed the plank on two chairs, and the man brought a 
 cot bed into the kitchen. 
 
 " Joe and I will sleep out here to-night," he explained. 
 " The cot is wide enough for both." 
 
 Hester had been busy covering the plank with a clean 
 sheet ; and, when all was ready, the strong man took up 
 the dead body of his child, and carried it gently into the 
 front room, and arranged the frail limbs composedly. 
 
 Genevieve noticed that he did not carry it as if it were 
 a live child. She had often remarked the same thing in 
 the old pictures of the Madonna holding the Christ Child. 
 The love was overcome by the reverence. She clutched 
 the sleeping Joe closer to her heart. How good it was to 
 have him fretting with the closeness I 
 
 When the water and towels were ready, it was Hester 
 who still had command. "Go into the kitchen with 
 Genevieve," she said. " I can do everything now." 
 
D i f f e rences 209 
 
 " But are you not afraid ? " he asked kindly. 
 
 " Go on. I have done this thing before," she said ; and 
 he left her, closing the door softly behind him. 
 
 He came, and sat close to Genevieve. Once he reached 
 out his hand, and placed it on the child's head. But they 
 did not speak to each other. 
 
 It was just ten o'clock when Hester came out. At the 
 same time Officer Nugent's step was heard. 
 
 Hester opened the door, and spoke to him. Then they 
 all went in to look at the child, Mr. Nugent carrying the 
 baby, who slept on through all his transporting. 
 
 Angeline, or what had been Angeline, lay stretched on 
 the board, the flesh growing stiff and cold. Two pennies 
 rested on the closed eyelids. The lower jaw was ban- 
 daged tightly up. Only the golden floating hair was 
 warm with life as ever. The women began crying again ; 
 but the men stood straight up, dumb and tearless. Then 
 the father softly covered the face with the sheet. They 
 went again into the kitchen, and began their preparations 
 to go exactly as if nothing had happened. 
 
 This was Tuesday. They would have the funeral on 
 Thursday. They spoke of it as they might speak of any 
 work to be done. 
 
XXVIII. 
 
 IT was a simple funeral enough. There were only 
 Mrs. Belden and Hester and Genevieve. Saflie 
 could not get away from her duties. The preacher 
 came, and read a short service. Officer Nugent was there 
 to help John Wade with the coffin. They put the plain 
 box into a carriage, letting an end rest on each seat. 
 Then the father and Genevieve got in beside it, and the 
 others bade them good-bye. 
 
 Genevieve had wanted Hester to go with them to the 
 grave. They could hire another carriage. But the girl 
 had steadily refused. " I have choir practice at that 
 time, and cannot afford the extra expense. I will explain 
 to John, so that he cannot feel hurt. No : one is enough. 
 Only, if you do not wish to go, I will take your place. 
 But I think he would like you to go best." 
 
 So it was arranged, and the carriage was rolling steadily 
 through the streets. Genevieve sat in front. The man 
 had asked her to sit in the back, since the seat was more 
 comfortable and wider ; but she had refused, and chosen 
 the poorer place. " I want you to be by the head," she 
 explained ; and he had acquiesced without remark. 
 
 The day was sullen and foggy, but not so cold but they 
 could have the windows open. The air passing through 
 cheered them up. The man put his arm around the 
 coffin to hold it steady. 
 
 " Did you notice how solemn Joe looked when Mrs. 
 Belden was carrying him away ? " said Genevieve, after 
 some blocks of silence. " I think he knew that we were 
 taking his sister." 
 
 " Yes," said the father, thoughtfully. " He was sober 
 that way last night after I had taken him home. Of 
 course, he misses Angeline ; but he will forget all about 
 her in a few weeks." 
 
Differences 211 
 
 " But you must not let him forget." 
 
 " I don't know. Perhaps it is well to forget the dead, 
 at least not to think of them with sorrow. I should not 
 like to have any one mourn for me." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Wade 1 That is not the truth." 
 
 " I mean not to mourn more than is natural. They 
 should not be encouraged to mourn, or should not blame 
 themselves for not doing it." 
 
 " But mourning and remembering are different." 
 
 "Yes" — he dragged this out almost wearily. The 
 streets went monotonously on. 
 
 Genevieve began thinking to herself. What a strange 
 position to be in, riding in a carriage with a corpse and a 
 labouring man I This was the second journey she had 
 made with this man alone. Why should she be making 
 them at all ? Other people who gave charity did not do 
 these things: they would think it strange and queer if 
 they knew that she was doing them. Nor, indeed, was she 
 now giving charity. This man was paying for the car- 
 riage : he had taken all responsibility upon himself ; and 
 yet she was sitting here with him by the body of his dead 
 child, was occupying the place of his most intimate friend 
 or near relative. And there was no escaping this thing. 
 She did not wish to escape it. Why was this so ? She 
 looked at him furtively at times, as he sat with his arm on 
 the coffin. There was something worn and haggard in 
 his face. She could see little lines, as if where weakness 
 and strength had been wrestling, running down from his 
 eyes to his mouth. The blue eyes were dull and heavy. 
 There was an ugly doggedness about the jaw, but above 
 all the white brow still presided. She looked out the 
 window again. 
 
 Then her ears caught a sound above the rumbling of 
 the wheels, the sound of a strong man sighing. It was 
 
212 Differences 
 
 one of the long, quivering sighs where the breath is in- 
 drawn to the point of physical pain, and then escapes in 
 shuddering. She could almost feel his strong body being 
 racked. She longed to bend over to him and take his 
 firm hands in her own, but she did not do this. She 
 looked steadily out the window, and tried to find interest 
 in the dull houses. 
 
 When timidly she glanced toward him again, she saw 
 that he had not changed his position. His arm was still 
 holding the coffin, the weariness still in his eyes. 
 
 " How far is it to Calvary ? " she asked. 
 
 " Seven miles the driver told me. Are you getting 
 tired?" 
 
 " Oh, no." 
 
 "You ought not to have come. I should not have 
 minded alone." 
 
 " I like to come." 
 
 " I wanted to have another carriage, but this was 
 Hester's plan. She said it was a shame to go to such 
 expense, when I am so poor." 
 
 " It was a good plan." 
 
 " I like to ride here," tightening his arm a little to 
 show what he meant ; " but it must seem strange to you." 
 
 " Death all seems strange to me." 
 
 " It is not so strange as life." 
 
 " John Wade, what are you going to do ? " 
 
 She had never called him by his Christian name before. 
 He felt the consolation of it stealing over him. 
 
 " You mean to-morrow ? Next week ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I must tramp for work, I suppose. I can leave Joe 
 at the nursery." 
 
 She thought of the long, hopeless journey he was to 
 take up. " Dear God, have pity for the poor," she 
 
Differences 213 
 
 prayed softly to herself as she looked from the window 
 again. 
 
 They were passing some elegant houses of the rich, 
 every sign of luxury and idleness about them. Her 
 indignation flashed up like powder. 
 
 " Can these people be good and live on ? Can they do 
 nothing, and employ others to wait on their idleness? 
 Must they not see that some one must pay for all this ? 
 Not only they, but all who wait on their folly must be 
 supported. Food and clothes do not multiply like 
 money." 
 
 Then she thought of her own kind friends, of her 
 family, even, who did nothing. Her grief seemed to 
 drown indignation. The monotonous wheels rumbled on. 
 
 "I had hoped to get a grave next the mother," said 
 John Wade; "but all that part is filled up now. We 
 must go some distance from there." 
 
 " Is it a pretty place ? " asked Genevieve. 
 
 "Oh, it's all very much alike, — just a flat place filled 
 in thick with graves. I had to pay more than I did for 
 the mother : they have raised the price of lots. I paid a 
 dollar and a half more." 
 
 " Yes ? " 
 
 " Eight dollars down for one grave, and then two dol- 
 lars for the grave-diggers besides." 
 
 " Do you have money enough ? " 
 
 "Yes? I had a little saved up. I have paid for the 
 coffin, too: that was six dollars and a hall. Then the 
 carriage is three dollars. Twenty dollars and a half for 
 the funeral ; and there were a few extras besides, enough 
 to make twenty-one dollars. Then there will be the doc- 
 tor to pay." 
 
 "You can let him wait as long as you like. I will 
 speak to him about that." 
 
214 Differences 
 
 " If he'd let me pay by instalments, say half a dollar 
 a week." 
 
 " How much money have you now ? " 
 
 " I have only three dollars and a half," he said, trying 
 to smile. " But I think I'll get work pretty soon. I'll 
 feel like tramping all day now : it will be less lonely than 
 sitting in the house." 
 
 They were driving through the cemetery gate. 
 
 At the sight of the graves a sudden storm seemed to 
 sweep through the body of the man. He was quivering 
 to the very lips. 
 
 Genevieve was torn with compassion. The feeling 
 was worse than her grief. She seemed so distant from 
 him now. He was suffering so utterly alone. 
 
 They got out in a clumsy, stiff way, when the driver 
 came to a stop. They were chilled and cramped with 
 the cold and the crowded seats of the carriage. Not far 
 from the carriage was a small, newly dug grave. The 
 grave-diggers had just finished in time : they were even 
 now cleaning their shovels. 
 
 They came forward in their kindly, business-like way 
 to help John Wade with the coffin. It was short work 
 to put the ropes under it and lower it into the grave. 
 The cover was adjusted on the box. Then they waited 
 for a moment before beginning to fill in, to see if there 
 was anything further. The driver of the carriage had 
 dismounted, and was standing with them by the grave. 
 Genevieve was the only one weeping. John Wade took 
 off his hat, and the men and the driver did the same. He 
 picked up a lump of the heavy clay, and, breaking off a 
 small piece which he kept, he dropped the large lump 
 into the grave. It struck the cover of the box with the 
 sound that is so hopeless and hollow. " Earth to earth," 
 he said firmly, and handed the small piece he had saved 
 
• . Differences 215 
 
 to Genevieve. She crumbled it up in her hand, and 
 scattered it on the flowers that she held. " Earth to 
 earth," she said after him, and threw the flowers and clay 
 in together. Then the men put on their hats, and the 
 diggers began shovelling heartily. 
 
 They stood by till the grave was rounded up and the 
 head and foot boards were set. John Wade took out his 
 pencil and book to copy the numbers of the boards. 
 " You do it," he said, handing the book to Genevieve. 
 " My hands are stiff with the cold." She wrote the num- 
 bers for him, he looking at the firm, clear letters that he 
 had learned in the last year to love. 
 
 " Now we will go home," he said kindly. " I fear you 
 have taken cold here already." 
 
 The monotonous rumbling of wheels was beginning 
 again. Only now there was a difference from before. 
 They both sat on the back seat : the front one was folded 
 down to give room. There was a difference when they 
 were sitting together. They did not seem longer alone : 
 their grief was tempered and sweetened. 
 
 But little was said on the journey beyond the ordinary 
 personal conversation, the plans for the afternoon. As 
 they came in sight of Settlement House, the working- 
 man's hand took the lady's. Perhaps she had intended 
 it so, for she had taken off her glove from the hand next 
 to him. He, too, had slipped off his coarse glove. He 
 did not lift her hand up : there was no pretence of saying 
 good-bye. The strong, warm palm just closed firmly over 
 the delicate fingers. She could feel the tightening grip 
 as his big finger-tips touched her palm, and then they 
 did not move nor speak till the carriage had come to a 
 stop. 
 
 Hester Carr came to tne door to meet them. 
 
 " It is long after lunch time," she said, " but Annie 
 
216 Differences 
 
 has kept some things warm in the oven. John, you are 
 to come down and lunch with us in the kitchen. I, too, 
 have only just got home." 
 
XXIX. 
 
 JOHN WADE began tramping for work. It was not 
 so tragic now as it had been a year ago. All the 
 tragedy had ended in his life. There was no pos- 
 sibility of more ; for hope must lead up to dis- 
 appointment and ruin, and he was absolutely without 
 hope. He no longer knew even fear. The baby Joe was 
 well cared for and fed in the nursery. If he could not 
 pay the daily fee of ten cents, they were willing to wait 
 till he could pay it. They knew it was not his fault if he 
 did not have work ; and as for himself, well, what did it 
 matter now ? There was nothing to live for more. The 
 boy would take care of himself. To be sure, his own com- 
 fort was to be considered. John Wade was a man who 
 cared much for his bodily comfort, but this he learned to 
 sacrifice in time. He could habituate himself to sitting in 
 a cold house ; and he found it was no great pain to go 
 hungry for meat and the nourishing things of life, if he 
 was careful to take regularly his portions of stale bread. 
 As for Genevieve, she found that she was powerless to 
 help him now. He did not longer give her an opportunity 
 to come to him, making excuses that there was no fire at 
 home. Nor did he ever stop to see her at Settlement 
 House, but was always in a hurry if she met him. At 
 first, her hope was that she could aid him through Mrs. 
 McLennan. She supplied the old woman with coal, and 
 told her to prepare the man dishes with the groceries that 
 she herself bought. It was no use. Wade was sullen 
 with the old woman, and told her that he was not hungry. 
 " Keep your dainties to yourself," he would say. " I 
 don't care anything for them. I have bread, and that is 
 enough for me." 
 
 The old Scotchwoman thought he was grieving for his 
 
218 Differences 
 
 daughter and urged him to come into her room and sit 
 by the fire for company. Sometimes he would, just to 
 please her ; but he would soon excuse himself. " I am 
 tired and sleepy after walking all day, and I want to go to 
 bed." 
 
 He gave this excuse to Genevieve as well, when she 
 asked him to call on her at the house. It also served to 
 keep her from calling on Mrs. McLennan in the evening, 
 as there was no way of getting to Mrs. McLennan's room 
 except through the room where he slept. 
 
 She did not understand this estrangement, and tried to 
 consult with Hester Carr as to what it meant. 
 
 " I see no difference in him," Hester said lightly, her 
 manner implying that she did see the difference, but she 
 did not think it her place to discover it to another. " I 
 suppose John is in the dumps. Who wouldn't be who is 
 insulted all day because he dares to ask the privilege of 
 earning his living ? " 
 
 " But he seems to be offended," sighed Genevieve. 
 
 " Maybe he is. These working people are always get- 
 ting impertinent. The idea of presuming that they have 
 the right to take offence ! " 
 
 "You know you don't mean a word of what you are 
 saying,'' said Genevieve, almost sobbing. 
 
 " There, there, you little goose I " said the changeable 
 Hester, running over to her and giving her an impetuous 
 hug. " How do I know what is the matter ? Why 
 don't you ask John himself, if you want to know ? " 
 
 " I can't get a chance," answered Genevieve. " He al- 
 ways evades me, though it is done in a kindly way." 
 
 " Well, why don't you let him alone ? He is a man, and 
 will take care of himself. I suppose some men can take 
 care of themselves. Others can't, though. Now there is 
 Mr. Neville : he can't, and you are positively neglecting 
 him." 
 
Differences 219 
 
 " Do you think he feels that he is neglected ? " asked 
 Genevieve, with compunction. " You see a great deal of 
 him of late." 
 
 "If he does feel it, he takes it very lightly," laughed 
 Hester ; " but of course he may be only shamming. Still, 
 I think your conscience may be at rest," she added, seeing 
 that Genevieve was alarmed. " He talks a great deal of 
 the independence of husband and wife in the married 
 relation. Sometimes you would almost fancy that he 
 meant to go on flirting with me just the same after he is 
 married." 
 
 "He may flirt with you as much as he likes," said 
 Genevieve, fondly. " I am willing to trust you both." 
 
 Then her thoughts turned again to Wade ; and she 
 added, " I have such a great fear." 
 
 " What is that ? " asked Hester, uneasily. 
 
 " It is that maybe in his great grief for Angeline and in 
 the uncertainty now of his life he may take to drinking 
 again." 
 
 Hester laughed, but Genevieve did not notice it. 
 
 "I am haunted and haunted with this fear," she went 
 on hurriedly and in low tones. " Sometimes I think he 
 may have been drinking, and would avoid me for fear 
 I should find it out. Heaven knows, I should never blame 
 him, recognizing all he has to endure. Hester, do you 
 think he is drinking ? " 
 
 " I think not," said the girl, kindly ; " but I do think it 
 would do no harm to ask him. As you say, he may fall 
 into harm ; and you will do well to demand an explana- 
 tion." 
 
 " He is so different and strange," sighed Genevieve. 
 And the conversation ended. 
 
 Meanwhile how was it with the beggar in the streets ? 
 John Wade had come to himself. There was now to be 
 
220 D i f f e rences 
 
 no more weakness. He had called himself up before 
 court, had charged, tried, and convicted himself of a much 
 greater crime than that of being offended with a lady. 
 He, John Wade, a common machinist, out of work, and 
 likely to starve in a week, was in love with a lady, an 
 heiress, already engaged to be married to another, — a lady 
 who had befriended him and trusted him. What folly I 
 " Guilty," was the decision of the court; and now he was 
 serving his life term. There was never any hope of 
 escape. 
 
 After two months of weariness and refusal, — he would 
 probably have starved before this, had not the superin- 
 tendent of the Randall Electric occasionally lent him 
 a dollar, — after fifty-two days of mingled kindness and 
 insult, he found a job at last. 
 
 It was one thawing day in February, when he had 
 wandered into a small circus court. The gate was open 
 for a moment to let some wagons out, and he was tired of 
 the street and aimless and careless of what happened. 
 He was thinking that he had not eaten all day, that he 
 did not have a cent to his name, and wondering if 
 he should go to the superintendent of the Randall Elec- 
 tric and ask for another dollar. All morning he had been 
 working down that way. He probably would ask for the 
 money. Still, he need not make up his mind for an hour. 
 
 " Get out of here 1 " said a gruff voice. " Move on, you 
 stupid ! Don't you see this is private ? " 
 
 But John Wade continued his thinking. 
 
 " Move on, damn you 1 Move on, you lousy " — 
 There was something in the thinking man's face that 
 made the tormentor pause. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " he said kindly, but gruffly. 
 " I'm in a hurry. I want to shut the gate." 
 
 "I'm looking for a job," said John Wade. 
 
Differences 221 
 
 " Oh, that's what they all say ; and not one of them will 
 work, when you give him a chance. Look here, do you 
 really want to work ? " 
 
 " Try me," was the sullen reply. 
 
 " Then look at those bricks over there. I want them 
 piled against the wall. You'll find a wheelbarrow just 
 inside that door. First, help me to shut up this gate." 
 
 All that afternoon John Wade picked up and wheeled 
 and piled the muddy bricks. He had not had a mouthful 
 that day. He did not mind. He would think of a sup- 
 per, and he would put off borrowing the dollar. 
 
 Six o'clock found him still wheeling. Just then the 
 proprietor came out. Perhaps the gruff man had been 
 explaining to him. 
 
 "Why don't you stop ? It's six o'clock," he asked. 
 
 " I'm almost done," explained John Wade, timidly. " I 
 thought, if I could, I would finish." 
 
