" • _ . . . . • A <, .^°.o o. ^0^ 0^ 5 V 9^ • ^'•. THE LETTERS OF DAVID i This little hook I reverently dedicate to my Father. To Miss Mary Jordan of Smith College I extend thanks for commendation and to other friends J am grateful for their affec- tion for David MARTHA E. WATTS The summer of 1912 David Long spent at Shore Mountain and there waged a successful war with himself. /• *h Copyright. 1918 By MARTHA E. WATTS C1A557200 7I91S I. An Expression of Gratitude to a firm but kind Doctor. Shore-Mountain, May 30. Dear old "Doc": You gave me my choice between Heaven and this. It's taken me a week to forgive you "them harsh words", but now I ask your forgiveness for all the back talk I hurled at your shining head. "Heaven or this" — they must be synonymous! I didn't know before that the world had so much blue wa- ter and golden sand and waving trees and all those things the poets must have seen somewhere. I strolled up to the hotel today and took a seat on the veranda. I didn't notice by whom I was sitting, but I soon found out. A little voice at my elbow piped up: "Been here long?" "Over a week," I replied, mechanically, and turn- ed to see a silver-haired lady in a vivid, green dress bending over some embroidery. "Pretty place," she remarked, giving me a fidgety glance out of one eye. "It's heaven," I replied. "Heaven is where God is," she answered. "I beg your pardon for misplacing Him," I re- joined. But she hadn't convinced me. I quitted the porch and drifted down to the shore and lay there stretched out full length on the soft, warm sand. I saw the sun dip into the sea and gild the sky a reddish gold, streaked with black, slender clouds and the lingering light make a shimmering pathway across the waters from the skyline to my feet. As the sky grew dim and the light faded, I felt the tap of bad Little Despair at my — lungs, better say. Then a small bright star crept out of Page Three the darkness overhead, and Little Despair, being afraid of God's candles, sneaked away. Your grateful David. II. He would send Garden Flowers to a Society Lady. Shore-Mountain, June 9. There isn't an excuse available for writing to you, Betty; that is, not one I could appease my goddess with. Were she here, 1 could lay at her feet offerings which would bring a smile even to her sweetly disdainful face — offerings not of roses or orchids, but sweet peas and nasturtiums, black-eyed Susans, which a funny old Dutch- man with red whiskers sells for ten cents a bunch (the flowers, not the whiskers). When my cook Dinah saw the Susans this morning (black-eyed Susans are bought by bachelors of the best families in Shore-Mountain — alliteration is in my line), she said she thought them very ugly. Her remark so disconcerted me that I dropped the stone jar on the steps of the front porch with such a noise that 1 woke the baby sleeping on the piazza next door. His mother hasn't spoken to me since. I can see you now, young lady of luxury, probably seated this fine afternoon on the side lines, watching a snappy game of tennis played by two of your scrappy suitors, and surrounded by many more who are enjoying white flannels and silk shirts and silk socks. No one does things like that in Shore-Mountain. The flower man wears a yellow shirt, blue overalls and a green tie, which clash with his pink sweet peas. But how I wander from my subject when what I want to tell you is a "why" or two. Yes, Betty, 1 remem- ber 1 phoned and asked if I might come out Thursday night, and you said, "Yes", and I never came. What Page Four an ill-mannered brute you must have thought me! I deserve every inch of your disdain, but you are a good person to take things on faith, so I am asking you to take a pretty poor sort of a fellow "on faith" — a fellow who cares so much that he dares call you sweetheart, and who knew he was leaving you for so very long, that he couldn't bear to come and tell you goodbye for fear he might not show himself the man you've thought him. "Sweetheart" — Yes, Betty, because that's what you've always been to me and always will be. Were you the wife of the King of England, you'd always be sweetheart to me. I never dared say it out loud, but I've often murmured it. What a silly old ass I am! I've come out here to this ocean, these great stretches of glorious sand, this quiet, funny town to study! That's why I came. I've always known I was the least bit eccentric and used to think I'd fit right well in a padded cell. I could see myself beating a hole through the padding of the wall. But padded cells are not frequent now and I never could stand the luxury of a modern "State Hospital." Why! They have dances there and the last dance I danced was with you - - - I am studying here, and it is a delightful place for a "heavy" student. Take my sudden departure and desire to be away from the roar and glare of the city as composite bits of my natural eccentricity. I know you never suspected me of being a student — insurance men seldom are — but great mentalities sometimes ex- plode suddenly and here is one that has gone off like a skyrocket. Betty, don't say I can't write. If these old letters (Oh, the joy of pouring out my foolish manuscripts to you last year!) do not seem worth more than a "Mer- chant's Bridge" or a limerick postal now and then, send even that and I shall frame it. If even less — I have won Page Floe your interest (it is five years I've been working for it) — let me know if you are in Japan, Nebraska or Maine so I can still rant on to you. If, and this is the worst of all, but certainly something not to be disregarded — my ideas bore you and my handwriting gets on your nerves, don't read what I write, but let me think you do. Faustus says, "Let the fool live on in his ignorant folly lest, haply, knowing he is a fool, he sicken of his own jokes and die." Your fanciful one-time writer of policies, now sea- side resorter and student, David. III. Shore-Mountain is Described. Shore-Mountain, June 30. Dear little Love-Lady: Some people step to their back door and look upon a garden, old-fashioned, possessing hollyhocks and roses, and daises perhaps. Others look down a neat walk, flanked by smooth, green lawns, and their eyes rest at the end of the white walk on a small square, cement garage. And others — I can see one of this kind now as I used to know her many centuries ago; she wears a blue-checked apron, swings open the screen door and with one gesture brushes out a couple of flies and throws a handful of grain at the foot of the steps; there is a flutter, a rush, a squawking; dust and feathers ascend in the air, and many hungry beaks find yellow grains of corn ; the screen door shuts and in go the flies on their return trip. But it's all a matter of chance and we all have "the only thing" for us in the way of a back yard, I'm sure. Mine I would not change for any of the others, though once my selfish fancy pictured a happy combination of all three. For what I see from my back Page Six door, big, stretching as far as the eye can reach, and wide as no man could run in a week, sometimes blue and gentle, sometimes gray, tossing, flecked with rest- less sails, pounding the helpless shore with ceaseless thunder, lies God's