 " We want to close up. Come again in the morning." 
 
 " Could you pay me for what I have done to-night ? 
 I'm pretty hard up just at present." 
 
 The proprietor handed him a half-dollar. Oh, the 
 warmth and the relief in that little disk of silver ! 
 
 " What's your trade ? " the proprietor asked. 
 
 " Machinist." 
 
 " Oh 1 Are you good at carrying planks ? " 
 
 "Why, yes. I have shifted a bit before for a car- 
 penter." 
 
 " Can drive a nail yourself, perhaps ? " 
 
 " As good as the next one." 
 
 " Drink ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Dead broke ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Family, I suppose ? " 
 
222 Differences 
 
 " One kid : woman is dead." 
 
 "Well, it's hard times," said the proprietor, sighing. 
 He, too, had felt the hard times. " Come around in the 
 morning. I'll try you to see what you're worth. I can 
 give you a saw and a hammer. I have some seats to be 
 put up. I can't say how long the job will last. That will 
 depend somewhat upon your work." 
 
 John Wade went into a cheap lunch-room, and ordered 
 a fifteen-cent supper. Then he spent five cents for car- 
 fare. He could walk down, he said, in the morning. 
 
 At Settlement House he stopped, as usual, for Joe. 
 There was only Sadie in the nursery. 
 
 " Tell Miss Radcliffe and Hester that I've got work," 
 he said ; " and tell Mrs. Belden that I will pay her some- 
 thing to-morrow night." 
 
 So it came that the long walk was ended. 
 
XXX. 
 
 GENEVIEVE had hoped that there would be a 
 change in Wade's demeanour, once he was settled 
 down to work. She had waited, and tried to give 
 him an opportunity to return naturally to their former 
 relation of friendship ; but, much to her disappointment 
 and anxiety, he continued to avoid and evade her. He 
 was always kind in his manner. There was a certain gen- 
 tleness with her, not shown to any of the others ; but still 
 they were never alone, and he made all private meetings 
 impossible. " I am always so tired at night," or " I have 
 some work to do this evening," was the invariable reply 
 that he gave if she asked him to call. The feeling that 
 she had in some way offended him, haunted by the much 
 darker possibility that he had taken to drinking again, 
 was making her positively morbid. After a month's time 
 she could stand it no longer ; and one Sunday afternoon 
 late in March she took leave of her own cosey home 
 and started out to walk to Goose Island. 
 
 Her courage had in no way ebbed when she came in 
 sight of the little house. " I mean to have my mind put 
 at rest," she said resolutely, as she rapped at the door, 
 " no matter how strange it may seem that I should come 
 here." 
 
 The workingman came to the door. He was startled, 
 and then confused, on seeing who the visitor was. 
 
 " Why, Miss Radcliffe 1 " he exclaimed. "Is it pos- 
 sible that you are over here? I supposed you always 
 went home on Sundays." As yet he had not invited her 
 in. " Mrs. McLennan has gone out this afternoon," he 
 explained, as if by way of apology. 
 
 " I did not come to see Mrs. McLennan : I came to see 
 you," answered Genevieve, determinedly. " If you can't 
 
224 Differences 
 
 come out for a walk, I must trouble you to step in a 
 moment." 
 
 " I can't go out very well, and leave the baby : he's 
 asleep now," John Wade said confusedly. But he stepped 
 aside to let her in, and closed the door behind her. 
 
 " Come through into the kitchen," he said. " It is too 
 cold in this room to sit talking." 
 
 They walked through, Genevieve glancing at the bed 
 where the sleeping baby lay peacefully. 
 
 She took off her hat and her cape, as she had formerly 
 been in the habit of doing. He awkwardly motioned her 
 to take a chair, but himself remained uneasily standing. 
 
 " It is hot in this kitchen," she said. 
 
 He moved to open the window, and while doing so she 
 took a good look at him. His face seemed stupid and 
 flushed ; his eyes, she thought, were bloodshot. " All 
 this may have come from the close room," she reasoned. 
 His coat was off, and his hair tumbled, as if he had been 
 lying down. His pipe and tobacco were on the table. 
 
 " I have been almost asleep, I guess," he answered, as 
 if she had spoken. " I suppose I look pretty tough. Did 
 you want to ask me something, Miss Radcliffe ? Has 
 anything happened at the house ? " 
 
 It was her turn to grow confused. " Yes, yes. I want 
 to ask you something pretty soon. Is Mrs. McLennan 
 quite well ? " 
 
 " She went across the river to see Mrs. Gough," he 
 said, nodding. 
 
 " I have not seen you for a long time, Mr. Wade," she 
 began reproachfully; "hardly to speak to you since 
 Angeline died." 
 
 He took up his pipe, and began to fill it. He would 
 not look at her eyes. 
 
 " I have been out of sorts, I suppose. It breaks a man 
 all up to be out of work." 
 
Differences 225 
 
 " But now you've had work a month." 
 
 " Yes, but that may not last much longer. I have got 
 the job I am at almost done, and I don't know that the 
 proprietor will find me another. You see, it is a circus 
 building where I am working, and I am helping the car- 
 penter." He went on at length to speak of the details of 
 the work. At least it was something to talk about. 
 Genevieve listened to it all with interest, and astonished 
 him with her knowledge of the subject. 
 
 " You talk like a carpenter yourself," he remarked once. 
 
 " Why not ? Am I not taking the manual training, pre- 
 paring myself for a teacher ? I am reading all sorts of 
 books now on carpentry and cabinet-making." 
 
 He laughed as he had used to do, and the sound filled 
 her cup with pleasure. 
 
 " All very good child's play, no doubt ; but it wouldn't 
 stand a knock in real service." 
 
 " You speak without knowledge," she said. 
 
 " But I speak with reason," he argued. " Why, my 
 boss was seven years serving his apprentice; and ever 
 since he has been at work at the trade. How could you, 
 then, begin green, and learn in a year ? " 
 
 " I did not say that I was doing things as well as he 
 does them. I only said I was learning to use the tools." 
 
 " Faugh I How can a woman learn to use tools ? " 
 
 " That is what I want you to come and see." 
 
 " Very well. I will come some time." Then he saw 
 that he was making an appointment. " I am very busy 
 now," he added hurriedly. " We will not set a day till 
 we can think it over." 
 
 The evening sun was straining through the window, its 
 red light warning Genevieve that she must be going. 
 
 " Mr. Wade, I am going to ask you a question. I — in 
 fact, I came to ask it. -You have behaved so differently 
 
226 Differences 
 
 toward me of late I fear that in some way I have hurt 
 your feelings." 
 
 He was sitting silent and obstinate. " Shall I let her 
 keep on in her mistake ? " he was trying to think to 
 himself. 
 
 " I am sure I don't know what I could have said or 
 done," she went on humbly. There was the faintest 
 tremor in her voice. He could feel her eyes fixed square 
 on him, but he was swearing that he would not look up. 
 " I suppose I am thoughtless at times. My friends are 
 sometimes wounded at my bluntness, but I can only say 
 that with you I have always meant well. I have always 
 wanted to be " — 
 
 " In God's name," groaned the tortured man, hoarsely. 
 He was writhing like a victim on the rack. He got up 
 and walked to the window, turning his back square upon 
 her. 
 
 She no longer was looking toward him, but kept her 
 eyes fixed on the floor. 
 
 "Mr. Wade," she began again, "you are in trouble. 
 I want you to let me help you. You helped me once 
 when no one else could. You have helped me often and 
 often. I have never told you how much." 
 
 " Have you not helped me, too, then ? " he asked. 
 " Do you need to think of the small things I've done ? " 
 
 " I want to help you more," she went on, her soft words 
 gentle and pleading. In her earnestness to be of service 
 she did not realize the love expressed in her tones. 
 " Mr. Wade, don't think I will blame you for doing it. 
 I know that any other man would have done it. I know 
 what a strain you have undergone, and I can imagine 
 how a strain might weaken you. But can't you get 
 strong again now ? Can't I help you to put the longing 
 aside?" 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 227 
 
 " What do you mean ? " said John Wade, almost fiercely, 
 coming over and standing in front of her. 
 
 Genevieve's eyes were still fixed on the floor. The 
 soft, rounded whiteness of the quivering lids was almost 
 more than his passion could withstand. The smooth 
 bands of black hair framing the smoother white brow 
 seemed all that could restrain him from touching her. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " he slowly repeated. 
 
 " Forgive me, if I am wrong. I thought that you might 
 have been drinking. I know how you may have been 
 tempted. I know how desperate you were." 
 
 His whole tension seemed to collapse. " Oh,<is that 
 what you thought ? " he said kindly. 
 
 " Then it is not true ? It was only my fears. Will 
 you ever forgive me for doubting you for a moment ? " 
 
 " No, it is not true," he replied. " The thought had 
 not even occurred to me. No, my drinking has been 
 put by forever. Why, I could not endure the taste of the 
 stuff. So you have been letting that worry you, have 
 you ? " He was speaking to her as if she were a child, 
 his own child or one that he loved. His hands sought 
 the back of a chair with their peculiar, paternal caressing 
 of something. She was looking at him now, her whole 
 attitude in childlike humility. It was as if she felt her 
 heart in those hands. 
 
 He laughed quietly, — a long, low happiness of laugh- 
 ter such as we hear under only one condition. 
 
 " So you thought I was drinking," he said. He was so 
 happy the struggle was over. 
 
 But the woman's persistence began again. " There is 
 something else, then. There is something that you have 
 not told me. I will not longer endure this difference that 
 has been growing between us. I want to be good friends 
 with you. I need and depend upon your friendship ; and, 
 
228 D i f f e rences 
 
 if I must be deprived of it, I must at least know the 
 reason why. You are not the same as you used to be. 
 There is something formal and reserved about you that 
 tells me I must stand at my distance. I was foolish 
 enough to think that the cause lay in you. I was vain 
 enough to think that I had done nothing. I suppose you 
 may think that I am forward and unwomanly in coming 
 here as I do. Perhaps, even, you think that my motives 
 may not be the finest. I know I am different from other 
 women, but I had felt that you understood me in this. I 
 did not think " — 
 
 " You may stop there," said the man's steady voice. 
 He spoke as one who has always known the right of 
 commanding. 
 
 In truth there was nothing for Genevieve to do but 
 stop. Her voice had been growing more and more 
 tremulous. She must either stop or begin sobbing. All 
 of the anxiety of the last three weeks had come to its 
 climax now. She felt that she had been wronged by this 
 man, and wronged when she was yearning to forgive him. 
 She sat quiet as he had commanded, her face flushed and 
 eyes ready for filling. She felt all of her weakness as a 
 woman, and yet had not yielded a jot of her obstinacy. 
 She would have an explanation before she rose. 
 
 The man had walked over to the window and stood 
 looking into the evening light. He was wondering 
 whether he should tell her, whether things could ever go 
 right on a misunderstanding. It did not take long to 
 reach a decision. Perhaps the woman's determination 
 to know the truth had more effect on him than he 
 recognized. 
 
 " I am an honest man, and have done nothing to be 
 ashamed of," he said to himself. " If she wants to know, 
 I will tell her ; and everything will be at an end between 
 
Differences 229 
 
 us. It had better end rather than torment me as it has 
 done in these last months I have known her." 
 
 " If you want to know, I will tell you," he said, half 
 turning from the window. There was a coldness of steel 
 in his voice that made her shiver. 
 
 " The fact is, Miss Radcliffe, we have made a mistake, 
 you and I, — the gravest possible mistake, though I think 
 that neither of us is to blame. We have only taken for 
 granted some things that do not exist." 
 
 He shifted his position lightly. He seemed getting 
 ready for an accurate narrative, and was marshalling his 
 facts before him. He stood statuesque, almost radiant, 
 in the evening light. His arms were lightly folded on his 
 breast, his shoulders were well up with honour, and his 
 square head set firm and reliant. There was a trace of 
 hardness about his mouth, the satire of the knowledge 
 of fate : but the blue eyes were kindly still, and the stu- 
 dent brow placid as ever. 
 
 Genevieve did not speak, but sat looking upon him and 
 waiting. All her soul was intent, holding open the gates 
 of her memory for the future. 
 
 " When you first came to me," he began, " when I was 
 at the miserable bottom of conditions, it all seemed easy 
 enough. Neither of us could understand any difficulties. 
 I was a common workingman, born into a certain class : 
 you were a lady by birth, and we had no interest in 
 common. There was but one tie that bound us : pity was 
 on your side, helplessness and despair on mine. Then 
 began the change. From your part the change came 
 most, though I do not blame you for it. Believe me, in 
 all of this misery I speak no word of regret or reproof. 
 Well, you found out that I was a man, in time ; and this 
 interested you, and made you wish to know me better. 
 Then, unconsciously, too, — and may God never forgive me 
 
230 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 my ignorance of myself 1 — I began to know you were a 
 woman. I should have anticipated where I was drifting. 
 I did not. Perhaps I had been benumbed with cold and 
 hunger, perhaps I was distracted by other things. You 
 told me that I was helping you. It seemed good to be of 
 some service. Then Angeline sickened, and I longed for 
 your comfort to me." 
 
 He stopped here, and his arms dropped tremulously to 
 the window-sill and his eyes lost their effect of having 
 focus. Up to this time they had been fixed upon a pile 
 of lime that was glaring white in the mud of the barren 
 field. Now they had turned their gaze from physical 
 things, and were visioning memories of their own. It 
 was a little grave that they saw, with its head board, on 
 which was a number, "177 — m." There were other 
 graves all around this, like fresh-made beds in a garden. 
 
 The man drew a long sigh, and came back to his nar- 
 rative again. How strange and unnatural it seemed that 
 he should care so little about it, when it had been his 
 only concern for three months, — ever since Angeline 
 diedl 
 
 " When the child was dead, I had time to think things 
 out as I tramped the streets, looking for work. Then it 
 all came to me clear. I was a man, it was true ; but, first 
 of all, I was a labourer. You were a woman, and you 
 talked of becoming a labourer ; but you could not. You 
 were born and brought up a lady, and it was your fate 
 that you could be nothing else. It is true that there were 
 things to unite us. If we were alone in the world, they 
 might hold us together very well. But we were not alone, 
 — at least, you are not. All your life is bound up in a 
 life that is impossible to me :' your friends, your family, 
 your childhood and girlhood are things that cannot under- 
 stand me. I read and dream of them, but they have no 
 
Differences 231 
 
 call to read or dream my life. The mistake must not be 
 kept up any longer. I mean we are to let all things drop. 
 On your side the life might be kept up. On my side, you 
 must see it cannot, unless you would cause me endless 
 torture, and pain." 
 
 His eyes had taken focus again. The lines of the satire 
 of fate had softened to gentleness about his mouth. 
 
 As he finished, and stood waiting there, it seemed to 
 Genevieve Radcliffe that all glory had dropped out of her 
 life. Did it occur to her that she had the power to call it 
 back? It appeared that she was only querulous with 
 disappointment. 
 
 " I don't understand exactly. I mean that I don't see 
 why tilings should all come to an end. You may outlive 
 all this, — this knowledge in time. I don't quite under- 
 stand what the knowledge is that you speak of. Perhaps 
 it will change. If you mean to have me think that you " — 
 She hesitated, fluttering, here. How like a woman to 
 torture him on to confession I And, womanlike, she still 
 had her way. 
 
 His voice was husky with agony. " I mean that I love 
 you," he said ; and the lips tried to say something more, 
 but the muscles of the throat gripped it down. There 
 was will in the lips, however. They seemed to be ruled 
 by the brow, and they moved to be speaking again. 
 Then up rose the shoulders to aid the throat, and the 
 strong man's frame was like a child's when sobbing. 
 
 He turned again to the window, and the woman sat 
 humbled in the chair. Oh, if she had not asked so 
 much ! And yet for her life she would not recall it. 
 
 Just then the baby Joe's fretful voice broke the silence. 
 He had wakened out of his sleep. 
 
 Without looking toward where Genevieve sat, the 
 father walked into the next room. It was some little 
 
232 Differences 
 
 time before he came out. When he returned, Genevieve 
 was ready for the street. Joe stretched out his jolly little 
 arms, and laughed as he recognized her. 
 
 " See, Dada, see ! " he kept shouting, pronouncing her 
 name in his own baby fashion. 
 
 They were glad to give him some attention. 
 
 " I must say good-bye now, Mr. Wade," said Genevieve, 
 holding out her hand. " I must have time to think things 
 over. I fear I have done you great wrong." Her eyes 
 grew very soft and pleading, and there was a beautiful 
 uncertainty in her lips. 
 
 " Good-bye," she said again. " Perhaps I will write to 
 you some time. At all events, you are not to regret what 
 you have said. It is right that I, too, should understand. 
 Indeed, it was I that forced you to tell me." 
 
 She took his hand firmly for a moment, then dropped 
 it and turned to the door. He did not open the door, as 
 usual, but walked to the window again. Long after she 
 was well on her way he was standing by the window, 
 looking out. Baby Joe kept talking and calling. 
 
 " Baby, baby," the father would say, thinking he was 
 playing with him. Then Joe would laugh loudly and 
 talk, but the father did not know one word that he said. 
 
XXXI. 
 
 A FTER the explanation with Genevieve, Wade 
 t-\ took more pains than before to avoid her. He 
 -*- -*- found it easier to do so now. She no longer 
 met him in the hall or waited for him in the nursery. At 
 half-past six she studiously kept away from these places. 
 He was cut to the quick by this ; yet he was glad, he 
 said, that she did so. It made things easier for him, and 
 there was no misunderstanding now. 
 
 He was contemplating departure from Chicago in his 
 helpless, dumb way. He had become so rooted here that 
 it was as if a tree were contemplating a journey into a 
 far-away land. 
 
 However, there were circumstances to aid him. The 
 work at the circus was almost completed now, and again 
 he would be set drifting. To hunt for work, — to ask, 
 tramp, be turned away, to go on asking again, — he knew 
 too well what it meant for him. He was tired of the 
 streets of Chicago. Since he must tramp, why not tramp 
 new streets ? Perhaps a change would relieve him. All 
 day here he would go about with this aching in his breast, 
 until sometimes it seemed to him — half-crazed as he was 
 — that he must tear out his torturing, swelling heart, and 
 dash it on the stones of the pavement. The city had 
 become unendurable. 
 
 Everything in it reminded him of Genevieve. His 
 whole body, his whole soul, had become as a swinging 
 magnet, to which she was the lodestar and centre. As 
 he came and went from his work, as he moved in his work 
 or in his home, he never lost consciousness of her direc- 
 tion, he never could leave off his yearning. 
 
 So many people talked of the country, and the chances 
 for a poor man there. He had heard it often in the 
 
234 Differences 
 
 lectures and talks at Settlement House, — this great evil 
 of concentration in the cities, and the necessity of counter- 
 acting the movement by a migration back to the country. 
 It was said always that there was plenty of work outside. 
 There were forests to cut down, swamps to drain, rivers 
 to control, fields to till. Unfortunately, John Wade knew 
 nothing of the cutting of forests or the tilling of fields ; 
 but he argued that he could begin at the bottom and pos- 
 sibly work his way up. 
 
 Now his work in the circus building was done. 
 
 " I am sorry," said the proprietor. " You have been a 
 good hand with me, and I like the way you take hold ; 
 but there isn't any more to do now. I can't afford any 
 more alterations. I can hardly see my way clear as 
 it is." 
 
 " No matter," said John Wade, methodically. " I 
 think I'll try leaving Chicago." 
 
 " Where will you go ? " asked the proprietor, with 
 interest. 
 
 " I was thinking of trying the country a bit." 
 
 "Well, that's business. That's better than the city. 
 I was raised on a farm, and sometimes I wish I had 
 never left it." 
 
 John Wade had sixteen dollars saved ; he had not spent 
 for luxuries since Angeline died. 
 
 " I will leave ten with the baby," he said, " and take 
 the remaining six for expenses." Then he began making 
 arrangements. 
 
 He found a man and wife who would move into his 
 place in the little house, and keep a lookout for his things 
 and leave Mrs. McLennan undisturbed in her room. 
 The rent was not very high, and they had the use of his 
 furniture for nothing. Then he went over to see Mrs. 
 Belden at the nursery. 
 
Differences 235 
 
 " I want to go out into the country to look for work," 
 he explained. "I wonder if you could keep Joe here. 
 I can leave ten dollars to pay for his keeping until I can 
 send some more." 
 
 Mrs. Belden hesitated. It was against the rules of the 
 creche to keep children over night. 
 
 "I can take him home nights with me," said Sadie. 
 " He won't be the slightest trouble." « 
 
 " Have you a good place for him to sleep ? " 
 
 " Come around and see for yourself," said the girl, who 
 was proud of her neat little home. 
 
 So the matter was arranged, the father agreeing to pay 
 a regular sum, part of which was to come out of the ten 
 dollars. 
 
 The next morning John Wade brought over all the little 
 wardrobe and a few keepsakes from Angeline. " I will 
 feel they are safer in your hands than with strangers," he 
 said. He seemed to keep thinking of things to tell Sadie. 
 It was hard to go. 
 
 " Good-bye, young man." He brought himself to it at 
 last, taking the child up in his arms. " Dada won't come 
 back for a long time." 
 
 He held the small face to his, and kissed it tenderly. 
 They had never seen him do so before. He was not a 
 man to display his affection. 
 
 " I will come back for Joe when I can. I promise to 
 come back just as soon as I am able." 
 
 Then he handed the child over to Sadie. " It's hard 
 to leave him," he said to Mrs. Belden, simply, and turned 
 and went out of the room. On the stairs he seemed to 
 fumble as a blind man does in walking, but the stairway 
 was unusually dark. 
 
 " Look at the window," shouted Sadie ; and when he 
 was out on the street, he heard her calling again. She 
 
236 Differences 
 
 was holding baby Joe in her arms, shaking his hands in a 
 good-bye to Dada. The tears were running down her nose 
 and her cheeks, her shoulders were shaking with sobs. 
 
 Both Genevieve and Hester were away. Hester had 
 gone to New York, — there was talk that she was going to 
 Germany, — - and Genevieve was staying at home for a few 
 days. Her mother was ill, and she was needed. John 
 Wade had left her a letter. It was as well, he said, that 
 he should not see her. The short note was natural 
 enough : — 
 
 " Dear Friend, — I am going into the country to find 
 work. I have left Joe with Mrs. Belden and Sadie. I 
 left ten dollars to pay on his board till I can send more. 
 I will come back for him as soon as I am able and take 
 him away with me. I do not intend to live any more in 
 Chicago. I hope that you will always be happy. 
 
 " Respectfully yours, 
 
 "John Wade." 
 
 He went back to the lonely little house, and continued 
 his preparations and packing. The new tenants were to 
 come in that afternoon, but he did not care to stay and 
 welcome them. He put on his strongest working shirt, 
 and rolled another with a pair of socks and some hand- 
 kerchiefs into a small parcel, wrapping it well up in a 
 newspaper and binding it securely with twine. He spent 
 some time with this parcel, for now it represented all of 
 his belongings. 
 
 Then he said good-bye to Mrs. McLennan, giving her 
 a little teapot that had been his wife's for a present. He 
 knew that she had always admired it. He left the key 
 on the table, and went out, softly closing the door. He 
 had tried to eat a light lunch, but found that he was not 
 hungry. 
 
Differences 237 
 
 A street-car took him to the west limits of the city, and 
 thence he set out to walk on the level road that stretched 
 out on the prairie. The day was a changing one in April, 
 gray clouds and occasional sunshine. The straggling 
 houses of the road — half city, half country, in their archi- 
 tecture — looked awkward and inhospitable enough. That 
 night he would try boarding a freight car. He would walk 
 to some insignificant station, and get on under cover of 
 darkness. There was less danger of being arrested out- 
 side of the city. There were no policemen to be watch- 
 ing his movements. 
 
 Dreary and flat and gray the country road stretched out 
 before him. Behind him were home and the city. Be- 
 hind him were his baby Joe, with Sadie, and the flower-bed 
 grave of Angeline within the walls of the Calvary Ceme- 
 tery. Behind him, too, was Genevieve Radcliffe, the 
 woman who had been his friend and whom he loved. 
 When he had been near her, his life had been restless and 
 in torture. Now that he was going away, that he was 
 never to see her again, a great peace settled upon him. 
 When once man's despair is complete, there is a wonder- 
 ful comfort comes to him. It is when he still hopes that 
 he suffers. 
 
 The road was long and dreary ; behind him was the 
 home of the city. John Wade walked on toward the 
 distance without organized thoughts or feelings, like one 
 who is stunned by a shock. 
 
 The tree was torn up by the roots. Would it live or 
 die in the transplanting ? 
 
XXXII. 
 
 THE sun shivered into a bank of cold damp clouds 
 toward evening, and the night gave promise of 
 wind and rain. To John Wade the weather had 
 never before seemed so important. It occupied the best 
 part of his thoughts. In the city he had used to remark 
 that it would rain or it would clear, and then think no 
 more about it. Now he found himself asking the ques- 
 tion continually, and with as much fervour as if it had been, 
 " Shall I find work or shall I be turned away again ? " It 
 was so helpless out here on the road, where there were no 
 lodging-houses or restaurants. Even a saloon would be 
 welcome. 
 
 Then the dark came on, and there were no lamps in the 
 street. The shadows crept like ghosts behind him. John 
 Wade had never thought of himself as a coward. He had 
 even liked the quiet of Goose Island, and laughed when 
 his companions had pronounced it lonely ; but on Goose 
 Island there were always the lights of Division street, the 
 lights of other streets as well, branching off among the 
 lighted houses. It was often said that thieves and crimi- 
 nals lived there ; but, after all, thieves and criminals are 
 men. And here there were no men, only shadows and 
 mysterious silence. If he might only meet a woman or a 
 child, a dog or a cat, anything to remind him of people. 
 Thinking of dogs led him, naturally enough, to wolves ; 
 and he wondered if they inhabited this country. He was 
 frightened out of reason and knowledge. The next day, 
 with the sun shining plainly on everything, he knew that 
 he would laugh at such fears. Even now he would antici- 
 pate the laughter, and began a hearty guffaw; but his 
 voice startled him in the silence, and was scared into a 
 husky whisper. Then he tried to sing or to whistle, but 
 
Differences 239 
 
 neither of these comforts succeeded : it only drew atten- 
 tion to his solitude, and called unknown dangers from the 
 shadows around him. He next tried thinking for diver- 
 sion. In the city he had not allowed himself to think : 
 the misery it brought was unendurable. Out here in the 
 lonely darkness even the misery of thinking would be wel- 
 come. But he could not think : he tried and tried, but 
 for failure. Genevieve Radcliffe's face, how she had 
 looked on some occasion, how her voice had sounded and 
 soothed him, what she had said exactly, what she had 
 probably meant, — one after another he called them up 
 and tried to remember, but found it was of no avail. 
 Not even his thoughts would torture him. His memory 
 would not dwell on things past. All his will was set on 
 attention, — the attention to the darkness of the night and 
 the possibilities behind him. 
 
 It was still early in the evening, though it seemed to 
 him as if it must be midnight, when he came to the wel- 
 come lights of a town. There were people, too, in the 
 streets. There were gasoline street lamps on the corners, 
 and the lights streamed out from the windows. A little 
 grocery store was open. Some men were sitting there 
 talking, and he went in to buy him some supper. The 
 men all stopped talking to look at him. He had never 
 had this happen to him before. Could it be that they 
 saw he had been frightened ? He looked to see if his 
 clothes were disarranged, and tried to get a glance in a 
 mirror ; but there was no mirror in the store, save a little 
 one high up in the back over a shelf, with a pail of water 
 and a dipper. He had not the courage to go up and look 
 into that, so contented himself with wiping his face with 
 his handkerchief, paying for his biscuits and sausage, and 
 walking out into the road. How pleasant it would have 
 been to sit and eat in the store, under the influence of 
 
240 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 lights and of voices, if the men had been like men he had 
 known I But these were strange and repellent. They 
 looked at him curiously until he looked at them ; and 
 then they glanced away uneasily, and tried to make show 
 that they had not been looking. 
 
 On the street he speculated on it. Why had they 
 looked at him so ? Perhaps men in the country were 
 different. They were unaccustomed to strangers, and 
 wondered who every one was ; but in that case why did 
 they not ask him ? Nothing would have pleased him 
 more than the question. He was at bursting-point with 
 confidences and lonesomeness. Moreover, there was a 
 chance of their knowing of work. But no : they seemed 
 to look at him coldly. They had not been interested in 
 him as a fellow-being. It was as if he were some foreign 
 creature. Then it came to him that it was because he 
 was a tramp in their eyes, — perhaps a convict or a 
 criminal. That was the way they had looked at him, — 
 as if they were recalling all the descriptions in the police 
 reports of the newspaper. No longer were the lights any 
 company. He hated meeting people on the sidewalk, 
 and crossed the street once to avoid some men on the 
 corner. 
 
 The railroad station was at the farther end of the 
 village, — an ugly little shed, with a platform and some 
 freight cars drawn up on a side-track. It was here he 
 would try boarding a train. He looked about, to see if 
 any one was watching. 
 
 There was no one about the place, evidently, save the 
 agent who was in the little office. It was a good time to 
 eat a bit of supper while waiting for the chance of a train. 
 
 John Wade was hungry as well as tired. He walked 
 along the cars on the side-track, looking for a comfort- 
 able place to sit that would shelter him from the night 
 
D i f i e r e n c e s 241 
 
 and conceal him in case any one should happen along. 
 All of the box-cars were locked and sealed ; but there 
 was one open car for coal, and he climbed up into that. 
 It was empty, save for a half-inch of coal-dust, but, at 
 any rate, was something like a house. All it really 
 lacked was a roof. He stretched out his legs on the 
 coal-dust of the floor, began opening his parcel of biscuits 
 and sausage, and told himself that the day had gone well. 
 
 After supper came the comfort of the pipe, and with it 
 more rational thoughts. He had not brought the meer- 
 schaum that Genevieve Radcliffe had given him. That 
 had been left with Sadie, along with his other treasures. 
 A short apple-wood here answered the purpose very well. 
 The fire was close under his nose, but even the uncom- 
 fortable proximity had something of companionship in it. 
 Blessed be that comrade, the pipe I If it is vicious, then 
 let vices be blest. 
 
 Wade was more rational now. The four walls of the car, 
 — were they not the four walls of his house ? The sky, — 
 was it not his roof ? If rain should come in the night, 
 could he not crawl under the car ? Then his bundle of 
 possessions was with him. He had started out seeking 
 his fortune. 
 
 Gradually the soothings of nicotine were assisted by 
 weariness and sleep. He was very cold as he slept. 
 There was a consciousness of moisture and the binding 
 and twisting of clothes. Most of all there were vague, 
 troublesome dreams; but, for all that, the traveller slept. 
 The loneliness and fears were forgotten. 
 
 It must have been about three o'clock in the morning 
 when he was awakened by the rushing of a train. One or 
 two had gone by before this, but they were passengers or 
 else going the wrong way. This he saw was a freight, 
 and was headed away from Chicago. Hastily he scram- 
 
242 D i f f e rences 
 
 bled up, fastened the laces of his shoes which he had 
 loosened to relieve the aching of his feet, and, making 
 sure of his bundle and the remainder of the biscuits and 
 sausage, he climbed down from his house-car and ran for 
 the train. He was on the side away from the station. 
 He remembered having heard that this was a good point, 
 as the conductor always kept on the station side. He 
 ran up and down, looking for a place to get on. It 
 seemed a long line of box-cars that were carefully locked 
 and sealed. If he could only find an open car like the 
 one in which he had slept ! He ran till he reached the 
 caboose, but there was not a place to be found. Then he 
 started back toward the engine. Was it possible that he 
 could not find a place ? On the other side of the train 
 a man was coming with a lantern. It was probably the 
 conductor returning from the engine. Wade did not 
 think to stop and let the man pass him, he was in such 
 haste to search all the train. He did stop when the man 
 got almost opposite, but too late. He had been heard, 
 and was caught. 
 
 " Hey there ! What are you doing over there ? " a 
 gruff voice called out angrily. 
 
 Wade stood still, hardly breathing. 
 
 " Hey there 1 Where are you going there ? " The man 
 moved as if to step in between the cars. 
 
 "I'm just going down here," said Wade, humbly and 
 sullenly. 
 
 " Well, don't try any monkey work getting onto this 
 train. I'll have you arrested in the next town." And, 
 with a few oaths to make the threat emphatic, the man 
 tramped on toward the caboose. 
 
 Wade did not give up. He would board the train if 
 he could ; and he started to run toward the engine, looking 
 for a place to climb on. All box-cars, and all of them 
 
D i f f e rences 243 
 
 locked ! He would be discovered if he tried to ride on 
 top. The brakemen were always walking back and forth. 
 Then slowly the train began to move, and still he had not - 
 caught up with the engine. He put forth all his efforts 
 to see if he could not find one car. Where he ran were 
 coarse cinders and stones. Just as he came up to the 
 engine and saw that the last car was closed, he stepped 
 into a crossing-guard for cattle, made of slats and barbed 
 wire, stretched over a pit. He was thrown headlong, full 
 on his face. He jumped up, and staggered back from the 
 lumbering wheels as the great cars increased in their 
 speed. Still it was in his mind to catch hold, but he 
 could see no possible opportunity. On the rear platform 
 of the caboose, with a lantern in hand, was standing the 
 man who had hailed him. Another man was standing 
 beside him. They were looking to see if the. tramp had 
 got aboard ; and they shouted in derision as they saw him, 
 his face black and bleeding as he stood, still staggering 
 on the slats of the trap. 
 
 " Not quite smart enough, hey ? " they laughed as they 
 swung the lantern in his face. " Lucky for you, or you'd 
 been in the jug before morning. No free rides on this 
 train." And their threats were lost in the distance. 
 
 John Wade stood beside the track with the wickedness 
 of a murderer in his heart. If he had had a pistol, he 
 might even have shot at those men, they were so fiendish 
 and brutal in their laughter. Yet he knew, when he 
 stopped to think, that they were but doing their duty ; 
 that he might do the same in their places, especially to 
 a criminal tramp. He was a criminal, a thief : there was 
 not any doubt about that. He had tried to steal some- 
 thing from the railroad company, and justly he had met 
 with repulse. 
 
 He had no humour for going back to his cold bed now 
 
244 D i f f e rences 
 
 in the car, and sullenly decided to walk on after the 
 train. He was a common tramp and a thief, alone and 
 sleepless and hungry. But, whenever he thought of the 
 jeering laughter of those men, there was the fierceness of 
 murder in his blood. 
 
XXXIII. 
 
 IT was much better, indeed, walking along in the 
 night than lying in the cold damp of the car. The 
 exercise made him warm; and his violent anger at 
 the train-men, together with his shame of himself, kept 
 him now from the fear of the shadows that he had ex- 
 perienced before. 
 
 Tramp, tramp, steadily putting one foot ahead of the 
 other, the night would some time end, the day would some 
 time dawn. 
 
 The path on which he walked was smooth and dry, 
 being formed of beaten cinders. On the whole, it was 
 much better than the wagon-road, as it was more direct, 
 and elevated from the surrounding country, thus avoiding 
 the haunting shadows. Moreover, the iron rails and the 
 ties made him think of the city ; and the city was home to 
 him. He loved it passionately already. He had not for- 
 gotten to pick up the parcel of biscuits and sausage which 
 he had thrown when he fell in the cattle-guard. It was a 
 comfort now to be munching. It was more comfort to be 
 smoking afterward. Tramp, tramp, through the dark 
 of the night. He was leaving his life and the city. 
 
 The gray dawn crept in imperceptibly. There were 
 farm-houses scattered about on the flat prairie, and ahead 
 was the smoke of a town. Nothing more dreary and 
 gray and monotonous had he ever seen in the city. He 
 came to the town, passed through it and well into the 
 country again before the sun showed where the east lay. 
 He sat down for a time on the projecting beams of a low 
 culvert bridge, and looked at the morn-tinted clouds. 
 Then he went down to a small pool, washed his face, 
 hands, and neck, and came back to the bridge to comb 
 his hair with the small comb he had in his bundle. There 
 
246 D i f f e rences 
 
 was a tiny mirror, too, that he had brought ; and he exam- 
 ined the scratches and bruises that he had received in his 
 fall. They were not so bad as he had feared, most of the 
 blood having come from his nose. There was an ugly 
 gash over his eye, and the skin was roughed up and raw 
 on one cheek. It seemed that he had fallen on one side. 
 The palms of his hands were lacerated, and the washing 
 made the wounds smart afresh. Still he watched the 
 growth of the dawn. It was the first sunrise he had seen 
 in the country, though he remembered them well when 
 at sea. 
 
 In the course of the forenoon Wade asked two men if 
 they knew where he could get work. One of them was 
 an old man, ploughing. The old man spoke very little 
 English ; and, besides, he was hard of hearing. Finally, 
 he seemed to understand ; but he did not know of any 
 work. The second man was a young fellow driving to 
 the town to get a plough sharpened. He looked at Wade 
 curiously. 
 
 " No, there's no work in the country," he said. " Where 
 did you come from ? Chicago ? Well, you'd better go 
 back, if you did. Why, people are going from here there 
 all the time to get work. I'm thinking of going myself. 
 I understand that a driver there gets as much as two dol- 
 lars a day." He seemed interested only in himself and 
 in the chance of his going to Chicago. 
 
 Late in the afternoon Wade passed a man drawing 
 water from a well that was very near to the railroad. 
 
 " Hello, Bill I " called the man, good-naturedly. " What 
 is the matter with you that you're walking ? " 
 
 Wade explained that he was looking for work. 
 