ocean — my back yard. Thank you, dear, for the kind note. I know my sudden departure deserves no more than the short reply that you have sent to the first ranting of mine, but I have in a sandalwood box — one I got in India many years ago and which I have always kept waiting for something valuable enough for it to hold, a package of letters that you wrote me last summer. Is it unkind to remind you of those thoughts that you sent to an old duffer last summer? I can sit by my fire on the shore, way up where I build it, away from everyone, under cover of a bluff jutting over my sandy "study", and reread them these evenings and imagine they came fresh from your hands, one each week, so they'll last some time. It shall be my reward for a diligent week of study. What under the sun am I studying, you ask? I do study a lot under the sun. Today my study partly consisted of a crow — the blackest and most beautiful of crows. But I'll tell you of him another time. He was a most interesting fellow, I have a busy day before me tomorrow, and my fire burns low. So, goodnight! I'll bet that infernal Jack is calling this evening. What a way he has with him, too! Dog take him! Dave. P. S. I thought I could wait until next letter to tell you what else an all generous Creator has placed at Shore-Mountain — but I can't. Perhaps you have guessed from my letterhead. There is a rise of ground — not far from my front door, and when a visitor catches his breath he may climb it - and - lo - Betty - not many miles distant — the hills — worthy of the name of moun- tains. It's splendid! Page Seoen IV. A Philosopher discusses Mail-Men and "Souls." Shore-Mountain, July 11. My Lady of Light: The sun didn't get up with the rest of us this morning. My old black cook didn't smile when she said, "Bad day, today, Marse Tom." Things predicted rain and a bad grouch for "Marse Tom." Then the postman, who usually with careful study avoids my gate, turned in and put into my hands (God bless him!) a blue note bearing two green stamps and the loveliest, scrawly handwriting in the world. "Beautiful day, " I said, with more good humor than sense, and the old postman grinned and hurried on; and ever since the sun has been shining, though the natives, being blind, walk by my gate with umbrellas raised high overhead. You are "a little tired of the tennis and launch rides and many people" and you think you'll "run back to the city and drop in on Marje and children for a week end and whirl away Bob and Mary for a week's outing." Dear angel! Oh, I know you want no commending, but I could sing your praises till Gabriel gave me a harp and wings to hush my feverish cries! Back in the city where men make mostly money and see only smoke, people do grow sort of tiresome. But here, where I have formed the habit of study, I have found more interesting things even than books. I have drifted into a study of "souls." It seems to me there are two kinds of souls; the one whose windows open outward; and the one whose curtains are drawn and whose blinds are shut. Beautiful souls and some not so beautiful — and sometimes, the most lovable souls have the queerest houses to live in. Page Eight My cottage is up the beach, away from the hotel and settlement. This morning, I was seated with my back against a rock, surrounded with books, my eyes drifting in spite of me across the water, my mind far away, when I heard voices and turning, saw two, small queer figures who had come to a halt near me. One was a small boy, little but sturdy, with rosy cheeks — a small volcano of life and energy. "Won't you go farther. Aunt Joy?" he was plead- ing. The answer came in a halting, breathy tone from the lips of the saddest looking person I have ever seen. She was thin and tiny and pitiful. Her little bent back was supported by a cheap worn crutch; her dark, deep- set eyes looked out of a pale, hollow-cheeked face, and the wind playing havoc with her black hair had loosened it till the scrawny locks formed a weird frame to her white face. "1 am a little tired, Jacky, "came the answer, "but if you will wait a minute, I think 1 can go on soon." Jacky had to wait more than a minute, for no sooner were the words uttered than the crutch slipped from under her and she fell in a tired heap on the sand. 1 was glad 1 happened to be near and that Jacky had a pail in which to carry water from the sea to her hot head and wrists. It happened too, that Dinah had been looking down on the beach from the cottage and, seeing what had happened, came to our help and knew just what to do. When the girl regained consciousness, she was in my living room. It is a half-study, half-living room with many windows, lots of air, a cheerful fireplace at one end. It never had struck me as funny, but I guess it is, at least to a woman's view point, for when the cripple "came to", she sat on the edge of the sofa looking about, nervously. First she saw Jacky sitting by the Paie Nine fire and a comfortable smile crinkled up her eyes. Then she gazed around the room, looked at Susan and me, at my pipes, books and the few pictures I have, and burst into peals of joyous laughter. We surely touched her sense of humor. She had Susan and Jacky roaring with her before long and I being so glad to know that she wasn't dead, that, though the joke seemed to be on me, I laughed too. It seems that she and her small nephew are here for their health. When she said "our health" I looked at Jacky's rosy cheeks and remarked that he surely looked well. Her smile — which had almost made me lose sight of the homeliness it hid — vanished when I said this and she replied plaintively, "1 try to make myself think it's for 'our health'; otherwise, I should feel so selfish spending the money if he didn't need it too, but you see anyway he needs me, so it's all right." She was simple in her thanks to Susan and me, but we knew her gratitude came from her heart. When I left her at the hotel, she held out her hand to me and said, "I'm sorry I fainted and gave you so much bother. Jacky and I thank you, and I am sorry I laughed in such an undignified manner. It wasn't at you or your dear cottage, but because I've watched you and your house and wondered what it was like and then when I saw it, it was so unexpected, so different, so mannish and so nice that my imagination found it had drawn an entirely wrong picture and laughed at itself." What a long letter! Betty has probably gone to sleep over it. But since she has given me permission to ramble on to her as a diversion from my studies, I am taking her at her word. Blessed diversion! Good- night. Page Ten V. A Slight Discussion of "Symptoms." Shore-Mountain, July 19. Dear Doc: — So it is details you want! Be prepared for an encyclopedia. As to my health — first and foremost, I should feel defiance against any man who said I was a **T. B." But then I remember the word of a doctor and he is a student and a man much interested in lungs, and he has told me with all truth and with only regret. Ye gods! The memory of that day! Sometimes the old "well" feeling surges over me as this wonderful sea air rushes into my mutilated lungs. I take an awfully long walk to prove myself the same old scout. But what happens? That which happens to all fools — and once more I find myself againt the same old wall. But each day. Doc, knocks off a row of bricks, and though I can't see the Garden of Health on the other side, sometimes the sea blows over the scent of violets and I get to dreaming of the day when I shall be able to wander again in that garden. Don't worry. I know I've got "it" and that I shall probably never come back to civilization and work and — you know what else. A frank report? Well, sometimes I feel that even the loving care and attention of trusty old Dinah and all this sea air couldn't build up this shattered frame to last one week longer. Perhaps that will happen and my boat shall soon put off to sea. But it will not matter, for the waves will come up and destroy all my wayward footprints in the sand. I've put, old man, the only things worth while in life — my work, my resolves (funny things), my hopes, and, biggest of all, my love for her — in one sand castle. May God let that stand. Does she write? Yes; and you've worked the deception well for me. I was afraid that you wouldn't Paga EUo*n understand when I asked you, who had discovered to keep my secret. But you have a wealth of feehng and you saw that harder to endure than the reaHzation of my weakness would have been her pity, since I had not won her love. To my surprise the "Onward" accepted a few of those old pamphlets on "psych" I wrote last winter. They published one last week. Did you see it^ She did, and wrote me a note to tell me she had forgiven my isolation for she saw that it was meaning real study. I have just opened a letter from Gerard. Nice chap! He said he thought me the "durndest" of grinds to retire to the open to study, but that he had seen the "Onward" and realized that "geniuses must genuisite." So, I thank you. Doc, for helping the deceiver along. He's a queer duffer, but you must humor his pride, you know. Don't think of coming up here. There's not a thing you can do for me and I wouldn't have you leave all those sick people. If I need you, I'll wire. How's the Queen? I see the entries for the horse show are in order. Enter her. She's the proudest, queenliest, little stepper of them all. Her presence will make that place shine. Your "lunger" David. VI. A Letter where Shadows and Visions Appear. Shore-Mountain, July 25. My Sweetheart: To-night (it was the old fire's fault) I learned to believe in shadows and visions. "The fire won't burn, the dog won't bark, the stick won't beat" — did you ever know about the little pig that wouldn't go over the bridge? We kids, in the Golden Age long ago when we were kids, used to sit around the fire and Grandmother Page Tweloe would tell us about the pig, and by the time the little pig got over the bridge we were all nodding and ready for Sleepy Land. It was much better than sheep going over the fence, for it always worked. I tried it this evening with my small niece and nephew. We sat be- fore the sizzling logs and 1 wove weird yarns, till my own head fairly spun, but not theirs. Their eyes grew wider and wider and I could feel their little hearts thumping against me, as we all sat huddled up in the big arm chair. "Another tory. Uncle David," was the period with which they dotted every one of my wild tales. Marie dropped in from the sky (a habit of hers) this morning and left the tots with me while she ran over to Kayou on business. I took them for a street car ride this after- noon and what they didn't find to do wasn't on that street car. Mary Anne, aged four, regarded all the sheep and cows and cats I could find on the landscape with disdain. I desisted in my attentions to her and was delving under the seat after a nickel small Tom had lost and must discover, when I felt Mary Anne's claws in my neck. I rose with a jerk, landed the nickel in Tom's thankless paw and my hat in the aisle, only to see Mary Anne's round, sunburned face a mass of wrinkles and awe as she gazed at a prize she had snatched from the head of a lady in front of her. I blush at the recall as I did, as the realization of her deed came upon me. For five minutes, which seemed three hours, I sat para- lyzed, while Mary Anne fingered that detachable, golden curl and cooed her pleasure at finding a thing so beautiful and at the same time so easily to be had. Her delighted murmuring, growing louder, began to attract the gaze of the other occupants of the car, save that of the woman who had been robbed. She was nodding. I knew that if I took that curl from Mary Anne's hand a shout would rise which would certainly disturb the sleep of the unconscious woman. Something must be done. Pais Thirteen "Let Uncle David see," I whispered, smiling in mock admiration at the golden goods. Mary Anne opened her hand and disclosed the thing to which the curl was attached. My heart sank deeper. The points of the pin were hidden in the hair and I could see no way in human skill to put back in the tangled yellow mass before me the curved wire end. Then a thump, quick and light, and a shadow at my side caused me to turn. The dark figure was no other than the little cripple. In a second, her slim fingers had snatched the curl from Mary Anne's grasp and it was back in its accustomed place (I'm sure of that), in the unconscious hair — I mean in the hair of the unconscious head of the woman. Not only that, the surprise of it all had so taken Mary Anne that she could not utter a sound. "Let her come across in our seat and play with Jacky's dog ", suggested the little woman, pulling up her crutch. So a blushing uncle, endeavoring to be oblivious of the titters on all sides, bounced his precocious young niece across the aisle and — so wonderful are the ways of women — completed the journey without further ad- venture. And this evening, when the fire failed to coax the Sand Man to enter and scatter sleep on wide-opened eyes, a vision of Grandmother, quiet and trim in her soft, black gown and cap and kerchief, was spirited from the flames. So uncle David began to try and get the little pig to go over the bridge and before he could hope for it, the two monkeys had fallen asleep. That's one vision I've had to-night. And the other? Sweetheart, a painter of sunsets would never attempt to realize a beautiful vision I see in these flames. Yet it is here, very real, true, breathing, smiling, smiling with eyes that are wondrously sweet. I see arms so soft and hands so gentle that the weakest of things Page Fourteen would find strength in their contact. Oh, forgive me for my vision, for I pledge you my word that I shall never seek the real presence again, but shall sit at my fireside many miles away and be only a foolish "Dreamer." VII. He is Concerned about "Infection." Shore-Mountain, Aug. 3. Just a line, dear old Doc: — I mean it this time. I want to ask a question. Will you let me know as soon as possible if my associating with people in the least endangers their blessed health? I ask this, because I've discovered that the "little Crip", as she describes herself, has been living off of two scant meals a day (not a word from them of this, however) and I've found an excellant plan to get them well fed. We've been having beautiful bats on