 " Oh, well, don't be hoofing it so. Just take a cheap 
 ride on a freight." 
 
 " It's too much like stealing," said Wade. " I tried it 
 last night, and I felt like a thief when they caught me." 
 
D i f f e rences 24; 
 
 " Oh, you don't know the ropes. You can pay if you 
 want to. Just go on a mile down the road to where you 
 see the water tank yonder. Wait there till the evening 
 freight comes along. It will come in an hour or so. 
 Then, when the conductor is out of sight, just tell the 
 brakeman that you will give him a quarter for a ride. 
 Have you got any money ? " 
 
 " I've got five dollars and five cents," said John Wade. 
 
 " Well, don't tell the brakeman that. Tell him a quar- 
 ter is all that you've got. He'll let you ride for that-, and 
 you'll need the rest later on." 
 
 Sure enough, after Wade had waited an hour at 
 the tank, along came the evening freight. The engine 
 stopped to take water, and Wade looked about for a 
 brakeman. He found one near the middle of the train. 
 
 " I'll give you a quarter for a ride," he said. 
 
 " Not enough. I want half a dollar," said the brake- 
 man. He was a young fellow, and seemed very good- 
 natured. 
 
 " A quarter is all I have got," said John Wade. 
 
 "Oh, yes? All right. But keep a lookout for the 
 conductor," said the brakeman, holding his hand for the 
 money. 
 
 " First show me where I'm to ride." 
 
 " Oh, you needn't be so suspicious. I'm a man of my 
 word," growled the young fellow, not liking the doubt of 
 his honour. " Climb on those stones. Keep your head 
 well down. The train will stop at a town about five miles 
 ahead ; and, when I whistle, you tumble down and run back 
 to a box-car that is half full of lumber. Watch sharp that 
 you're not seen by the conductor." 
 
 Wade handed him the quarter, and climbed up on to 
 the stone. Another man was hiding there already, a 
 rusty tramp of the road, who looked as if he had been 
 drinking. 
 
248 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 " Heads down I " shouted the brakeman ; and the train 
 pulled away from the water tank. 
 
 " How much did you pay ? " asked the tramp. 
 
 " A quarter," said Wade, curtly. 
 
 " Hell ! He got forty cents out of me." 
 
 Then each retired to his own thoughts. Ah, how deli- 
 cious it was to lie on the hard, shaking blocks of stone 
 and enjoy the rest from the weariness in his bones I 
 
 The long train swung through the mild evening air. 
 The landscape glided behind them. How different if they 
 had been walking, step by step, painful and plodding and 
 weary 1 The train stopped in time at the station, and the 
 brakeman came back calling them. 
 
 " Down, and run back six cars," he said. " Get into 
 the seventh. The door is part open. Cut ! " 
 
 Wade and the tramp clambered down, and ran as if for 
 their lives. Sure enough, the door of the car was open. 
 They climbed in and crawled back on some lumber. 
 
 Then the brakeman found time to look in. " This car 
 will stop at the junction, and stand on the side-track all 
 night. Then it will be pulled on to Stanley. If you 
 happen to be going that way, stick to it." Then he closed 
 the door, and they saw no more of him at all. 
 
 " How far is the junction ? " John Wade asked of the 
 tramp. 
 
 " About forty miles, I guess. Good pay he's getting. 
 Charges a cent a mile." 
 
 " And where is Stanley ? " 
 
 " Oh, that's east and south, down in the mining region. 
 Where are you going ? " he asked. 
 
 " Looking for work," was the reply. 
 
 The tramp looked at him curiously. 
 
 " I am for Denver," he said. 
 
 The tramp was red-faced and coarse, his garments 
 
Di f f e r e n c e s 249 
 
 reeking with filth. There was an ugly leer in his eye. 
 He had cold, fishy eyes, with little expression. The leer 
 seemed petrified in them. 
 
 John Wade wondered if he might ever have become 
 like this. Suppose he had not left off drinking or had not 
 known Genevieve Radcliffe. But no : the idea was pre- 
 posterous. Even if he had drunk himself to death, he 
 would never have been like this man. Coarseness of 
 nature is deeper than drink, or deeper than love, if that 
 may be. 
 
 The tramp told about riding on the trucks underneath 
 the car, how the wind and the dust from the flying 
 ground beat up and cut holes in his face and loaded his 
 hair and features with mud, how the muscles of the arms 
 and legs clinched and set till he hung there like a piece 
 of wood. It seemed impossible to let go, and he was sur- 
 prised that he was able to do so when the cars had come 
 to a stop. Many men fell off, and were killed. Those 
 who hung on were hammered with the motion of the 
 trucks and pounded with the flying stones and sand till 
 they were more like lumps of beefsteak than men. This 
 tramp had taken such a ride only two days before. Then 
 a farmer had given him half a dollar, and to-day he was 
 taking things easy. No wonder that his face was still 
 red. He had not been able to eat : the whiskey was all 
 he could touch. Wade listened half breathless, and forgot 
 his own troubles in thinking. Here was a man but little 
 higher physically than a worm ; and yet he was talking 
 the language of men, and perhaps with the feeling of 
 men. 
 
 It must have been near ten o'clock when their car was 
 side-tracked at the junction. The tramp slipped out to 
 look for a chance to go on, and Wade made ready for sleep. 
 To-night he was thankful for a roof, and he stretched him- 
 
250 D i f f e rences 
 
 self out on the sweet-smelling lumber. Train-men were 
 passing with lanterns all the night, and he was in constant 
 dread of discovery. There was not the slightest chance 
 that they would find him. He simply had the hunted 
 criminal feeling. Restlessly and feverishly he slept, dream- 
 ing of the tramps on the trucks. 
 
 The gray dawn was stealing into the car, chilling even 
 more than the darkness, when a backing train bumped up 
 with a crash, and drove the man lying in a stupor full six 
 feet sliding on the boards. Then, after various shakings 
 and bumpings, the train was fully made up ; and again they 
 were in steady motion. It was light enough to look out 
 now, and John Wade could see that they were travelling 
 through flat country more dreary than that he had known 
 yesterday. Was it possible that he had not been two 
 days out of Chicago ? It seemed to him as if it had been 
 years. 
 
 The sun was up full two hours when a brakeman 
 opened a sliding door at the top, and slipped himself into 
 the car. He was seeking a quiet place for breakfast, and 
 chanced on the hiding man. 
 
 " Hullo I " he said good-naturedly, evincing little sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " Good-morning," said Wade. 
 
 " When did you get on ? " 
 
 " A brakeman put me on yesterday evening forty miles 
 down the main road." 
 
 " Oh," good-naturedly beginning on his breakfast. 
 
 " How much did you tip him ? " he asked. 
 
 " A quarter." 
 
 " Very little. Got another quarter for me ? " 
 
 "I'm looking for work, and haven't any money to 
 spare." 
 
 " But riding is cheaper than walking." 
 
Differences 251 
 
 " Well, here is a quarter," said Wade. " How far are 
 you going to take me ? " 
 
 " To Stanley. Have a bite of bread and ham ? There 
 is more here than I can get rid of." 
 
 Then they sat talking and eating together. It was 
 worth the quarter for the company. 
 
 " We'll be in soon, and I must pull out," said the 
 brakeman, making ready to go. 
 
 "You won't get any work in Stanley. There is a 
 strike on here at the mines. Better take the evening 
 freight, and go south. Get off as soon as the train slows 
 up. There will be a crowd around the station." 
 
 He slipped out, half closing the door. 
 
XXXIV. 
 
 THE town of Stanley was as if one of the most 
 forlorn districts of Chicago had been picked up 
 bodily and dropped, with some shaking and scat- 
 tering in the process, upon a flat, gray, smoky plain, 
 relieved only by huge piles of blue clay and cinders, with 
 grim iron derricks and chimneys. Even the sky here was 
 barren, and scorned fleecy clouds or clear colors. 
 
 There was evidence of rebellion in the town. Sullen- 
 mouthed men, foreigners chiefly, stood about in defiant 
 groups. 
 
 To a man who was looking for work nothing could 
 be more hopeless or disheartening. The ugly chimneys 
 would not even smoke. The doors were closed to the 
 engine-houses. 
 
 " Looking for a job," grumbled one mai* in answer to 
 a question. " There's four thousand men in your fix in 
 this town, and they're tramping all over the country." 
 
 Wade sat down in the shade of one of the elevators, 
 and tried to think it all over. First he counted his 
 money. 
 
 "I am hungry and sick from exposure and cold of 
 these two nights," he said to himself crossly, at last. " I 
 am really making a fool of myself. I must go and get 
 something to eat." 
 
 He jumped up so quickly that it made his head dizzy, 
 and walked over into the town. The brakeman had said 
 that the freight would come in the evening, so he might 
 well make himself comfortable until then. He found an 
 eating-house for workingmen, and went in and got a 
 breakfast from the slatternly woman in charge. 
 
 After he had eaten, he went off by himself, and sat 
 down under a water tank by the car-tracks. His pipe was 
 
Differences 253 
 
 comfortable and soothing. The warm day lulled him to 
 sleep. His drowsy napping was interrupted by a negro, 
 who had also come to wait for the freight. 
 
 When at length the heavy train pulled in and had come 
 to a stop, a brakeman came running toward them. 
 
 " Have a ride ? " he asked. " Fifty cents for a full 
 hundred miles. This train goes clear to Fort Madison." 
 
 " A quarter," said John Wade. 
 
 "No. Fifty cents or no go, and I look that there 
 isn't any stealing." 
 
 The negro agreed, and paid his money. 
 
 Wade was sick of the place, and saw no other way out 
 of it. " All right," he said, giving the money. " Show 
 us where to get on." 
 
 " Wait till the train is ready to pull out, then get into 
 the coal car there," said the brakeman. " It is the seventh 
 car ahead of this. Keep an eye out for the conductor." 
 
 He left them ; and they waited their chance, counting 
 the cars as the train pulled slowly by them. John Wade 
 thought that there might not be any open coal car, and 
 that the brakeman might have wanted only their money ; 
 but the negro said it would be all right, and the seventh 
 car was open, as he said. The train was running good 
 speed when the car came even with them. They made a 
 jump for it, however, aiming to catch on the sides. The 
 negro failed to make it, but John Wade got his hands on 
 the edge. The momentum of the train gave him a terrible 
 wrench, and his body swung out like a pendulum until he 
 could recover and clamber in. He hoped that the negro 
 had not fallen under the wheels. It might have happened 
 as likely as not. John Wade crouched down breathless, 
 and waited. The train seemed to be slowing up. They 
 were switching on to a side-track. Supposing the empty 
 car should be left. What could be more natural than 
 
254 Differences 
 
 leaving an empty coal car in this coal mining town ? He 
 heard some one clambering into the car, and thought he 
 had been discovered. But it was only the negro get- 
 ting in. 
 
 " I had a narrow escape," he said in his thick voice as 
 he lay down on the floor of the car. " When I fell, the 
 car-wheels brushed my fingers. A quarter of an inch, 
 and they would have pinched me." He held up his 
 hands, and looked at the whole fingers half humourously. 
 
 "Look out for the bumping," he whispered, bracing 
 himself as if for a shock, and sprawling out on his back 
 in the coal dust. 
 
 The backing train crashed up against their car, and 
 they went ploughing head first through the coal chips. 
 The dust rose, and settled thick on them. Then the 
 train pulled up again, the loud clanking of the couplings 
 running along the train as it started being succeeded by 
 the humming and grinding of the wheels. 
 
 Once more they were left on the side-track, the engine 
 puffing off without them. 
 
 " We shall get left yet," said John Wade. 
 
 "Oh, that brakeman is all right. Don't you worry 
 about him," said the negro. " He said get into the 
 seventh car, and the seventh car will go. Men can be 
 trusted to keep their word." 
 
 John Wade felt the rebuke, and waited till the engine 
 should come back. Four times they were switched off 
 on the side, and four times the shoving cars pounded 
 back. The two men slid about on the bottom of their car, 
 ploughing their heads into the coal dust. Their clothes, 
 hair, and features were filled with the clogging stuff. 
 They were bruised and scratched up with slivers. Once 
 John Wade wanted to get up in a corner and brace him- 
 self for the shock, but the negro advised him not. There 
 
Differences 255 
 
 was danger of serious bruises. He lay taking the forced 
 slidings philosophically, telling off the probable car that 
 they would leave. 
 
 " You see there's a strike on here," he said, " and they 
 won't leave empty coal cars in this town." 
 
 Sometimes men came running along the track. They 
 were afraid they might see them through the cracks and 
 kept as flat as possible. Once a man jumped on the car. 
 It was the friendly face of their brakeman. 
 
 " Lay low," he said reassuringly, and then leaped down 
 to the ground. 
 
 The sky was dark before they pulled out of Stanley, 
 and the two men could dare to sit up. 
 
XXXV. 
 
 A THIN fog was gathering over the plain, promis- 
 ing disagreeable chills for the night. The clank- 
 ing cars slipped along through the darkness 
 bearing them away from Chicago, farther and farther 
 away. 
 
 " We are a hundred miles now," said the negro ; and 
 John Wade never questioned that he knew. 
 
 About nine o'clock, shortly after they had left a little 
 village, the train came to a sudden stop. 
 
 " What's the matter now ? " said the negro. 
 
 There were sounds of other engines ahead. The open 
 car in which the two men lay was only the fifth from the 
 tender, and they could distinctly hear voices of men. 
 The bells, too, were steadily ringing, — the bells of two 
 engines, they were sure. 
 
 Then the conductor and brakeman came along, carry- 
 ing lanterns, their feet crunching in the cinders at the side 
 of the track. They were going ahead to reconnoitre, and 
 our two men listened to catch their words. 
 
 " An accident, I guess," said the negro. " We may be 
 hung up here for all night." 
 
 They waited another half-hour. " I'll go ahead and 
 see," he said restlessly, and slipped down from the car to 
 the ground. 
 
 John Wade lay silent, and waited. He was stiff and 
 benumbed with the cold, and still was half drowsy with 
 sleep. 
 
 Later on he heard women crying. A crowd of them 
 was passing the car. He listened awake for some time, 
 and the bells kept ringing steadily. Was it the knell of a 
 dead engineer? 
 
 The negro came back in an hour, and crept into the 
 corner of the car. 
 
Differences 257 
 
 " A collision," he said briefly, " of two freights. The 
 engines are badly stove up, and one engineer and two 
 firemen are killed. Some of their women have come out 
 from the town." 
 
 " Is that why they are tolling the bells ? " asked John 
 Wade. 
 
 " No. That's for warning to other trains. I guess 
 that's what kept our train from smashing into them." 
 
 " When will we go on ? " 
 
 " In a few hours, the men seem to think. I guess we 
 have got to stick it out." 
 
 They lay silent for some time, listening to the tolling 
 bells and thinking of the three men who were dead. 
 
 " This fog will freeze us stiff," said the negro. 
 
 " Come over and let us lie up close together," said John 
 Wade. " We will help to warm each other." 
 
 The negro left his corner, and clumsily lay down by the 
 white man. Accidentally, their hands came together. 
 
 " Why, you are stiff as a board," the negro said, with 
 gentleness in his voice. " I have been warmed by run- 
 ning around." 
 
 " I am cold," said John Wade, dully. 
 
 The negro moved up close to him. 
 
 " Turn on your side with your back to me," he said. 
 
 Then, as the white man did so, the negro put his strong 
 arm over to shelter him, and held him in close, warming 
 embrace. He was a big man with strong animal warmth, 
 and no doubt there was something of it in his heart. 
 
 John Wade did not think of the difference, covered 
 with coal dust as he was. He himself was as black as 
 his companion. He was very grateful for the warmth 
 received from him, and soon was dozing in fitful sleep. 
 
 The bed must have been more comfortable than they 
 thought, for there was a grayness of dawn in the fog when 
 
258 Differences 
 
 he was wakened by some one climbing into the car. The 
 negro was still sleeping soundly, and his arm gripped as 
 tight as a vise. 
 
 " Hey there 1 " called the brakeman, cautiously. " Wake 
 up 1 lively there ! We are going on pretty quick. This 
 car's going to be left. Run ahead, and get into the rack 
 of the cattle car. It's the seventh car ahead of this. Be 
 lively, and keep on that side of the train." 
 
 The negro had waked in a moment, and had heard 
 every word that he said. 
 
 " Come on I " he said to John Wade, and was over the 
 side of the car in an instant. 
 
 As the train was about to start, they ran along, count- 
 ing the cars — " three, four, five, six, seven " — as they 
 ran. 
 
 " Where is the door ? " asked Wade, when they reached 
 the cattle car which the brakeman had indicated. 
 
 " Lively ! lively ! The engineer will see you," called 
 the brakeman on the opposite side. 
 
 The negro sprang up the ladder, and crept along on 
 the top of the car, Wade following him without question. 
 There was a sliding door which the negro slipped back. 
 
 " In with you ! " he said in a whisper. 
 
 John crept in without even looking where he was 
 going. The negro followed close after, and closed the 
 sliding trap-door behind him. Then there was time to 
 breathe and look around. 
 
 It was a curious situation in which Wade found him- 
 self. He was lying flat on his belly on a dusty plank 
 eighteen inches wide that ran the full length of the car 
 immediately under the ridge board. This roof, indeed, 
 could not have been more than eighteen inches above the 
 plank on which he lay. His head struck against it when 
 he raised it, and he could not turn his shoulders to roll 
 
Differences 259 
 
 over on his back. Below, on each side of the dusty 
 plank, the slight poles of a hay-rack sloped off. They 
 were fully six inches apart, and between them poked the 
 restless horns of the cattle. The man lay close on the 
 board, trembling with fear that he might be punctured. 
 
 " Hang on 1 " called the negro at his feet ; and just then 
 the backing train struck them. 
 
 The shocks were violent, but both men clung tight; 
 and in a little time the bumping and backing were over, 
 and the train was rolling steadily southward. 
 
 " I guess these are poor cattle that they are shipping 
 West to feed," called the negro from Wade's feet. " If 
 there's a full train of them, we're in for a good hundred 
 miles or maybe a hundred and fifty. They were delayed 
 by a wreck up the road last night, and can't be fed till 
 they get to the yards." 
 
 Wade ventured to shift his head enough to look over 
 the edge of his plank on to the restless beasts. Cattle 
 were wilder than lions to him. He had at least seen the 
 lions at the Zoo. The hairy, big-eyed creatures seemed 
 peaceful and quiet enough as they stood crowded close 
 up together. Only when one was in danger of losing his 
 footing, through the pushing of others or the swaying of 
 the car, did the wild look come into his eyes and his ugly 
 horns begin tossing. The men lay close over the heads 
 of the cattle, — there was little hay in the racks, — and 
 they could feel the breath of their sighs and gruntings. 
 Worst of all, they must endure the humid, close stench 
 that steamed up from the filth in which they were 
 standing. 
 