the beach (haven't lost that alliteration habit yet). They've consented to sup with the bachelor before the camp fire whenever he feels a lonsome spell coming on. So, when the weather is good, the loneliness manages to come on every night. And with the world for one's dining room, one eats — well, one is ashamed to say how much, but it's a great deal better than going to bed with that "empty feeling." I've known it in boyhood days "when the cupboard was bare", so I mean in some way to see that "Crip and Jacky get fed so they can go off to sleep with a com- fortable feeling inside. But if I am doing them harm, I am defeating my purpose which is, God willing, to help little "Crip" get well and strong. Therefore, Doc, will you tell me how much I can have to do with humanity or, how much the bachelor, the hermit must play? If you think my ignorance is basely absurd, fire away. But you see I never studied disease before, thinking it rather an unmanly thing. So I've got to learn. Page Fifteen Thanks. I'ln glad you liked the last article in the "Onward." What do you think it did? It brought me an offer for the chair of Philosophy at Raverdale. How is that for your hollow-cheeked, idling, Dave? VIII. He has Several Things to Say. Shore-Mountain, Aug. 10. Bless your kind heart: For that "worry", but believe "Uncle Dave" right now, Betty, life's going smoothly with the student at Shore-Mountain. How do you like the name? Has a kind of lazy sound, hasn't it? And gives the idea that it is the kind of place where one sits in the sand and lets Nature do all the worrying. And worrying it can do. Early this evening — I have never seen a quieter sea or a more peaceful sky — 1 had my cot out on the porch and lay there thinking over what a nice bat we had had on the shore, watching the silent sea and the sky with only the stars to light it. Somehow I believe I like the stars better than the moon — they are un- pretentious, making no boast of much candlepower. It was just dawn when I awoke. A very near knocking of thunder caused me to sit up with a start. The sky was a lowering black, more awful as through the darkness of it one could see an occasional beautiful tint of dawn or catch the faint glimmer of a fading star. The heavens were scowling and moving their black clouds over a sea, black and seething. The waves pounded the shore with fierce reiteration. Now and then a flash of lightning sprang through the clouds and leaped into the sea. But the wonderful part of it all was that the real storm never came. The intensity of the threaten- Page Sixteen ing was appalling but gradually, as I waited and ex- pected that at any minute the burst might come and that Dinah and the cottage and I might be carried in a rushing torrent out to sea, gradually the lightning flashes became less frequent; slowly, almost impercep- tibly, the black clouds faded into a negative grayness; the thunder seemed to be rolling a little farther away each time and the crash of the waves on the shore less terrifying. At last, the glow of morning came, like a beautiful dream, through the clouds, and I heard no sound but a gentle swish of the waters on a rose-tinted shore. It seemed almost as though I had seen the awful figure of Death rush at the door of someone and then vanish in thin air and in her place, wonderfully good to see, stood Life, with a smile on her lips and but a trace of tears in her eyes. It put harmony in my heart and a desire for music in my soul. So this morning I un- wrapped "Amati" — so long boxed and swathed in chamois. Betty — it's a dear fiddle — isn't it? The tone of it has a way of "pulling your heart strings." I wish I had had your sympathetic fingers at a piano. Do you know the clever postman has dis- covered my secret? How do you suppose he did it? I admit that when one has seen that scrawly, character- istic handwriting of yours, one doesn't forget it. And then, I must have an "open face." I've always hated open faces; they make me think of alarm clocks and idiots. At any rate, when that blue-coated gentleman walks in at my gate, I can tell by his expression whether he is bringing "one " or not. And this morning — well he was beautiful — handsome doesn't express it. He grinned until I was afraid he'd never get his mouth to- gether again. And handing it to me (not the grin, thank the Lord!), he said in silvery tones: "The sun's out this morning, sir," which was a lesson to me to put on a smiling front whatever the weather or the mail. Paie Secenleen So you've learned to paddle. What a versatile lady Betty is! Now you can swim — I've seen and 1 know — but remember, Ed Thomas cannot and though he'd be able to float I'm sure (Oh, jealously bitter re- mark! What cats men are!), yet there are rocks in the Maple River and if ever young Thomas is missing and a heart without an owner is found speared by the point of a rock on the banks, the crime will be laid at the door of a lady who is known to have "led on" the young gentleman, a young lady who has slaughtered the hearts of men who are loath to consider themselves of a "past generation." "Past generation!" The hearts do not suffice, cruel woman. She must put her dainty, sharp-heeled slipper on the neck of their vanity too! Since when have I deemed myself your "Uncle Dave" or an admirer of the "past generation"? It's this, let's say, dear sweetheart, (if my heart says dear, why can't my pen?) it cheers me sometimes to think I'm an old admirer of the "past generation" who has entirely forgotten his painful passion and can address in an "uncle-ly" fashion the lady who made him become just a plain fool very much in love. "Once? " "In love? " What a queer way to put it. If to be "in love" is to have every thought a part of her world, is to make every wish a fairy godmother with a gracious gift for her — if it is to will to speak only words that she would be glad to hear, and to will to do only deeds that she would call "fair and square" — then I've been there sometime and call it "living." The "Crip" and Jacky have rented a small cottage up in the mountains, about a mile from me. I wandered to their home last evening and took tea with them. "Amati" accompanied me and we had some music. It was a "homey " evening and inspired me to write this poor verse: Page Eighteen "The Basket." The weary day was o'er. When I with basket always bare Tapped the welcoming door Of two new friends; And in the candle's gentle glow we dined. Morning is at hand — And here before my basket small I, quiet, thoughtful, stand. For it is filled With violets, violet — memories I find. David. IX. Which Contains Some Advice. Shore-Mountain, Aug. 19. Dear little Betty: It's worth growing old, it's worth being a prosy toad, and even a grind, for what I got from you today. Even more I should be willing to gather shells, pink, blue, lavender shells, big shells and little shells, rising with the sun and seeing her set every day in the week, every week in the year, for years, for what this day has brought me — the realization that you could carry to me a trouble. Dear girl, gratitude and wonder that you so trust me fill my heart to an extent of which I did not think it was capable. That you may never regret ask- ing me to help you and that my answer may at least put the right spark in your strong mind is my wish. You think that my fifteen years more of experience in this puzzling old world can bring you the wisdom that you so need. Bless your heart, is it a question of wis- dom? In the courts of Love, alas. Wisdom sits on a stool at the feet of Affection, in rags and tatters, without even a slate on which to write a sane, sensible remark. Pagt Nineteen I have read every word of your letter not less than five times and have thought hard. You say that you've known him four years. Yes, I remember the day that Bob brought him to call on you. We were sitting on the veranda drinking lemonade. My! What a hot after- noon! And I thought as Sidney stepped out on the veranda in his white flannels, his frank eyes looking straight into yours, — I remember 1 thought he was the most perfect looking specimen of manhood 1 had ever seen. What a physique, what a head, what honest gray eyes, what ease and yet what strength of bearing. I knew that I should see Sidney Wallace again, for we were both charmed with the boy, and he — well, every one loves Betty. So for four years, knowing, Betty, his interest in you, and so watching with no little interest the man — with you and away from you — I have made a special study of Sidney, and he's always been, as you say you have found him, "true blue". And I've studied, to quote again, my lady of dreams, with my usual "unclely interest", the girl that he loves. But what is the mind of man worth when it comes to discovering the secrets of a girl's heart? I say it, Betty, with all reverence and awe, for I think it very beautiful that some women do not show in their faces, in their least actions, the secrets of their souls. They are theirs to have and to hold, guarded as sacred treasures within the keeping of the heart, and the door is shut. No one enters until they give the key to the one whom they deem worthy of sharing the joy and sanctity of those secrets. So it was that, though I thought I had read aright your heart, I had not, for while Sidney was coming day by day to mean more to you and you were beginning to find in him each hour more of the "all", I was thinking that you and he were only friends. Little did I realize then that you should turn to me one day and tell me that you weren't quite sure you loved him Page Twenty and ask me if I thought your love was "great enough." Do I think you a fool for asking me? No, Betty. I understand that you have no "older person" for whom you care enough to go to. And with a man's customary vanity, I must say 1 think I am "just the person" to at least drop a seed of truth in your heart. Let's see, now. If 1 understand clearly, you knew "it" was coming soon — the day when all the sweet things he's been saying for years would unite in one big "con- fession" — and it did come, the day you'd wished for; and it happened to be evening (strangely enough) and it "happened" in Cousin Bess* conservatory (memo- rable place) and instead, when he had finished speaking, of saying, as you had expected to do, the words he was waiting to hear, you were only silent and were think- ing — "Oh, I don't believe I love you enough. I wonder if David would know how a person should feel. Perhaps dear, old Dave could tell me. I must ask some one." So you said, "Sidney, I can't answer you now — I must think." And you wrote to me, for, perhaps, I loved the little Crip and could tell you. Dear Betty, it isn't the Crip, but your old David does know what it is to love. This life "study" to which he feels called has made it impossible to even dream of attaining the girl that he loves. Enough of that. Just know that he does understand and, though he is a man and you are a girl, he feels that he can help. You've had the test which every girl unfor- tunately can't have, of knowing him long and well and finding him splendid and congenial. And what he is without you and what he is to you, association has taught you. As for your not being able to know "when the moment came", I cannot quite understand that. It may have come at the wrong time or you may have been feeling tired or a little unnatural. But, out of Page Twenty-one fairness to him, and, greater still, fairness to yourself, I say, wait. Go away for a little while and see if the absence means a poignant pain and see if the return means the greatest joy on earth. I think it will. I think it is true that he is meant to be your "all in all." Take it to the "highest Judge," Betty, who understands and rules all things and see if it will stand the light of His truth. And then — and, oh, believe me when I say this, there will come to you — "for man is a spirit" — in the depths of your heart a certain holy, very happy consciousness — a surety — if you love! Then you will know. Your old "Uncle David." X. Symptons Related and Unrelated to Medicine. Shore-Mountain. Sept 2. Dear Doc and General Questioner: To be honest I must confess I've had the "dumps," My pen has dipped itself in sadness and gives you this — "The Spider Web." I found a sun-sprayed spider web apart, Gleaming pearl and silver in the dew. And quickly sought to lay the treasure new As one, within the keeping of my heart. When my dazzled mind in blinding, bitter pain Beheld the place was empty where the shrine had lain And loathed to see the morning's sparkling web again. Answer to question one: Yes, I sleep out of doors. The house is too small for me. Two: Yes, that hectic (I've heard of "hectic flushes " so I suppose that's all right) appetite of mine continues and in spite of a good gain in weight, I refuse to diet. Three: Yes, Betty Page Twetdjf4wo writes once in a while; but I believe it's going to stop. Doc. It's asking rather too much when she doesn't know why I whirled away and am staying away, and cares less. Will you help me by not mentioning her any more? Four: Yes, I am all right on funds. The Psych pamphlets pay beautifully and Dinah economizes to the degree — well, you ought to see the color of my table cloth; that table cloth represents the season's fruits as they pass on. I never could eat cherry pie daintily. Five: Supper bats continue and the little Crip and Jacky are my "tanglefoot " companions. I send them away to bed quite early and sit by the beach fire a little and dream alone. It's pleasant dreaming. Yes, even with that void in my chest and the dark ship with the ragged sails always hovering near the port, the chip off the dream-soul of that poet ancestor of mine sends happy thoughts into my queer old head and bubbles of hope that I once blew out of my meerschaum (before my Doctor did his tapping and discovered a leak in the base of my windpipe — forgive the lack of technicalities of the uninitiated) sometimes float over still and the fire, the fly-away sparks and the star-sprinkled sky up into which they float lend a lazy haze of enchantment, of fairy-like truth to these child-bubbles. I can people those dream castles with those I used to know not long ago, see them walking down the shore, and sometimes I start to rise and speak, to offer them a place by my fire (is it childishness or the natural thing for a "lunger", can you tell