 Poor, patient, weary beasts, what did they think of this 
 journey? They endured it in their brutelike stolidity. 
 Wade endured it in much the same way. The sun came 
 out hot in the sky and heated the boards of the car-roof 
 
260 D i f f e rences 
 
 till the stifling sickened him ; and he lay on his face half 
 unconscious, like a man in a fever. 
 
 Sometimes one of the staggering cattle would lie 
 down, as if trying to get some relief ; and then, since 
 this crowded the others, there was danger of their tramp- 
 ling upon him, punching their sharp hoofs through the 
 stretching and groaning hide. 
 
 When the cars stopped at the stations, the owners of 
 the cattle would come with sharp bradded poles, and 
 poke the fainting animal till he got up. Sometimes one 
 was loath to arise, and the cursing and exasperated men 
 would beat him and twist his tail on a stick till the 
 torture forced him up. 
 
 Wade and the negro kept very still for fear they should 
 be discovered and put off. Steadily the train bore them 
 southward. As the negro had said would be the case, 
 there was little delay at the stations. They were in 
 haste to get the cattle to the yards to let them rest and 
 feed. Sometimes they were side-tracked for a train, a 
 passenger, flying to the city, bearing well-dressed and 
 comfortable people. Wade was ashamed to meet such 
 now. He felt like a worm which, perhaps, has once been 
 a man. The negro spoke to him occasionally, but both 
 were too listless to converse. 
 
 It must have been three o'clock when the train slowed 
 up to enter a city. They could not see outside, but they 
 knew from the noise and the bustle that it must be a city 
 of some size. The train came to a stop for a time, and 
 then the cattle cars were backed on a switch and run off 
 into a quieter place. 
 
 The negro had been peeping out for some time, waiting 
 for a chance to escape. 
 
 " Get away from the train-men and conductor first," he 
 said. " The men at the yards will not care." 
 
Differences 261 
 
 The negro slid back the door, and crawled out into the 
 blinding light. Wade followed him, taking with him his 
 precious bundle. It was so delicious to be out in the 
 light and cool air. The train had passed through the 
 city, and they were now in the stock-yards, well on one 
 side. 
 
 " Why are you turning that way ? " asked the negro, 
 when he noticed the direction Wade was taking. " The 
 town is over this way." 
 
 " I'm not going to the town," replied John Wade. 
 "I'm going into the country to look for work." 
 
 " What I Are you going to leave the road here ? " 
 
 " Yes. After this I'm going to foot it or pay." 
 
 " Got enough of the road, eh ? " And the negro smiled 
 a sickly smile. 
 
 " I've got enough of beating my way." 
 
 " Well, I'm for the city to get something to eat." 
 
 " I don't want anything to eat just now. I first want a 
 bath and a walk." 
 
 " Well, good-bye," said the negro, kindly. 
 
 " Good-bye," said Wade, giving his hand. 
 
 The hands gripped strongly, and held for a moment. 
 Then the two men walked opposite ways. Neither had 
 learned the other's occupations or desires. Neither knew 
 of the other's name. They had been companions but a 
 few hours, and yet each seemed to know the other per- 
 fectly. And now they would never meet again. 
 
 There was something of the sweetness of parting in 
 John Wade's heart as he turned into the first country 
 road that he came to, and began tramping toward the 
 fresh green of trees. 
 
XXXVI. 
 
 THE country that lay out before John Wade was 
 very different from all that he had seen heretofore. 
 There were low hills here, with occasional ledges 
 of rock cropping out amid the fresh green of spring 
 woods. The landscape was basking lazily in the clear 
 sunlight. The man, as he tramped along the road, filled 
 with the filth of his ride and the sickening hot smell of 
 the cattle, felt that he was defiling the dust that he trod 
 on. After he had walked some two miles, he came to 
 a clear wooded stream ; and, creeping under a fence, he 
 made his way into a place of seclusion, and looked about 
 for a good place to bathe. He soon found a place that 
 was all he could ask. The water was clear and bright, 
 and was rippling over a shallow old road. There were 
 clear stones that he could stjand on. The sheltering trees 
 shut him in. 
 
 He laid down his highly prized parcel, and opened it 
 out before him. How fresh and dainty it looked I Who 
 would have thought it would have kept so immaculate ? 
 Then he proceeded to take off the stiffened garments he 
 had on, and stepped into the cool flowing water. How 
 delicious the soft trickling waves I How it cleansed him, 
 and made him anew 1 
 
 The bath ended, he put on his clean shirt and socks, 
 beating the dust out of his other garments as well as he 
 could. He folded the soiled things away, and arranged 
 the soap, comb, and razor. When the parcel was made 
 up again and he was quite dressed and ready, he climbed 
 out into the open, and set forth once more on the road. 
 
 Darkness came upon him before he had found a place 
 to sleep. During the afternoon a kindly, gray-haired 
 woman had given him a substantial meal, and refused the 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 263 
 
 money he offered in payment ; but at the first farm-house 
 where he had asked permission to sleep in the barn the 
 farmer's wife had refused, because she was alone. And 
 at the next house a man to whom he had made the same 
 request had not only refused, but had backed up his 
 refusal with threats of a dog and a shot-gun loaded with 
 buck-shot. 
 
 The road brought him at length to a wooded stream, 
 already touched with the darkness and mystery of the 
 night. What if there were robbers there, waiting for 
 him ? He had never felt the tremor of fear when alone 
 in the worst districts of Chicago. Now he would start at 
 the sound of a beetle flying past. 
 
 The dark stream was crossed, however, and he was 
 climbing the bank on the opposite side. A sound of 
 some one pounding close in front of him made his scared 
 heart leap up in his mouth. Cold chills swept over his 
 body and legs, accompanied by a prickling sensation as 
 of every hair standing erect. The pounding was fol- 
 lowed by sounds of voices, the gruff, strong voices of 
 men. Perhaps it was the robbers he had feared. But he 
 did not stop walking straight ahead. 
 
 Once he had gained the bank, he came into an open 
 clearing of the wood. A pleasant scene there met his 
 view. He was fairly in the middle of a farm-yard, the 
 road passing between the house and the barn, the wide 
 gates on each side open. 
 
 The house was a small, two-story frame, the unpainted 
 boards gray and softened with the weathering of time. 
 The roof sloped down over the chamber windows. 
 There was a little porch out in the front, which looked 
 toward the stream and not to the road. The gable of the 
 house faced the road, and a well was close to the kitchen 
 door. An old man had been fixing the windlass. That 
 
264 D i f f e rences 
 
 was the hammering Wade had heard. A watering-trough 
 stood by the well. Some men were just leading horses 
 toward the barn, having come from the trough. The 
 horses' noses were still dripping. All was homelike and 
 peaceful and human. 
 
 John Wade walked toward the old man, who straight- 
 ened up from his work and scanned him narrowly. 
 
 " Could you let me sleep in your barn ? " he asked. 
 
 The old man did not at first understand, and said 
 something in such broken English that Wade could not 
 understand him. The old man was plainly a foreigner, — 
 a peasant from Holland or France. He came forward 
 one or two steps, his feet clumping like wooden legs on 
 the stones. Then Wade saw that he had on huge wooden 
 shoes. He had never seen such shoes before in his life. 
 Above the shoes showed a thin, brown, hairy shank. 
 The old man's blue cotton overalls were rolled up as high 
 as his knees. 
 
 One of the men came over from the barn and joined 
 them, while they still were trying to explain. It was 
 probably the old man's son. 
 
 " Good-evening," he said politely. 
 
 " I was asking him if I might sleep in the barn," the 
 timid traveller explained. 
 
 The young man spoke to the old one in some language 
 Wade had never heard. They conversed for nearly a 
 minute. Then the old man turned to him and smiled, 
 and waved his hand hospitably. " Come in, come in," he 
 said, motioning toward the door. 
 
 Then another person appeared on the scene, the old 
 wife coming for water. 
 
 Wade thought of all the giant stories he had ever read, 
 this woman was so huge and so strong. Clump, clump, 
 she marched in her wooden shoes. She must have been 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 265 
 
 full six feet tall, — the figure and shape of a woman, but 
 boned and muscled like a man, with great log-like wrists 
 and ankles. She wore a blue cotton skirt, cut off short, 
 half-way up to her knees. It was gathered full and 
 bunchy at the hips, and was as short in the back as in 
 the front. Bright-colored stockings with stripes empha- 
 sized the logginess of the ankles. She spoke in a heavy, 
 slow bass, and seemed to be saving supper was ready. 
 She was heavy with fat as well as with muscle and bone, 
 huge and upright as an oak of five centuries. Her great 
 arms were bare to the elbow; and she wore a plaid 
 kerchief on her head, folded cornerwise and tied under 
 her chin. She hardly noticed Wade. He felt like a 
 school-boy before the superintendent. The two men 
 allowed her to draw up the water and carry it into the 
 house without so much as offering assistance. Two more 
 men had joined the group, and were washing themselves 
 at the trough. 
 
 " Do you want to wash ? " said the youngest, the one 
 who had come up first and whom the others spoke to as 
 Anselm. He offered a place at the trough and a large 
 bar of yellow-brown soap. 
 
 John Wade put down his bundle, and proceeded to dip 
 in with the rest. When they had finished, Anselm pulled 
 a plug out of the trough and let the water shoot out on 
 the stones. Then they followed the two others into the 
 house, and waited their turn at the towel, which was 
 large and of coarse brown cloth. The old woman was 
 stalking about the room, her heavy shoes pounding on the 
 bare planks of the floor. She was laying an extra place 
 for the guest, — a bowl, a knife, and a spoon. As soon as 
 the men combed their hair, they sat down to the table and 
 began eating without waiting for the others to join them. 
 Anselm waited for Wade at the mirror, and then combed 
 
266 D i f f e rences 
 
 and parted his wet hair most elaborately, stooping to 
 peer into the dim little glass. 
 
 Wade had time to look about the room. It was large 
 and comfortable-looking, but had little furniture to speak 
 of, — the white deal table in the centre spread with the 
 evening meal, a lounge, and some pots of flowers in the 
 window behind it, a clock on the shelf over a stove. 
 
 " Sit up," said the old man, offering a chair next to 
 himself. Anselm, too, took his place at the table. There 
 was bread cut in chunks by each place, and butter that 
 they passed on a plate. 
 
 " Hold up your dish," said the old man in his broken 
 English ; and he ladled it full to the brim. 
 
 The porridge was of potatoes boiled in milk sauce, not 
 at all disagreeable to one hungry; and the bread was 
 sweet, crusty, and firm. John Wade ate his share with 
 the rest. 
 
 The men had but little to say as they ate. They were 
 big men, all of them; and two of them were bearded. 
 Anselm alone was clean shaven. They were brothers, 
 they said to the guest, and none of them ever had mar- 
 ried. "One of us is thinking of it, though," said the 
 oldest one, whose name was Piet. He winked, and 
 seemed to think it a great joke. " And which one do 
 you think it is ? " he said slyly. 
 
 Anselm colored up red as fire, even under his wet, 
 smooth-parted hair ; but he was good-natured, and tried 
 to laugh it off. 
 
 They spoke in English, all three, and sometimes re- 
 plied in English to their father, who addressed them al- 
 ways in his own tongue. They spoke English as if they 
 were native Americans. " We came over when I was a 
 shaver," said Anselm. 
 
 " France ? " asked John Wade. 
 
D i f f e rences 267 
 
 " Belgium," said the oldest of the brothers. He seemed 
 to be more genial now, and glad that a stranger had come. 
 
 The old woman did not speak any English; but she 
 seemed to understand what they wanted, and showed a 
 grim appreciation of their jokes. 
 
 Still, they had but little to say ; and the supper passed 
 chiefly in silence. 
 
 When they had finished, they pushed back noisily ; and 
 the men began looking for their pipes. 
 
 " Do you smoke ? " asked Piet, offering his pipe. 
 
 " I have a pipe outside," said John Wade. " I stuck it 
 into my bundle." 
 
 " I brought the bundle in," said Anselm. " Here it 
 is," taking it from the shelf. 
 
 They filled their pipes from the common tobacco box 
 which was placed on the table, and Piet brought matches 
 from the shelf. 
 
 " What is you name ? " asked the old man. 
 
 " John Wade." 
 
 " His name is Jan ; Jan Redingus, 'most the same as 
 yours," said the father, pointing to the quietest of the 
 men. " Piet is the oldest, and Jan is second, and Anselm 
 is the baby." This they took as a joke, and again the 
 great clumsy giant blushed. 
 
 The old man had not risen from the table, and his wife 
 was clearing a place before him and wiping the boards 
 with a cloth. When all was ready, Anselm, who had been 
 sitting on the lounge with Wade, got up and brought the 
 lamp from the shelf and set it in front of his father, who 
 was leisurely taking out his spectacles and wiping them 
 on the ball of his thumb. Then Anselm brought a book 
 from the next room, a book worn with use, but in firm, 
 heavy binding. The men went on filling their pipes, and 
 their mother was clearing the table. 
 
268 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 Suddenly the old man began to read very fast and loud, 
 like a priest. He seemed to be reading a lesson of ex- 
 hortation, and went on for as much as five minutes. The 
 family did not stop and make a business of listening, yet 
 all of them seemed to hear. 
 
 When the lesson was finished, the old man turned to 
 the back part of the book, and began reading as if from a 
 prayer. Then he paused, the rest gave the responses, 
 some of them being long and difficult ; but no one made a 
 mistake, and they kept together as one voice. Still, they 
 did not make a business of praying. Clump, clump, went 
 the heavy shoes of the giantess to and from the table and 
 cupboard. Piet was putting on his slippers, and Jan was 
 mending his pipe. Anselm, alone of the three, stretched 
 his huge limbs out on a chair, and gave himself to smoking 
 and listening, leading all of the rest in responses. 
 
 It was' a simple, impressive service, spoken in the un- 
 known language. Wade had not thought so seriously of 
 God and of heaven since he was a youth of some twenty 
 years. 
 
 There was none of the feeling of a strain removed when 
 the old man had finished his reading and the book was 
 carried away. All had been as natural as eating or any 
 other duty of the day. Anselm brought his father's pipe, 
 the mother sat down with her knitting, — it was an enor- 
 mous woollen stocking, — and the men showed disposition 
 to talk. 
 
 They were interested in their guest, and in the city, the 
 place they had heard so much about, that seemed to them 
 the centre of the world. How did men do there ? Was 
 there great suffering among the poor ? Did the rich dine 
 off of gold plates ? Was there a great deal of wickedness 
 and crime ? 
 
 Never had John Wade thought himself eloquent before, 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 269 
 
 but to-night he was all on fire with his eagerness to 
 be entertaining to his hosts. Most naturally, as among 
 simple folk, they asked him of his own life ; and, this being 
 the thread of his story, he told them of city ways and all 
 a man sees and experiences there. 
 
 They were as eager in listening as he in the telling. 
 The younger men leaned forward, and even forgot to draw 
 on their pipes. Sometimes they joked one another about 
 their own ignorance and simplicity. It was always Piet 
 and Jan who joked Anselm, for he had ambitions to try 
 the city for himself. 
 
 The old people wearied first, and went off to bed up the 
 stairs. They left their wooden shoes at the door. It was 
 easier doing the steps in their stocking feet. 
 
 At length the conversation came to a pause. The four 
 men were meditating drowsily, each with his own dif- 
 ferent personal thoughts. 
 
 " Perhaps John is tired," said Anselm. " It is hard 
 work walking the roads." 
 
 John Wade warmed up with gratitude, it was so dear 
 to him to be called John. 
 
 " And it is hard work for you on the farm," he replied. 
 " Now, if you will show me the way to the barn " — 
 
 " Oh, you don't need to sleep in the barn," said Piet. 
 " There is plenty of room in the house. Anselm will 
 make up your bed." 
 
 In fact, Anselm was already bringing out linen and 
 pillows and preparing to make a bed on the lounge. His 
 hands were big and clumsy, yet there was hospitality in 
 all the care he took that the mattress should be very well 
 shaken and the coarse sheets should be laid without 
 creasing. 
 
 " Give him one of my night-shirts," said Jan, " because 
 I am the nearest his size." 
 
270 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 They said good-night when all was ready, and heavily 
 climbed up the stairs. 
 
 John Wade soon put out the light, and lay stretched in 
 the sweet-smelling linen. A roof over his head, a soft 
 bed, and a breakfast in the morning, — all these are 
 animal comforts, and it may be they should be- despised. 
 Perhaps the knowledge of the presence of simple, loyal, 
 and true-strength comrades under the roof is also an 
 animal comfort. We are still a gregarious species. John 
 Wade was but one of a type. 
 
XXXVII. 
 
 THE next morning he did not waken till the woman 
 came in to lay the table for breakfast. He felt a 
 little embarrassed at being thus caught, and 
 feigned sleep until she went into the kitchen. He had 
 only begun slipping into his clothes, however, when she 
 came back, and resumed setting the table. She said 
 something that was probably good-morning, and seemed 
 in no way abashed, but went steadily on with the work, 
 and gave him no further attention. He dressed himself 
 hastily, and folded up the sheets of his bed, spreading the 
 cover back on the lounge. Then he went outside into 
 the dewy, fresh morning, and saw that the sun was just 
 up. The old man was feeding the chickens. The sons 
 were busy at the barn with pigs and horses and cows. 
 Another day had begun. Once more the routine was 
 entered. How Wade envied all people that had a routine 
 that gave them a chance to work ! There was nothing 
 for him to do but to go on looking and asking, to beg in 
 a land of strangers for a chance to earn his bread. His 
 bones ached still, and his muscles were stiff and sore. 
 He felt feverish and parched about the lips and in the 
 palms of his hands. 
 
 The men came in soon to breakfast, working up to the 
 very minute they were called. After washing there was 
 a short service at the table very similar to that of the 
 night before, only this was before eating, each one sitting 
 in his place at the table. 
 
 Breakfast was a business affair, and no reference was 
 made to the conversation of the evening before. There 
 were a few brief explanations about the work of the day ; 
 but otherwise they ate in silence, not hurrying or greedy 
 especially, but swiftly, as if they were doing a piece of 
 
272 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 work. They had fried pork and eggs for breakfast, with 
 bread and butter, stewed fruit, and coffee. 
 
 As soon as one had finished, he got up, took his hat, 
 and went to the barn. Piet was last, and said a few 
 words to his father, then walked to the well with John 
 Wade. 
 
 " Me and the boys have been talking it over," he said 
 sheepishly ; " and father agrees with us. You had better 
 stop a few days here. You haven't got any place es- 
 pecial to go, and are fagged out with being on the road. 
 It won't cost you anything to stop. Make yourself at 
 home. You can find some books on the shelf. We'll 
 see you again at dinner." And, with this enormous 
 speech ended, Piet hurried away to the barn. 
 
 The old man then came out, and with more time, 
 though with no more genuine hospitality than his son had 
 shown, began to talk, and make the stranger feel at home. 
 