me, you "Searcher of Symptoms?") — then the shock to find that they are not my own people but one or two of the hotel guests who have strolled un- asked up to the sanctity of my shore. And I see that the girl is much less lovely and could not be she. I have patience now, though, with freaks of fancy I never under- stood before. Page Twenty-three Somehow, Doc, — and this I want you to know so you will not pity your lunger — it seems to me a wonder- ful thing that you found out when you did, for this solitude is a fine thing for the purging of the soul. Some- how, back where you are, in the crowded routine, you can never get away from it at all, but here, one does not have to endure the society even of himself for long and if he sees his unpleasant self in the mirror perhaps and hears that deeper self within saying, "Hold, I've a word for you", he can turn on his heel and flee to the mountains and be lost in myriad musings about nature. And where does the joy come in? In the gladness that God, through you, gave me an oasis where I might rest and draw in a deep breath of Nature and think of her, of her wonderful power, of her freshness, of her quiet beauty; to feel the coolness of the winds from the sea, the warmth of the air from the mountains, and to see the mad colors of the sky and earth; and, secondly, that on this oasis God put a beautiful, brave soul like Crip's to teach me great things which I never knew before, and the innocent Jacky whose infant mind works in strange ways. And so, through these, I am reaching a kind of content (safer than the joy we spend our lives in chasing) and finally I have come to feel the unmis- takable consciousness that there is a God who gives a resting place where we need it, a place to prepare for his way of living — a way which we shall sometime have a chance to tread in the whirl tomorrow, or in the quiet- ness beyond. XI. Which tells of an Unwelcome Guest at Shore-Mountain. Shore-Mountain, Sept. 18. Dear Betty: You've really missed my letters? Why havn't I written? Mainly, because the little flame of courage. Page Twenty-four of inspiration that was burning here at Shore-Mountain has flickered and gone out. I did not know what a Hght it was shedding in my httle world. It happened on a calm, quiet night, when the sea was smooth and murmur- ing gently on the shore. I think, had there been a storm or a high wind, she would have stayed by to fight it out, for she has always fought all her life. But the calmness, the stillness, seemed to bring her into a very deep sleep. Poor little soul! Her pain-racked body didn't allow her much sleep and the neighbor who found her said that Jacky lay in her arms and they woke him, but she slept on; the little light was gone, and with it, her cheery smile, her easy laugh, her steady hobble along the shore, her patient endurance, her bright words of courage — they have gone, and so, Betty, they have left me unmanned and I have not had the heart to write. But the realiza- tion of the cowardice of letting go has come over me and I know that if she has been hovering over Shore-Moun- tain these last few weeks, she has been sad and ashamed of me, so I've "bucked up." I miss Jacky, too. I found that she had saved up a meagre sum out of her sacrifice and almost starvation for him to have when his Crip was gone. But he hadn't a soul in the world to care whether he stayed any longer. I knew that Crip would have trusted him with me, but since it was impossible for me, an "old bach " without much tenderness in his heart and with less knowledge of babies to take him, I sent him to Aunt Madge who always said she would adopt eight babies if her ship ever came in. When you're over in Morristown in the car, will you drop in and see him? The sight of his rosy cheeks and his big brown eyes will make you glad, I know. Don't thank me for my advice, Betty. Your happiness is my joy and if by any thought I can bring you into that happiness, even the trying does more than I can tell you for me. You are not going to tell me any Page Tuienty-five more "symptoms?" But you are going to wait until the final verdict? Just as you think best, dear, though remember that I am always interested and your devoted "Uncle David". XII. In Which there is Evidence of Rebellion. Shore-Mountain, Sept. 27. Say what you will, old doctor of mine: I'm "with you" and I know that you know. What do I want to go to some "high brow" and get "tapped" for again? (You beat me around enough). You said I had "it" and that's enough for me. I have my own private conviction to add to yours for the "power to destroy" that's been after me could be no other than the "white plague." XIII. A Kindly Consultation. Shore-Mountain, Sept. 30. Dear Doc: Your telegram and the renowned physician both arrived yesterday. There was no disobeying your orders, so with apology on my tongue and no assurance in my bearing, I went up to the man, feeling like a thief in that I had come to break in on the first bit of his vacation. But it seemed that you had wired the doctor, reminding him that you had met him abroad and asking him to look at a friend of yours and "label him." And, Doc, — I say it with all reverence in my heart — there was a certain majesty in his carriage which was tempered with so gentle a humility that I felt almost as if I were seeing a likeness of the Great Physician Himself. There is a wonderful understanding, not pity, in his soul for us who are weak, who have so little of man's Page Twenlt/'Six strength left within us. He asked me to take a walk on the shore with him so we strolled up and down on "an opal beach washed by purple waves." Now and then we stopped with one accord to look out over the foam- flecked sea and watch a white cloud floating above and an occasional sea-gull swooping down in graceful glides to the surface of the water. And the stillness of the scene, the quietness of the tall, gray man, with shoulders slightly bent, and hands clasped behind him, and his keen, dark eyes which seemed to be ever searching the world and his fellow men for the best they have to offer, all spoke to me and I felt enthralled as if by a kind of peace that sometimes steals over one in the presence of a man of power or of a woman of infinite tenderness. Presently, he suggested that we sit down by a rock. I agreed. After a few minutes he said: "The sea is gratifying to man — have you ever thought why? I think it is because in spite of the same- ness of its composition, it presents an ever varying appearance. One could watch merely those breakers rolling up on the shore and see some new coloring, some new and exquisite design, new individuality in each wave. The sea is ever changing. And it is so", he said, "with the mountains. The sun as it moves along colors the great hills in a marvelous way and the clouds and the light change their aspect. 