 " We are going to do a little washing," he said. " If 
 yon have some things to be washed, you may as well put 
 them in." 
 
 The traveller was lonely and tired. The haven was 
 very tempting. What would a day's board cost these 
 people? Was it not even a kindness to let them give 
 help to a stranger ? He decided to stay, as they had 
 asked, only he insisted that he should help with the wash- 
 ing. " I have done my own washing always, Mr. Red- 
 ingus ; and I am handy at it as a woman." 
 
 The old man chuckled and agreed. " Anselm is a 
 good hand at the wash-tub, too," he said ; " but now they 
 are busy with the spring work. The old woman will be 
 glad of your help, for she is not now what she once was 
 for washing." 
 
 So it was settled. Mrs. Redingus looked a little as- 
 kance at the stranger at first ; but once he had thrown off 
 
D i f f e rences 273 
 
 his coat and vest and rolled up his sleeves, showing his 
 strong white arms, once she had got a good look at his 
 genial, smiling face, and comprehended the sturdy set of 
 his head, she forgot all about the fact that he had been 
 a tramp. He was a genuine workingman now, and as 
 such won her motherly heart. 
 
 His first movements, too, showed that he knew about 
 washing ; and she turned the whole thing over to him, 
 even sitting down by the well to peel potatoes for dinner 
 and allowing him to go about her kitchen as he liked, 
 making fires and boiling clothes as he chose. 
 
 Jan came in for a jug of water, and at a glance saw 
 how matters were: John Wade, bare-armed and steam- 
 ing, his honest face red and moist with the work, his soft 
 hair falling down on his forehead ; then the big, stern 
 mother sitting in the rush-bottomed chair, peeling pota- 
 toes, occasionally looking at him approvingly, and pre- 
 tending a masculine indifference ; then the old man 
 hovering about nervously, openly delighted with what he 
 called the new hired girl. 
 
 " John's got the old folks hard," he said on returning 
 to his brothers. " I guess they'll not let him go till after 
 Sunday. He's sweating at the wash-tub like a butcher." 
 
 " Doing the washing, is he ? " said Piet, as he rested the 
 jug on his arm. 
 
 " Doing it ? He walks about the kitchen like a lord, 
 and the old woman a-likin' it, mind ye." 
 
 There was a friendly gleam in Anselm's eyes. Then 
 the three returned to their horses. 
 
 The washing was done two hours before dinner, and 
 the clothes were hung out on the line, John Wade doing 
 all this as a matter of course, merely asking for the basket 
 and the clothes-pins. Mrs. Redingus sometimes spoke a 
 few words of English, but never went into sentences. 
 
274 D i f f e rences 
 
 " What else can I do ? " asked Wade, coming back. 
 
 She brought out a book for him from the sitting-room, 
 and some seed-cakes from the cupboard. 
 
 " No, John," she said, pointing to a bench under the 
 trees ; and her hand touched his arm in offering the cakes. 
 Her hand was work-hardened and coarse, yet not without 
 the lingering of a mother's. 
 
 He put on his vest, took his coat, and went off to the 
 shade as he was bidden. He was tired and weak, and he 
 saw the woman would be pleased if he did so. The book 
 was a cheap paper novel, but he found it of interest when 
 his thoughts failed. Most of the time he was looking at 
 the house, trees, and sky, and familiarizing himself with 
 the surroundings. " But, if I do that, it will be all the 
 harder to walk away to-morrow," he said. Already it 
 seemed to him that to-morrow was quite impossible. 
 
 Dinner over, he went out into the kitchen, and began 
 preparations for washing the dishes. " I am used to all 
 such work," he said naturally. " I've done it ever since 
 my wife died." 
 
 Mrs. Redingus let him have his way rather than argue 
 in English. " He gets mother every time," whispered 
 Piet. " She'd never allow it if he could understand her 
 Dutch." 
 
 The old woman helped with the dishes, and paid no 
 attention to the boys with their chaff. 
 
 Once when she saw a bruise on John Wade's temple, 
 close up under his hair, she brought out some salve, and 
 rubbed it on with her own hand. Then she saw that her 
 sons were laughing at her for soft-heartedness, and sol- 
 emnly winked at Wade. "Jealous," she said with dry 
 humour, and continued to ignore their presence. 
 
 That night, when they were preparing for bed, Anselm 
 did not bring out the sheets to make up the lounge, as he 
 
D i f f e rences 275 
 
 had done before. " You might as well sleep with me," he 
 said carelessly. " It is easier than making an extra bed." 
 So it came that the four men went heavily up the stairs, 
 and it was as if they were four brothers instead of three 
 and a stranger. 
 
 While they were drowsily undressing themselves, when 
 they had stretched their work-wearied, healthy frames at 
 their length in the wide, roomy, high-posted beds, while 
 they were mumbling sleepy talk and then settling into 
 deep-breathing sleep, John Wade was feeling the growth 
 of a wondrous sweet peace with the world. He could 
 not sleep with the rest : he could only lie still and rejoice. 
 Once more the world had come to him, once more it was 
 blessed to live. 
 
 The two beds of the roomy chamber were standing on 
 each side of a double window, the heads being placed to 
 the wall. There were lower windows on the sides of 
 the house, and through them the night wind rustled softly. 
 
 But the comfort that came to John Wade was from the 
 sleeping men at his side. There they lay in unconscious- 
 ness, and he was one of their number. Piet and Jan were 
 in the bed not far away ; and beside him, but on the other 
 side, not leaving him on the edge, the giant youth Anselm 
 was lying. His regular breathing moved the bed, his arm 
 touched John Wade's arm as it regularly pushed out with 
 his breath. And this giant was longing for the strange- 
 ness and variety of the city ; and he was also in love with 
 some girl, perhaps dreaming of her now. 
 
 John Wade thought of the morrow, and wondered if he 
 must go on his way. It seemed that he could not do that. 
 He would ask them to let him work for his board. 
 
 But, then, there was baby Joe ! He must earn money 
 to support little Joe. He thought of all the things that 
 might possibly befall. Suppose he could earn a little 
 
276 D i f i e rences 
 
 money, and go for Joe and bring him out here. There 
 were schools here ; and Joe could learn to be a farmer, like 
 one of the healthy men by his side. He, too, might grow 
 old here perhaps, always dreaming of Genevieve Radcliffe. 
 Would she grow old, too, and would she marry Mr. 
 Neville? But he could not let himself think of that. 
 He gathered his thoughts in control, and returned to the 
 present again. 
 
 Four strong, healthy men breathing together under one 
 roof, and three of them were brothers in flesh, and one of 
 them was a stranger perhaps. No, not one of them was 
 a stranger. They were four brothers sleeping side by 
 side. 
 
XXXVIII. 
 
 THE next day was Saturday. " You will stay over 
 Sunday," they all said to Wade; and he agreed 
 without pretending reluctance. He wanted to say 
 that they were very good to him, but the words seemed 
 so awkward he was silent. 
 
 " You must let me work for my board," was what he 
 did say ; and they only laughed gruffly, as if he were a 
 child talking man-talk. 
 
 "He might help father in the garden," said Anselm. 
 " I am not going into the field this forenoon." 
 
 " Goin' to town in the afternoon, ain't you ? " asked 
 Piet. 
 
 Anselm nodded in reply. 
 
 " I guess I'll go, too," said Jan. " There's a game on. 
 Do you like base-ball, John ? Anselm's a great man at 
 first base." 
 
 " Come on and see the game." 
 
 But John preferred staying at home. 
 
 " He has seen big games in the city ; and what does he 
 care for our scrub ? " explained Anselm. " But I will 
 work with him in the garden, and show him how to spade 
 up the beds." 
 
 " I know how to spade beds already," said Wade ; and 
 then the older brothers began chaffing Anselm, and ask- 
 ing John to show him a few tricks about farming. 
 
 The day went off pleasantly enough, hot sun and hard 
 labour to steady the mind and keep the memory in abey- 
 ance. 
 
 And that night they were four brothers again. 
 
 The next day was Sunday, sweet and still. There was 
 the quiet commotion of bathing, shaving, and clean 
 clothes in the morning, and then a longer service at 
 
278 D i f f e rences 
 
 breakfast. John and Anselm washed up the dishes. 
 The mother was not feeling very well. Then the men 
 sauntered out under the trees for quiet talk and Sunday 
 sleeping, to enjoy the wonders of rest after six days of 
 healthy fatigue. 
 
 Before dinner Anselm took John out over the farm. 
 He showed him the barn and the horses, the pigs in the 
 pen, the cattle in the pasture, and the fields where they 
 were ploughing for corn. 
 
 "How did you like it?" asked Piet, when they had 
 come in for Sunday dinner. 
 
 "I wish I could stay always," said John, simply. "If 
 I could only be of enough use for my board." 
 
 " Well, we'll talk it over after dinner," said Piet. " Of 
 course, you can do enough for your board." 
 
 So the men went out and stood by the well after 
 dinner, while John was working in the kitchen. They 
 called the mother out later ; and he felt like a man on 
 trial for his life, — a man whose friends all look at him 
 aloof. 
 
 Then they called him later on, and his arms were still 
 bare with the work. 
 
 It was Piet who acted as spokesman. 
 
 " We all want you to stay, John," he said simply. 
 " But we want you to do what you think is best for your- 
 self. We are poor people, and can't pay you wages that 
 are fair. It would be foolish for us to hire when we're 
 three able-bodied men on the farm, too many, in fact, 
 already. Still, you are handy about the house; and 
 mother is getting old. You can make this your home, 
 then, as long as you like ; and by fall, when the cattle are 
 fat, we can pay you money enough or get you a pass on 
 a cattle car to Chicago, and you can bring your baby 
 back, and both live here as long as you like." 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 279 
 
 This was a long speech for Piet, perhaps the longest 
 he ever had made since a silly young American girl had 
 refused to marry him because he was a Dutchman. 
 
 The rest of the family murmured their approval of all 
 Piet had said, and so it was quietly settled. 
 
 Then each one went off by himself to finish the day as 
 he chose. The old people slept in their chairs, the man 
 settling down in the kitchen, and the wife rigid and in 
 state in the parlour. Jan took a book, and went off to the 
 barn. Piet went to sleep under the trees. Anselm, after 
 an hour at dressing and brushing his clothes and his 
 hair, hitched in the horse to a new buggy, and drove off, 
 looking very sheepish and very red and moist from the 
 scrubbing and the worry of trying to appear just right. 
 His Sunday clothes were awkward and stiff; and John 
 Wade won his undying admiration by making a natty 
 knot in his scarf, and telling him he looked like a heart- 
 breaker. 
 
 Then Wade went off by himself to the banks of the 
 stream in the wood, though still not out of call from the 
 house. He was yet fearful of the silence of the country. 
 He lay down at the foot of a great oak-tree, and allowed 
 his thoughts to wander at will. The' blue of the sky was 
 overhead, laced with the fresh green of leaves and the 
 outlines of black, rugged stems. Birds were singing 
 softly now and then, but he was so utterly alone. Yes, 
 now that it was settled that he was to stay in the place, 
 now that his brotherhood was established with these men, 
 and the wildness and fear of wandering had given way to 
 the security of this family, he found that he must still live 
 alone, that his love had come back fifty-fold. 
 
 Dreams of Genevieve Radcliffe till all his blood was 
 on fire and the tears were wet in his eyes, dreams of the 
 fair girl with the wealth of smooth black hair and the 
 
280 D i f f e rences 
 
 sweet, white, dignified face, the steady light of her eyes, 
 the clean-cut sense of her words, the frank impulsiveness 
 of her hand when she said good-bye or good-morning, — 
 they all came back to him now, and fled away again 
 before he could fix them in his memory. 
 
 At length he went back to the barn, and found Jan ; 
 and together they talked of the book. 
 
 In the evening they would be together in the house, 
 and at night four brothers again. 
 
XXXIX. 
 
 ON the Sunday afternoon that Genevieve Radcliffe 
 was going back from Goose Island, after she had 
 listened to the declaration of John Wade, she had 
 little but pain and wonder in her heart, — the pain that 
 she had wounded him near to death, and a vague 
 background of wonder that had not as yet been analyzed, 
 but that would grow into arrangement as she should 
 think and reckon with herself. Perhaps there was joy 
 in the wonder, for what woman does not thrill at a 
 confession of love as it bursts from a strong man's con- 
 trol in spite of his resistance ? But she did not allow her- 
 self at the time to experience any joy. It was only his 
 pain that she could think of, the great sturdy oak trunk 
 strained and tearing with the tempest. Ah, the pity that 
 was in her, as she remembered 1 But what had kept her 
 from going over to him ? Why had she sat helpless in her 
 place ? Was not this her friend who was suffering, and 
 had he not stood by her in her trouble ? 
 
 She was as dazed and uncertain of herself as ever on 
 reaching her home and making ready for tea. They were 
 having a little company that evening, some kindly, Sun- 
 day-like, well-meaning people; but she could hardly be 
 civil to them, they seemed so gossipy and frivolous. 
 One old lady saw that she was troubled ; and, thinking to 
 be helpful and comforting, she began talking of Mr. 
 Neville, who had sailed a week or two before for Europe, 
 it was understood, on a commission for the Dilettante. 
 She had been carefully watching the papers, she said. 
 The returning steamers reported good weather on the 
 Atlantic. There could really be no cause for worry. It 
 was sad that Mr. Neville should be called away by busi- 
 ness, but that was one of the disadvantages of marrying 
 a genius, a man who belonged to art. 
 
282 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 But Genevieve's mind was on things very different from 
 what the lady was saying. Her thoughts were with the 
 grave man by a window, the man who talked as if life for 
 him had been finished, although the firm, strong face 
 showed that he was but little more than in his thirtieth 
 year. By degrees, however, it came upon her that Miss 
 Ney was talking about music and musicians, and associa- 
 tively of Hester Carr. She was speaking of a recital 
 Hester had given, and the very favourable treatment she 
 had received at the hands of the critics. One of the Sun- 
 day papers, she believed, had printed Hester's picture the 
 week before the recital, with an extended sketch of her 
 unusual career; and the result had been so stimulating 
 that Hester had seen the materialization in a single even- 
 ing of her cherished dream of foreign study, and had 
 taken the first steamer she could get for Germany. 
 
 " Wasn't that the reason of her very sudden start ? " 
 
 Genevieve gave some indifferent answer. 
 
 " How romantic of her, going off to Berlin to study, and 
 in such a strange way, and with so little money," Miss 
 Ney continued. " Have you heard from her, Miss Gene- 
 vieve ? I believe you knew her quite well ? You were 
 forced to, I suppose, living in the same house, though why 
 she should live in a settlement I could never see. I have 
 heard her say that she cared nothing for charity. I sup- 
 pose Mrs. Purcell kept her there for fear she might get 
 into worse places. Mrs. Purcell is such a dear kind 
 woman, but so odd I Have you heard what steamer Miss 
 Carr took? Wouldn't it have been strange if she had 
 taken passage on the ' Bohemia ' ? She and Mr. Neville 
 knew something of each other, did they not ? " 
 
 The thought that was in Miss Ney's mind could not 
 escape even Genevieve's listless attention. Something in 
 the speaker's manner told her that she was only voicing 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 283 
 
 a rumour which must have been more or less discussed. 
 The possibility that had been so plainly in Miss Ney's 
 mind sent the hot blood to Genevieve's face ; and yet she 
 knew — and marvelled at the knowledge — that the shock 
 she felt was as impersonal as if the two people whose 
 names had been thus obviously connected had been 
 strangers to her. It was only the wound and the shrink- 
 ing every good woman feels at being brought suddenly 
 face to face into the evil she has known of only in the 
 abstract. 
 
 Almost at once her thoughts went back to the man at 
 the window. Was he standing there now ? 
 
 " I should be very glad to hear that Hester had secured 
 a passage on the ' Bohemia,' " she said listlessly. " I ought 
 to have spoken to Maynard, and asked him to look her up. 
 He and Hester were on very good terms. But I don't 
 think Hester had settled her plans until after Maynard 
 left. At least, she said nothing to me about them." 
 
 " Oh, of course, it is just senseless gossip," said Miss 
 Ney, pleasantly. "Miss Carr is so unconventional , that 
 people misunderstand her, I suppose." 
 
 " Yes, Hester is a queer girl," assented Genevieve, still 
 without feeling. " Some people are bound to misunder- 
 stand her ; but you have known so many artists, Miss Ney, 
 that you know exactly how to take them." 
 
 The long evening dragged itself out somehow. One 
 phrase, " I mean that I love you," kept echoing in Gene- 
 vieve's ears long after she had gone up to her room ; and 
 then she lay down on a couch, and thought of how the 
 man looked who had said this. What did it mean, this 
 wild whirl and tumult within her ? Why was she not 
 pitying the man ? Why was she not suffering remorse for 
 her impulsiveness ? And why was she not more deeply 
 moved by the horrible thing that Miss Ney had been 
 
284 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 hinting to her ? Because she did not believe it ? No. 
 She did not believe it, it is true ; but she knew that the 
 real reason why it left her cold was because a knowledge 
 that it was true would have given her no deep personal 
 wound. She saw in a flash how superficial had been the 
 love between Maynard Neville and herself, how weak had 
 been the bond which could snap with so little shock. 
 
 Her thoughts turned again to the workingman, to his 
 loneliness and suffering. How terrible his passion had 
 been I " Love is so different in different natures," she 
 said thoughtfully. " I have never known it like this ; 
 and yet how could women wish it otherwise, so deep and 
 yet gentle and tender ? " 
 
 " Yes, love is very different," she went on, after long 
 moments of reverie. " Now, Maynard, I think, loved me 
 with his whole heart ; and he was never like that." For a 
 flash she recalled just how he had been, — the frank, 
 blond, handsome face, all eager and confident and 
 loving. " Maynard's love was the love of a youth," she 
 said, half smiling; "but this is the holiness of passion." 
 
 Then she lay picturing it again, and for long hours she 
 was not weary of the dreaming. 
 
 The striking of a clock finally roused her to the late- 
 ness of the hour. She rose, and made ready for bed with 
 a dimness and stupor in her eyes. Then, when all was 
 ready, when she had turned out the light and was just 
 creeping into the white linen, suddenly her whole mood 
 changed; and, falling on her knees by the bed, she 
 stretched out her quivering arms over it, and, hiding her 
 face in the coverlid, burst into a torrent of tears, sobbing 
 and moaning like a child. 
 
XL. 
 
 WE are all children in our nature, and only play 
 at being grown-ups because we have inherited 
 the game from our ancestors. Genevieve went 
 about her work the next morning in precisely the usual 
 fashion. She wondered at herself at times for doing so. 
 But, when she stopped to think of it, there was nothing 
 else she could do. We are such weak creatures of habit. 
 
 There was the work in the training school through the 
 day, at evening the settlement talk, and later the clubs 
 and the parties and the whirl of a house full of strangers. 
 The days went on for some time in this way. She in- 
 stinctively avoided John Wade. Then her mother fell ill, 
 and while with her she heard from Sadie that Wade had 
 gone away from Chicago. 
 
 Then came his simple, plain letter. " It is for the 
 best, it is for the best," she kept saying again and again 
 to herself. But she felt as if some one were dead, some 
 one who- was the reason of her living. 
 
 Her mother recovered from the illness, and Genevieve 
 went back to her work. For the first time work would 
 not satisfy. She was longing and growing nervous for 
 vacation. 
 
 There came letters from Maynard Neville in due time, 
 aimless, characterless letters, which she read with an 
 aimless attention. He spoke of the great amount of 
 work he found to do, though he did not say what it was. 
 He implied that it was in the cathedrals of North France, 
 but his letters were posted at Paris. 
 
 She sat down with a listless sense of duty, after receiv- 
 ing one of these, and wrote a long letter, in which she told 
 him of the change which had come about in her feelings, 
 and made it plain to her that they ought not to think of 
 
286 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 marriage. She did not even hint at the rumour which had 
 connected his name with Hester Carr's, because she did 
 not in the least believe it. She had been influenced by 
 it only so far as this : that the knowledge that she could 
 hear the rumour without any deep sense of personal loss 
 had shown her how small a place Maynard Neville had 
 occupied in her life. 
 
 And yet, although she did not believe the rumour, it was 
 quite like a woman that, after writing to Neville and 
 releasing him, Genevieve should write to Hester Carr and 
 tell her what she had done. She did not allow any per- 
 sonal feeling to creep into the letter, but wrote as for- 
 mally as one girl writes to another to tell her of the 
 breaking of an engagement, and without anything of con- 
 fidence or intimacy. 
 
 The letters that came in reply brought with them but 
 slight satisfaction. Maynard's was a tirade against fem- 
 inine fickleness in general, and Genevieve in particular, 
 with much of self-pity and commiseration, and too much 
 anger to permit its author to plead. Genevieve wrote to 
 him kindly, but she did not renew the broken vows. 
 
 Then came a scrawling, nervous letter from Hester 
 Carr. It was gay and reckless to frivolity, though it 
 spoke only of serious things. She congratulated Gene- 
 vieve on the breaking of her engagement, but offered no 
 word of sympathy or comfort, which was characteristic. 
 Then, in the very end of the letter, she told Genevieve, in 
 the most matter-of-fact way, that she had just promised to 
 marry a Captain Bennett of the army, an old Colorado 
 acquaintance whom she had found on board the steamer 
 on which she crossed. She gave Genevieve no hint as to 
 whether the engagement would mean a change in her 
 plans for study in Germany, but merely signed herself 
 briefly and with a flourish, without terms of affection or 
 friendship, " Hester Carr." 
 
D i f f e rences 287 
 
 Genevieve showed the letter to Bettine, and they dis- 
 cussed it together. But the letter that she thought of the 
 most, the one that she never spoke to Bettine about, was 
 a short, lead-pencilled scrawl on a piece of cheap blue- 
 lined paper. She knew every word of it by heart, even 
 the thumb-print that was black on the corner and the 
 broken folds in the cheap paper. It was as follows : — 
 
 " Miss Sadie Willetts : 
 
 " Dear Friend, — I am working here on a farm, and 
 want you to tell me about Joe. Is he well, and do you 
 talk to him about me so as to make him remember ? I 
 enclose four dollars, and will send more as soon as I can 
 get it. They don't pay me much money here ; but there 
 isn't any work here for a city man. There are too many 
 men now in the country. I have a good home ; but the 
 country is horrible. It's so still and dark in the night- 
 time. It will make a good home for Joe ; and I shall 
 come and get him in the fall, and bring him out here to 
 be a farmer. He can go back to the city if he likes 
 when he grows up. Give him my love, and give my 
 regards to Mrs. Belden and Miss Radcliffe. 
 
 " I will send you more money when I can. 
 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 "John Wade." 
 
 Genevieve kept the letter a day after reading it, and 
 later on borrowed it again. 
 
XLI. 
 
 THE day of vacation came, and again the Cana- 
 dian summer. Genevieve entered once more the 
 atmosphere of sound from Niagara, and rode and 
 drove as before, and rested and looked at the farm stock. 
 Uncle George was as courtly as ever. The beech-trees 
 were still black with shade. The green pasture smiled 
 level under the sun. 
 
 Yet it was all changed to the girl. She was a woman 
 now, and this was her past. She must go out to work in 
 the world. This estate did not longer pertain to her. 
 There were other things that had entered her life. She 
 would not define them for the summer; but, when she 
 had stayed a few months in the past, she would go into 
 the future again. And she knew she should never return. 
 
 Notwithstanding this conviction, the play of her part 
 was kept up. She looked at the improvements on the 
 estate as if they were improvements for her. She talked 
 business with Uncle George, and together they laid plans 
 for the next year, only at times she broke into her nat- 
 ural self, and suggested some wild plan that shocked him. 
 
 " Why do you give it all to me ? " she said to him 
 once, impulsively. "Why don't you give it to Robert? 
 He is naturally the heir. A woman has no business with 
 property." 
 
 " My dear, my dear, my dear I " said Uncle George 
 softly and reprovingly ; and all that afternoon, when they 
 were talking, he kept interpolating the phrase of "my 
 dear." 
 
 " But this life is not for me," she again said to him 
 some days later on. "I am a working-woman now. 
 Don't you know that this very next year I am to be 
 teaching and drawing a salary?" 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 289 
 
 "You Cail give all that to your charities," he said 
 vaguely. " I should not like to think that you were liv- 
 ing on the money that you earned yourself." 
 
 " But I am all so different, uncle. The only money 
 that I can spend with a clear conscience is that which 
 I earn myself. What right have I to spend any other ? 
 I have done nothing to produce it." 
 
 " If everybody believed as you do, Genevieve, the 
 world would go back to barbarism. Why, what would 
 civilisation signify ? You might as well say all progress 
 was in vain." 
 
 "If I were only sure that our specialised civilisation 
 were progress. It seems to me now only one-sided idle- 
 ness and pleasure with the rich, and drudgery and suffer- 
 ing with the poor." 
 
 " If you are going to deny civilisation, my dear, what 
 is there that you will not deny ? " 
 
 Her words came quick and warm. " Strength and 
 courage and cheeriness, friendship and love," she said. 
 
 But the old man was getting querulous. He had never 
 been so vexed with his niece. 
 
 " A common workman may have all these qualities, and 
 yet not know how to read his letters." 
 
 " I should like to teach them to him," she said softly. 
 
 " Take care, Genevieve : you are treading on danger- 
 ous ground. You will be talking wild anarchy next. 
 This is what you learn by living with those long-haired 
 cranks who call themselves benefactors of society." 
 
 " Do you happen to know any of my friends, that you 
 speak of them that way ? " were the words that were on her 
 lips. She checked herself in time, however. It was her 
 uncle, and he did not understand. 
 
 " You are quite mistaken, uncle. I have talked with 
 very few cranks." It seemed so sickening to her that 
 
290 D i f f e rences 
 
 he, the elder and the man, should leave to one side all the 
 argument, and take to personality and reviling. 
 
 " Well, you'll get older some day. I suppose all girls 
 have their silly age." And Uncle George abruptly 
 changed the subject. 
 
 All the time through those weeks she was thinking of 
 John Wade. She had thought of him much for the year 
 and a half since she knew him, but now the feeling was 
 daily more personal. She thought of him when she was 
 sad, and of coming to him for consolation. She often 
 pictured his face and the expression of tenderness as he 
 talked to her. She came to him in trouble as well, and 
 his work-tried strength was her bulwark. Then, again, 
 she would tell him of her childhood and all the dreams 
 she dreamed ; for he stood, the firm centre of her universe, 
 as real and as intimate as her own consciousness, — a strong, 
 pure-minded man who loved her and helped her and pro- 
 tected her, who was absolute though all else was shift- 
 ing. 
 
 Of all his little weaknesses and foibles none was more 
 cognisant than she. She knew that he was ignorant and 
 unenterprising, that he was filled with the prejudices of 
 his class. He would not reason beyond a certain point. 
 He was intellectually lazy, she said, and liked basking 
 and enjoying better than mental effort. He was not 
 ambitious, and, had he been born a gentlemen, would 
 not have been of the same strength and nature. It was 
 his work that had made him, — his work that he accepted 
 as the inevitable, and loved and was true to because it was 
 the inevitable. " A man is put here, and has only to go 
 on the best he can," he had often said ; and in going on, 
 in filling his place as he did, this was his animal great- 
 ness, like an ox that retreads the ploughed field nor ques- 
 tions its yoke or its driver. 
 
D i ff e rences 291 
 
 To her, who had so long been aimless and doubting, 
 there was a joy that he never could feel, though its results 
 showed everywhere in his constitution. She stood for the 
 first time on the borders of the land promised by heaven. 
 For the first time it was shown to her that the promised 
 land is a field for labour. To stand in, and do one's 
 share ; to do it freely and easily, if possible, but in any 
 event to do it ; to bear slavery and hunger, if one must, — 
 if other workers have become masters and are selfish, — 
 but, at all events, to do one's part, to justify one's place in 
 the world. 
 
 She saw that there were many things besides work, 
 things that were primal and lasting, — beauty and child- 
 hood and song; memory and calm meditation for the 
 youth, the longing for the beyond for the maiden. The 
 child, the mother, the cripple, the strong giant,— for all 
 of them there was the supreme gift of love; and this 
 word Genevieve kept repeating while she thought of 
 John Wade. 
 
 According to the yearly custom her father and the 
 family came up to spend the last six weeks of summer. 
 They all saw that Genevieve was more serious than usual, 
 more given to thought; but it was on account of the 
 broken engagement, they said, and that was a matter 
 which time would remedy. What they regretted most 
 was that her sorrow was making her radical, that she was 
 getting ideas about principles and society. The father 
 was most concerned and confused about this, for his 
 daughter insisted on doing the things that he preached 
 from the pulpit. This was a constant source of annoy- 
 ance to him. His sermons had never been taken so 
 literally before, and he resolved to be more conservative 
 in the future. 
 
 One day, when the family was at breakfast, the question 
 
292 D i f f e rences 
 
 of democracy was up ; and Genevieve gave her opinions. 
 Mrs. Davis had offered a remark that excited her ; and 
 she had broken out with something more than enthusiasm 
 about the social equality of the classes, and the statement 
 that refinement was not a class quality, but existed as 
 much in one class as another. 
 
 Her mother spoke up very slowly and with extreme 
 guarded formality. "Your fine theories all fall to the 
 ground with one simple question, Genevieve." Then, 
 when all were listening and when the lesson would be 
 severely remembered, she continued, " Would you be will- 
 ing to marry a labourer ? " The respectable and genteel 
 company thought that the rebuke was well deserved, 
 though they looked at their plates and kept their faces 
 blank of expression. 
 
 The girl rose from the table, and her face was like a 
 red rose. But her voice was tremulous and pitying, all 
 of her indignation having departed. 
 
 " I had never thought of marrying a labourer, mamma," 
 she said, as if timid of hurting their feelings. " I had 
 never thought of it before ; but, now that you ask me the 
 question, I shall not cease to pray God that one day I 
 may be worthy of the honour." 
 
 The guests rose from the table. They had listened al- 
 ready too long over the discussion. Each began to talk 
 of the trivial amusements of the day, and each tried to 
 overlook the disturbing incident. But they only pre- 
 tended to forget ; for, as soon as they had separated into 
 groups and had grown confidential, they all began talking 
 about it, and pitying poor Mrs. Radcliffe. 
 
XLII. 
 
 SO the dreams were suddenly changed, and what had 
 been a friend was a husband. Dear and vivid 
 dreams now, and not to be set upon paper. 
 
 There were many checks and falterings, many qualms 
 of fear and of shame. To become a workingman's 
 wife, to grow intimate with what she had always looked 
 upon as coarseness, — it seemed impossible to her ; but, 
 when she thought of the man himself, all things were 
 comfortably possible. She watched working people now 
 with a strange and frightened fascination. Often she would 
 cross the river into the city of Niagara Falls, and look at 
 the men in the factory district. " I am to become one of 
 these people," she would say to herself; and it required a 
 strong will to walk fearlessly among them. The filth of 
 their work, the smell of their grease and tobacco, some- 
 times the coarseness of their language that was but half 
 modified in deference to the lady, — " These are brothers," 
 she would say : " these men are John Wade's friends and 
 companions." 
 
 Only when she looked at the idle, aimless people who 
 had always been her associates did the feeling that she 
 loved these others come to her. At least, they had made 
 idleness impossible, — these strong, hearty toilers she was 
 to know. 
 
 She thought of how they should live, — she and her 
 husband, John Wade ; of their house in the workingmen's 
 quarter, and of the friends who would be welcome to 
 come to it. First among them was the police officer, Mr. 
 Nugent, — he and his wife and the children. Then grad- 
 ually the circle would grow, other men and women would 
 come, such as they two liked ; and toward all of them she 
 would extend her best, She would share with them her 
 
294 D i f f e rences 
 
 culture and education, and still others would come to 
 them. When she should be a working-woman, all of the 
 influence she had longed for in such silly fashion two 
 years ago would come to her naturally in this true 
 relation of neighbours. 
 
 Was it her love for this man that overflowed till it sur- 
 rounded all his friends and associates ? Or was it first 
 the love of his class that had brought her to acknowledge 
 this man ? She had learned to love only the life of a 
 worker and to look on all other lives with pity. Was 
 this from her love for John Wade, or had her love for him 
 grown up because of her devotion to a principle ? The 
 growth had been complex and difficult. It was useless to 
 speculate on causes. 
 
 She saw that such a marriage as this would mean a 
 complete rupture with her property. Not only would she 
 not inherit the estate, but even her allowance would be 
 cut off, if only with the kindly intent of forcing her into 
 return and submission. She was glad that this would be 
 so. All that she wanted, she said, was an even footing 
 with other workers, she with her salary as teacher and 
 her husband with the wages of his labour. 
 
 She thought much of the social break with her family, 
 and this was more serious than all other changes. They 
 would never acknowledge such a marriage. It would be 
 impossible for them to do so. She would return alone to 
 visit them, but could never bring her husband with her. 
 Nor could they come to see her in her home. His pres- 
 ence would never become endurable. Moreover, the 
 dignity of the man would make their coming impossible, 
 though they would not acknowledge the reason. They 
 would grieve and complain that she had forsaken them, 
 though she remained here in the same city. She smiled 
 as she thought that nothing would have been said of 
 
Di f f e rences 295 
 
 " forsaking " if she had married Maynard Neville and 
 gone to live in Europe with gentlefolk. Her friends, 
 even her friends of the Settlement, would be horrified, 
 and would avoid her. All these things would she endure 
 for the sake of the new life she was to lead, — a life that 
 was still often repugnant to her, when she thought of the 
 workingman's differences. 
 
 But there comes a time in the lives of all souls when 
 they must rise and start off alone. The demand from 
 within must be obeyed. Genevieve Radcliffe's order had 
 come to her from the sources supreme, and her singleness 
 of purpose was not wanting. 
 
 She knew that this act of obedience could not be ac- 
 complished in a moment. She knew that it was a life- 
 time of serving, and that she would not be free as she had 
 been. Even in the very beginning the man's stubborn 
 will would be a mountain to move and overcome. He 
 would be opposed in every way to her giving herself up 
 to a workingman, and would argue that they must deny 
 even love. But in the end love would conquer trium- 
 phant. 
 
 So the dream building was completed outdoors in the 
 sound of the waterfall. The dark, slight, sweet-smiling 
 girl was in heart a workingman's wife. She was very 
 sure of this now. She had scrutinised every detail and 
 possibility. Only when the decision was reached, when 
 she saw that it would be as impossible to turn back as it 
 is for the woman to turn back to girlhood, when even 
 the decision she had made was a part of the irrevocable 
 past, did she sit down and write him a letter, the answer 
 to the love he had declared. 
 
XLIII. 
 
 A NSELM came home late one evening. It was Sat- 
 
 £■» turday, and he had been in the ball game. Piet 
 
 -*- ■*■ and Jan had gone in to supper, but John Wade had 
 
 stayed out to help unhitch the horses and put them in to 
 
 the pasture. 
 
 " A letter for John," Anselm called out cheerily as he 
 drove up ; but he did not offer to give it to him till they 
 were walking in to supper. 
 
 John Wade took it, and glanced at the envelope care- 
 lessly, and slipped it into his pocket. 
 
 " Where is the soap ? " he asked, looking for it. They 
 were making ready to wash at the trough. 
 
 " Isn't the letter about your kid ? " asked Anselm, 
 kindly, when the water was running. 
 
 " No. It's from a lady in Canada, a lady that I used to 
 know." 
 
 Anselm was thinking of the ball game. He had made 
 some good plays that afternoon. 
 
 The letter was from Genevieve, — the firm, even writing 
 of his name and the town where they received their mail. 
 All through supper he was thinking of that writing, and 
 speculating on what it could say to him. Sometimes he 
 would put his hand back to his pocket as if to reach for 
 his handkerchief, and softly press his fingers on the paper. 
 It seemed as if it might not be true, as if he had only 
 been dreaming. 
 
 After supper he helped to clear off the table while the 
 old man was reading the prayers. Then they all sat for 
 a time with their pipes ; and Anselm told them the partic- 
 ulars of the ball game, modestly boasting of his victories. 
 
 There was no chance for reading the letter. The sur- 
 roundings were not in harmony with it. John Wade took 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 297 
 
 the crisp square out of his pocket, however, and put it in 
 a little book he was reading at the table. Then he sat 
 looking at the writing that he had thought he had put 
 from him forever. 
 
 " Mr. John Wade, 
 
 Lyndall, 111., U. S." 
 
 He had a package of letters like this, only they were 
 much worn and soiled ; but he had left them with Sadie in 
 Chicago, along with the things that were Angeline's. 
 
 Still Anselm talked of the game, and his brothers were 
 proud of his triumphs. 
 
 " To-morrow I will take the letter out to the pasture," 
 thought John Wade, " and there I will learn what she is 
 thinking." 
 
 It seemed natural enough that she should write to him 
 now, though before it had not entered his head that she 
 could have anything to say to him after the confession of 
 his baseness. Still, great joy is always natural when it 
 comes. Perhaps it was once always with us. 
 
 The three men were sleepy and yawning. John Wade 
 pretended to yawn also. Then they tramped up the 
 stairs, and stretched themselves gratefully on the beds in 
 the cover of the whispering darkness. The room was 
 cool and airy, the window-sashes being taken from the 
 frames. September nights are warm in the country, in 
 spite of the moist breath of the trees. The three 
 brothers talked for a time, but soon were breathing 
 steadily. John Wade was wakeful to-night. His hands 
 held a letter under his pillow, and the thrills from it 
 sang to his heart. 
 