'A difference in all things similar.' It is so with souls — I'm sure you know of the infinite variety in persons. I've been reading your articles in the "Onward". In the general make-up of man there is always a difference. My life has been a study of bodies and in every heart beat there is a difference from the heart beat of every-one else. It is comforting I think, to know that we are just ourselves. We have our little strip of canvas to paint in our own way." His thoughts were not new, perhaps, yet I liked them. Presently, he laid his ear against my chest and Page Twenty-aeeen asked me a few questions. Then, looking straight at me, he said quietly: "There is ammunition left for a good fight, my boy, and a man who is put in the front line never re- treats. Perhaps he may be needed to hand a cup of cold water to the thirsty man that is left. Perhaps he alone has strength when the battle is done to carry the wounded soldier behind to the ambulance in the rear. And always, above the hiss of the shrapnel around him, the din of the thundering shells, he can hear if he but listen, the words of his Captain, "What is that to thee, follow thou me." I shall not forget his words, Doc, and I thank you for sending me to him. He showed me what a whimpering dog I might have been. With Crip gone, and Jacky, with whom I lived serving and in serving forgot myself, 1 was beginning to feel the powder in my eyes and to mind the barrage as it played before me. He brought me a message as old as the world, but new in its possibilities for me. I have adopted his watch- word and now for the practice. Your grateful David XIV. The Introduction of a New Friend. Shore-Mountain, Oct. 7. Dear Betty: So you love Jacky, too. Bless your heart for going to see him! You write, little girl, as if you'd never done anything for anyone before. Don't you know that you radiate light and sweetness? Don't you know that just looking in your kind, beautiful eyes makes a man straight- en up, makes him feel as if he had suddenly caught a whiff of the sea breeze or a breath of mountain air? Your kindness is the more lovely, that you do not have to think about it. Page Tuieniy-eighl So you like to hear about the people I meet? They are few and far between, but I have decided I need to get out and meet a few people to get recreation from my studies and forget them a little each day. With this plan in view 1 set out to destroy the conservatism of a certain man of means who has been leading a too luxurious life around here. He was sent to this quiet "un-stylish" place for "nerves." He brought his machine, a big car, in which he has been riding for four weeks now, alone. He is a nice looking chap, tho' rather fat; he lives at the hotel. But though there are many unsought damsels who grace the hotel veranda each day, he has neglected them terribly. How 1 was to destroy this unnatural state of affairs I did not know, but 1 soon found the way. I went up the road into the mountains this morning for a stroll and the lure of the woods and the vigor of the air caused me to turn that stroll into a walk of no little distance. On my way back, as I was sauntering along the road, I heard a metallic purr behind me. Now there are only a few automobiles in Shore-Mountain — only one great, big one, and it belongs to "Lord Luxury" as I have been calling him. As 1 swerved to get out of the way, I saw not three feet in front of me a fluttering something lying in the dust. So 1 quickly turned back to the middle of the road, signaling the machine with my cane to stop. As I stooped to pick up the wounded bird, the hoarse crunch of brakes grated on my ears, which, without the vigorous, emphatic words of the driver would have announced the immediate proximity of man and machine. "Well done", I remarked, with ironical polite- ness, picking up the bird in my hand. "You did well to stop and also to get rid of explosives within. I often relieve myself in that way, though I regret to say my words are not always so picturesque. See what you Page Tivenly-nine might have hit," said I, and moving around to the side of the machine, held up the oriole for him to see. He stared at the bird with its soft yellow gray plumage, and at me for a few minutes in cold silence and I fear he might have gone on and in so doing run over my foot, had not the little bird fluttered out of my hands. He reached out and caught it just in time. The touch of its soft feathers seemed to dispel his anger. He remarked, with just the lack of expression I was ex- pecting. "Get in; I'll give you a lift." Another fortunate mishap followed or I should probably never have seen our grumbling Lord Luxury again. Just as we reached the gate of my small "estate", the engine gave a queer gasp, choked and died. My friend said something which would have sounded better in Spanish and then growlingly asked me if I would let him have some gasoline. He followed the bird and me up the walk and neither one of us said anything. The screen was locked, but Dinah had heard our steps and soon darkened the door. I put the bird in her hands and asked her to bring the gentleman some gas. In the meantime, I ushered him into the living room. I generally don't mind silences, but, gad, that man looked formidable to me as he leaned his great, hulking frame against my frail mantle. Having refused two invitations to be seated, he glowered at the door, his eyes fairly bulging with grumpy anticipation of Dinah and the can. Now, Betty, even if this is not a romance, don't laugh. What do you think ailed him? Collect your data. It was supper time; he was boarding at a third rate hotel and at this crucial moment the teasing odor of broiling chops and the aroma of coffee drifted into the room. I saw his eyes bulge, his nostrils distend like a wild animal when he scents his postponed dinner and then he seemed to collapse, his shoulders fell and all the eagerness and Page Thirty anticipation left him. But I had my cue. I cleared my throat, and, edging toward the door, said in my most offhand manner, "So glad this little difficulty occurred. You must stay and munch a bite with me. Oh, say now, tea and toast has been served at the "Grand Slam" — you mustn't refuse." And, knowing that he wouldn't, I slid out of the door and nearly felled Susan and the can in the hall, in my anxiety to tell her that I would not "dine alone." We ate on the side porch — not to encourage my guest's appetite, but to let nature have its calming effect upon us. Do you know, when he had made way with his fourth chop and swallowed the last drop of his third cup of coffee, he looked at me and said in an almost tearful voice. "Tea and toast, did you say? Why, man, all we get for supper is an undergrown saucer of breakfast food — do you hear me — breakfast food, and a seagreen dish of rhubarb." "Dinah," I called over my shoulder, "you can cut that watermelon now." The moral of my little tale is this — all gold does not glitter, or the fat man's grouch may mean a starving stomach. I dubbed him Starving Sam — for Sam is his name — to which he replied by giving me the expressive name of "Life-saving Dave." Then and there he predicted many trips and joyous times in a long, low, black "road killer" for Sam and David. I wish you could hear his slang. Even you would listen with awe, and you'd love him for his good heart and jolly ways. How's the heart, Betty dear? Has he come back? The other night I dreamed I was whirling through space when I suddenly caught him by the collar, deposited him at your feet and shrieked out loudly, "Let