XLIV. 
 
 SUNDAY morning in the late country summer, with 
 the rest and the peace of the farm. 
 John Wade had come out to the pasture, a fa- 
 vourite place Sunday morning when he wanted to live in 
 the past. The cattle were friends to him now, and took 
 away the loneliness of the country. There was one 
 young sorrel mare who would come up and sniff at him 
 curiously, then whirl and gallop away if he offered to get 
 up and pet her. She would return, however; for she 
 knew he would offer her apples. She was most beauti- 
 ful when whirling and galloping; and she knew this, and 
 did it often to please him. 
 
 John Wade understood this action, and did not blame 
 her for feminine vanity. 
 
 There was the level green of the pasture, the banks 
 that sloped down to the brook, and the fringe of dark 
 trees on the border. To-day there was Genevieve's 
 letter ; and, when he had waited for a time to be in the 
 proper mood, he opened it, and spread it out on his 
 knee. 
 
 " You told me of your love," it began ; " but you did 
 not ask for an answer. The answer was your right to 
 ask, but you did not suggest I might give it. That was 
 as well, perhaps; for I was a weak and foolish girl. 
 Besides, I was engaged to marry Maynard Neville then ; 
 but now I am free. The relation is permanently broken, 
 and I stand with my freedom again. 
 
 " And now I can make answer to you. I can make it 
 freely, though you have not asked it of me. 
 
 " John Wade, as a true wife loves her husband, as she 
 rests on him and looks to him for help, as she shares 
 with him her dearest joy and her sorrow, and in return 
 
Di f f e rences 299 
 
 receives his own as she is able, even in this way as I 
 have described lives my love for you. I did not know 
 this on that day in which you spoke to me. I have not 
 been conscious of it until now, but a few days ago. 
 Fourteen days in that time marked an epoch for me, and 
 I shall not soon forget it. I knew before this that 
 I loved you with depth and reverence : that I have known 
 from the early days of our acquaintance : but I thought 
 it was the love between friends. I thought you were of a 
 different class, and conjugal love was impossible. You 
 were the first to find the mistake, because you are more 
 natural and direct than I ; but with time it has come to 
 me, too, and I am proud to stand and confess it. 
 
 " Do I seem bold and unwomanly in your eyes ? Does 
 it appear to you immodest and unseemly that I should be 
 saying these things ? Believe me, it is of you and your 
 own welfare I am thinking quite as much as my own. 
 Moreover, it is necessary that we understand each other. 
 It is justice that I do my part. 
 
 " You told me once that you loved me. I am late in 
 telling you the same. I can only ask your forgiveness 
 for letting you go as I did. It was because I was stupid 
 and vain, because I did not know truth from falsehood. 
 
 " You have never asked me to be your wife, and I am 
 not going to tell you in advance what my answer will be. 
 I have heard that, when a man is sure of an answer, he is 
 slow at making his proposal. 
 
 " Do I seem to jest on serious, holy subjects ? It is 
 because my joy is so great, because I have come to my- 
 self, and find that I am as Eve was in Eden. You will 
 allow certain boldnesses on my part, too, because there 
 has been a class prejudice between us ; and, whenever 
 such prejudices are broken, it must be done by the one 
 who was supposed to be the superior. You are the man, 
 
300 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 and I am the woman ; and yet it is more possible and 
 fitting for me to say ' marry me ' to you than it is for you 
 to say it to me. 
 
 " Notwithstanding all this, I positively assure you of the 
 fact I have not said it at all, and have no intention of 
 doing so. The man who wants me for his bride must 
 seize me in the daring old fashion. Meanwhile, if I wish 
 to take lessons in housekeeping and cooking in order 
 that I might make a snug little home, after my half-day's 
 teaching is done, if I am sometimes thinking of a good 
 man coming home happy from his work, who will praise 
 all the pains I have taken and pretend all the new 
 things are excellent, — if I wish to think of these things 
 I do not know who can prevent me. I don't know 
 whose business it is that I should not be left to think as 
 I please. 
 
 " Dear friend, John Wade, I am going to Chicago 
 to-morrow to make ready for my coming year's work. I 
 have not yet selected my place to board, but it shall be 
 somewhere in the neighbourhood of my school. I am en- 
 gaged for three hours every morning. For this I am to 
 get forty-five dollars a month. It is all the money I shall 
 have, as my fortune and my allowance are surrendered 
 back to my uncle. I shall hope to get something extra for 
 special pupils, though I shall need more training myself. 
 A teacher's life may not be very light ; but it is at least 
 independent, and I shall like it. I may confess to you, 
 moreover, as a dear and intimate friend, that I shall hope 
 to marry some strong workingman some day; and, by 
 putting our two earnings together, I think we shall keep 
 house very nicely. Sadie tells me that you are coming 
 back to Chicago for Joe in the fall, some time late in No- 
 vember. She can give you my address, in case you 
 should have interest to see me. 
 
Differences 301 
 
 " Most cordially I ask you to come, John. Now I must 
 not write any more for fear that you would be pained at 
 my boldness. Good-bye, and my love, 
 
 " Your friend, 
 
 " Genevieve Radcliffe." 
 
 The drowsy day basked in the sun, and the cattle 
 sought the shade and the water. The sorrel mare, too, 
 wandered off to feed. Her whirling and galloping were 
 not appreciated. Occasionally flocks of crows crossed 
 the pasture to the wood. They were having an assembly 
 in the tree-tops, and the air was musical with distant caw- 
 ing. 
 
 John Wade did not move from his place. Was he sud- 
 denly mad or was he dreaming ? 
 
XLV. 
 
 THE Redingus family were in mourning, for their 
 wanderer was going to leave them. It was as if 
 Anselm were going, or that Piet or Jan were to be 
 married. And yet they would not admit that they were 
 mourning. It was not their way to show emotion. 
 
 Old Mrs. Redingus had been up the night before a full 
 two hours later than usual, ironing and mending John's 
 shirts and socks, and folding them and tying them in 
 a package. Once her tears fell on the shirt she was fold- 
 ing, and Piet saw them fall ; but he did not laugh, as was 
 his custom. 
 
 Now they had sat down to breakfast. It was earlier 
 than usual by an hour. Outside was the twilight of the 
 dawn. John's train would start very early. He had a 
 pass with a neighbour who was shipping cattle. 
 
 The old man began with morning service in his high, 
 strained, measured voice, while the rest sat about with 
 closed eyes. John had grown very familiar with the form 
 now : he would have noticed if anything was omitted. 
 This morning something was added, something just before 
 the end. The old man's voice was getting husky, and 
 suddenly came to a stop. There was silence for a mo- 
 ment, and then he tried to resume. He could not. Then 
 Piet took up the responses, and together they finished the 
 service. 
 
 The wife got up immediately, and hurried out to the 
 kitchen. The old man sat listlessly at his breakfast, and 
 the young men were awkward and silent. 
 
 Mrs. Redingus came in soon with red eyes, but bearing 
 a dish triumphantly in her hand. She set it down in 
 front of John. It was filled with preserved and spiced 
 apples, a delicacy of which she knew he was fond. 
 
D i f f e rences 303 
 
 The ice was broken, and Anselm began talking. 
 
 " When you get a chance, look around for a job for me, 
 John. I am tired of grubbing on this farm, where we 
 three keep crowding one another over the boundary every 
 time we try to turn around." 
 
 " I may not find a job for myself, and be coming back 
 in the spring, asking you to feed me again." 
 
 The old woman looked up, nodding. 
 
 " But can you bring your wife, too ? " she said. 
 
 " I cannot marry, at least till I get steady work." 
 
 " Oh, you'll find something steady," said Anselm. 
 "Don't come back to the country: there's no chance. 
 Get a place for me, too, in Chicago." 
 
 " Why don't you try renting just for one year ? " asked 
 John, though he knew what the answer would be. 
 
 "Yes, and be like Bill Purdy. No, sir. A renter 
 never has any chance. He works like a slave all his life 
 to keep even. Lives on salt pork and corn bread, and 
 then is turned out when he's too old, to live on his rela- 
 tives or at the poorhouse." 
 
 " That's so," said Jan. 
 
 Piet and the old people nodded, proud of Anselm. 
 
 " No, sir. I will go to the city or go West when I 
 strike out. This country is as dead as a nail." 
 
 They saw that it was time to be off, and there was 
 great satisfaction in getting ready and being exceedingly 
 busy. The horses must be hitched in, John's bundle 
 stowed in the buggy, the lunch tied up in a box, and the 
 final messages given. 
 
 Then the final good-byes. 
 
 " Come back and bring your little boy this fall, if you 
 don't find work," said Mr. Redingus. 
 
 The woman patted his cheek with her enormous work- 
 calloused hand. " Good-bye, John," was all that she 
 
304 D i f f e rences 
 
 said ; but the tears were flowing down her cheeks. Wade 
 put his arm around her neck, and pressed his lips to the 
 weather-beaten face. He did it before them all, and they 
 did not despise him for it. 
 
 " You have been a mother to me," he said, " and I will 
 come back if ever I'm in trouble." 
 
 He turned toward Piet then. 
 
 " I'm going to drive over with Anselm," said Piet, 
 gruffly ; and Jan stretched out a strong hand. 
 
 " I must stay and shuck at the corn," he said. " Good 
 luck, John." 
 
 " The same to you, Jan." 
 
 The three men sprang into the buggy, and Anselm 
 whipped up the horses. 
 
 " If we don't drive, we'll be late," he said grimly. And 
 the wagon rattled down the bank, and away from the 
 house toward the town. 
 
 John remembered all the places as they passed them, 
 and how he had felt that day when he came in, tired and 
 sick and alone. 
 
 All the way Anselm kept talking of Chicago, and asking 
 John to write him if times were better. 
 
 They were in plenty of time for the train. It had been 
 arranged that John should accompany a neighbour who 
 was going to Chicago with cattle. There was some delay 
 about getting started. They stood around and talked 
 dully for two hours with the neighbour about the price 
 the cattle would probably bring. 
 
 " You must make this man work his passage," said 
 Anselm, nodding toward John. " He knows all about a 
 steer now." 
 
 "Oh, there's little to do," said the neighbour. "He 
 can go to sleep in the caboose, unless some of the cattle 
 lie down, and it's not at all likely they will." 
 
D i f f e r e n c e s 305 
 
 John Wade saw a tramp watching the train ; and he 
 pitied him, and hoped he would get a ride. 
 
 Finally, they were off ; and it was a hurry to shake hands 
 with Anselm and Piet. 
 
 " If you do come to Chicago, write to me, and come and 
 see me first thing. I will look out and give you your 
 board," he shouted. 
 
 Then they were trailing away from the station. They 
 could see Anselm and Piet going back to the wagon. 
 
 " It's a fine day," said the conductor, in friendly fash- 
 ion ; and all turned their thoughts toward Chicago. 
 
 Whenever they made a stop, Wade got out with the 
 neighbour ; and they ran along the car to see if the cattle 
 were all right. When it came night, they tried to sleep in 
 the caboose, stretching themselves out on the benches. 
 
 Once in the night Wade wanted an extra handker- 
 chief. He had used the one he carried to tie up a brake- 
 man's bruised thumb. In the darkness he was fumbling 
 with his bundle, and his hands touched something small 
 and of wool. He took the lantern to examine. It was a 
 pair of little wool stockings for Joe, with gay red, fancy 
 knit tops and tiny white toe-tips and heels. Old Mrs. 
 Redingus had done them with her own hands, and had 
 kept the secret from all of them. 
 
XLVI. 
 
 IT was long after midnight when the train pulled into 
 Chicago and was side-tracked in the stock-yards. At 
 daylight they began unloading the cattle, and by 
 breakfast time Wade was free to go. He said good- 
 bye to the neighbour and sent back messages to his 
 friends. Then he started out alone on the street. He 
 wanted to have quiet for thinking. 
 
 How much at home he felt, and how strange it was to feel 
 at home again ! All the freshness and green of the country 
 were behind him, like a dream. The gray, coal-smoked, 
 sodden-smelling city was around him. The hurry of men 
 going to work, the wagons rumbling, the chimneys smoking, 
 — it was his native air. He was treading his native heath. 
 He loved the hideous ugliness of the place and the crowds 
 of patient-faced men. He stopped in a lunch-room for 
 breakfast, and enjoyed the tasteless, insipid food dealt out 
 in impersonal fashion. Then out on the streets again, 
 where the heavy teams were drawing loaded wagons and 
 the street-cars were ringing their gongs. He took one of 
 the cars on Halstead Street, and stood on the front plat- 
 form to enjoy things. Then he felt that he was going 
 toward Genevieve Radcliffe, and the city faded suddenly 
 from his sight. 
 
 What did he mean by this journey ? Why had he not 
 stayed where he was ? He could have paid the neigh- 
 bour to bring Joe back with him. He need never have 
 come to her here, to hold down and narrow her life. 
 But still the car hurried on. He did not get off and go 
 back, and a great fulness of joy was within him. 
 
 He found Sadie, as usual, at Settlement House ; and 
 she ran up to bring little Joe. They would see if the 
 baby would remember. 
 
D i f f e rences 307 
 
 " Dada, dada," he called out before they were half 
 down the stairs, and kicked and held out his arms. 
 
 " He knew you the very first minute," shouted Sadie, 
 dancing awkwardly around them ; and the tears were soft 
 in her eyes. 
 
 That afternoon he went over to see Genevieve, still 
 wondering if it were possible he was to see her. Their 
 meeting was very much the same as usual, not at all like 
 the meeting of lovers. 
 
 " I knew it was wrong to come, but I could not stay 
 away," he said simply. 
 
 For some time she did not reply. To look at him was 
 feasting for her eyes. 
 
 There was still much of the workingman and the lady 
 as these two sat and talked of their plans for the mar- 
 riage. He was delicate on all personal points : it was 
 more as if she were to marry some other. And still it 
 was settled from the first, else why should she have 
 written and he come back ? After some consultation it 
 was decided that they should not wait for him to get 
 work. Genevieve had a little money of her own. She 
 had sold some diamonds she had owned, together with 
 other small property. Besides, there was her salary, — 
 that was sure ; and he would find work in good time. 
 John did not like this at first ; but he saw that the first 
 step had been taken, and now it was useless to hesitate. 
 
 In the days that followed they spent all their after- 
 noons together, arranging for their home of the future. 
 They bought a snug little house not far away from the 
 school, and there was a back yard for a garden. They 
 made but a small payment down, and arranged for the 
 rest by instalments. Then there was the buying of the 
 furnishings of the house, after John had moved his poor 
 things over. They went to the cheap furniture stores, 
 
308 D i f f e r e n c e s 
 
 and were as serious on saving a half-dollar as if it were a 
 question of hundreds. It was all like play to Genevieve. 
 To John, too, it was very like playing. , 
 
 One day he went to see Mr. Davidson, his landlord on 
 Goose Island, and former employer. 
 
 " Hello, John, glad to see you. Do you want a job ? 
 I'm starting up a little bit of business, and was looking 
 for you for a foreman." 
 
 So it was that work came itself, and the two were 
 happier than ever. 
 
 Then the inevitable moved a step faster. 
 
 The work would not begin for a week, and they de- 
 cided to be married before it. There was great haste in 
 getting things ready, but they liked the hurry and excite- 
 ment. 
 
 Sadie was engaged as their little nursemaid and house- 
 keeper. She was almost as happy as they. She was so 
 jealous of their taking her baby. 
 
 Genevieve's family did not come to the wedding. They 
 would not even meet John Wade. 
 
 " You have chosen your own path," said her father. 
 " You must not expect us to accompany you on your 
 journey. You are always welcome to come here, only 
 don't bring that labourer when you come, and never speak 
 of him in our presence." 
 
 Her old friends avoided her politely. They had pity 
 only for the family. Even Bettine was cold. She could 
 not understand what she called Genevieve's unnatural- 
 ness. 
 
 Bettine herself was soon to be married to Mr. Westfall, 
 and together they would work with the poor. Bettine 
 was fond of the phrase " with the poor," and corrected 
 those who said " for the poor." By " with," however, she 
 did not mean the intimacy that leads to marriage. 
 
Differences 309 
 
 Mrs. Purcell was much troubled, too. " Was the Settle- 
 ment theory right ? " she sometimes asked. 
 
 And Genevieve herself and John Wade, were they sure 
 of all that had happened ? It could not have been other- 
 wise, they knew ; but was it well to have been at all ? 
 
XLVII. 
 
 THE wedding was lonely enough, and as solemn as 
 if it had been a confirmation. Perhaps a true 
 marriage is more natural so. 
 
 There were four guests. Mr. Nugent and his good wife 
 stood by, and Sadie solemnly held baby Joe. Mrs. Pur- 
 cell had intended to be present, but had sent her flowers 
 at the last moment. There was too much misgiving 
 within her. 
 
 The ceremony over, they went from the little church 
 directly to their own house near by. Mr. Nugent and his 
 wife did not accompany them. Even Sadie went ahead 
 with the baby, to make final preparations for supper. 
 
 They were walking westward, — these two ; and the set- 
 ting sun was level in their eyes. 
 
 The home-coming was simple and cheery. Baby Joe 
 was strutting about the new house, shouting and crowing 
 over his discoveries, and making things merry for them 
 all. 
 
 Sadie had the supper ready in the dining-room, and the 
 four sat down quite merrily together. The newness of 
 the dishes and linen, the reminiscences of the places 
 where they had bought them, kept lively conversation 
 a-going, and called up quiet, happy laughter. 
 
 Only when the work was put away, when Sadie and 
 Joe had gone off to bed, did the seriousness come upon 
 them. They sat together by the table, each strained with 
 the consciousness of the situation, each trying to be nat- 
 ural and cheerful. The lady was more ladylike than 
 ever. The man was a workingman still. 
 
 " Why, you have forgotten your pipe," said Genevieve. 
 " I could not think what was the matter." 
 
 She went to the little clock shelf where, with much 
 
Differences 311 
 
 former glee, a place had been arranged for the tobacco 
 box, and brought the pipe over to him. She even filled 
 the bowl with the fragrant tobacco, and brought him a 
 match ready lighted ; but he looked in her eyes, and smiled 
 kindly. " I do not feel like smoking to-night," was all he 
 said ; and she did not understand at that moment, and sat 
 down with a feeling of disappointment. 
 
 The strain of the strangeness of the situation was 
 surely growing upon her. After all, had she made a 
 mistake ? Had she been, as her father said, unnatural ? 
 Was the workingman before her, after all, the man she 
 had really loved? Suddenly her womanishness was 
 uppermost, and the tears forced themselves from her 
 eyes. 
 
 Then the strong man came to his kingdom. Never 
 had prince risen with more stately and dignified motion 
 than this plain, simple workman, John Wade. He walked 
 over to her quite royally, for he loved her with the love 
 of all the world. 
 
 " My own little wife," he said proudly, and folded his 
 strong arms around her. 
 
 THE END. 
 

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