there be Page Thirty-one love." But that was only a dream. In my right mind I am your calm "Uncle David." XV. Musings. Shore-Mountain, Nov. 8. What a fall this has been, Betty dear! The dawn mantled itself in gray and blue, and the twilight spread over the mountains long pale rose clouds. Autumn was loth to leave and gave us some warm-hearted weather to bar the approach of her stern brother. Brown and gold lay the carpet in the woods. Occasional butterflies fluttered their wings among the red-tinged leaves, playing away their short lives. On the wall beneath the softly stirring trees I saw a furry nut-gatherer, pausing to feel his gladness in this gra- cious extension of his work time. The honeysuckle dared to bloom again and mingled its sweetness with the lighter scent of the garden flowers. The lazy hum of an overworked lawn mower and the sociable thump of tennis balls joined in the chorus of thrush and robin. Following the winding road up through the valley we passed heavily laden chestnut and apple trees. On a village green a vagrant "animal show" took up its gypsy stand. Further on one saw in a farm yard a group of boys working over the large vats of fragrant sorghum. All about this warm medley of sights and sounds the mountains stood, changing under the sun's great light from morning's misty gray to the gold, green and brown of noon, and in the evening clad in their guardian robes of rich and restful blue. Our artist friend Frost did wonders those days. He turned the oak leaves red in the night, and in the morning dipped his brush in his white paints, outlined and chased the green and red Page Thirty-two leaves, fashioned of the dried-up field flowers white stars and made the long grass slim white reeds. Then he spread it all out for the dawn to see when she came up in a rose-gold glow. Are you sure that it isn't his going that has caused this "ache? " Betty, what could it have been? If I could only understand. But you, complex, little thing, what interesting reading you'll be for the man who some day masters your love! But all that matters now is that you are tired. I don't lapse into poetry often, I give you my word, but here is an attempt for you; just try and get a little comfort from the thought which is "writ " for your comfort. "Mountaineer." O mountaineer craving the heights above. When thou thy stone-spread way hast gained and lie Where winds' wild wings beat upon the boughs that cry The poignant loss of softening mists of Love, And thou art left, alas, alone Where winter and thy heart are one — God grant, thou mayst recall another barren tree. Another cry — "Eli-Lami-Sabacthani." XVI "Merry Christmas." Shore-Mountain. Dec. 20. Betty Dear! Winter cannot take from these hills their glory; rather, I think, she strips them of the gorgeous garb of autumn that they may be revealed in their true per- fection; holding little memory of the fall and no promise of spring — their forms are outlined in royal simplicity; to their sides cling the spruce and hemlock, always green. Page Thirty-three but more abundant are the oak and sycamore — asleep. Asleep — but not silent, for across them the twilight casts a magic light, a violet-rose for which man has no special name. And the month of December permits to him who dreams a sweet experience; he may ascend at evening Sunset Mountain and there he may see the sun in its splendor of gold; watch the stars emerge, and the lights steal out of the dark of the village below. There away from the stamp of fretful feet he may think as he stands looking down into the lake of lights — reflections of the stars o'erhead — of the similitude between an ancient Bethlehem, cradling an infant Saviour and this city in the hills — "A saving health to all nations." — "Merry Christmas" David. XVII. Betty's Solution Shore-Mountain, Dec. 26. Dear Betty: So the "light has dawned." "In a different way than I think? God's ways are many, dear, but to be sure that you've found one of them is all that this heart of mine should ask. That I am the cause of it — Betty, to be the cause of your happiness is a greater joy than I ever sought and I accept it in gratitude. I am going to put it on the other side of the scales, for the big realiza- tion that I am no longer needed in Betty's world has terribly unbalanced them. "Sam" and I have had many fine rides. We're both learning things. He's teaching me how to laugh. I don't know that I'm giving him much but a good square meal now and then. He says though that our camp- fire evenings together are warming his heart, God bless him, and that he's learned to love the sunset and stars as he never did before. I'm glad of that. Page Thirty-four This is a sort of goodbye letter, dear. Now that you know — he can be that "all in all". I shall miss hearing from you, but sort of guessing how it will be, I can't ask that time of you which he might have and better deserve. Will I tell you if I'm not the least bit in love with some one? Just this — when "Uncle David" pros- trates himself at the feet of a blushing damsel, he'll telephone you and you can bring the moving picture machine and you'll be in possession of the thrilling reel entitled "How he sought her and caught her." God bless Betty! XVIII. New Year's Eve. Shore-Mountain, Dec. 31. Dear Doc: Tomorrow, Time will usher in another day. New Year's Eve lies moon-bathed this fair night. How low the mountains seem, lit with a magic blue in soft contrast to the starry light within the house; the pines stand out in sharp, black outline near my balcony. All the little earth is spread in still beauty beneath the wondrous sky o'er head where the stars are clear, and the moon — ? She shines tonight not for lovers, nor for song and dance, but somehow to be a heavenly witness of the something above towards which these human hopes of ours lift their eternal hills. Worrying days are over, Doc. The worst of the fight is "fit", the part you really feared when you were afraid that I would not hold on in faith and courage. It hurt to know that you didn't trust me to fight to the winning or the losing — it hurt though I knew your fears were not groundless and that I was weak. Night after night, I've strolled out on the light- house pier and listened to the "swurf" of the dark waters on the stony bases and heard them call. Voices seemed Page Thirty- fioe to rise out of the black, whirling depths, taunting in lifeless, loveless accents; but I lacked courage, or perhaps I always held on to the faint hope that health might "come back to his vacant dwelling" and an awful pain in my heart might stop. Then, not many nights ago, something else happened. Have you ever watched the last pale lights of night sink away into the darkness? Often I've done it up here and I had a foolish idea about one little star — that, somehow, it shone for me alone because, perhaps, I was vain enough to think it did not shine for any other fellow on this earth more than for me. Well, it was sort of like that bright star sinking away into the darkness. You see. Doc, someone on the other side called and I lost it. Why use figures to you! I had to give her up. 1 couldn't let her live in my heart any more where I have kept her so long. I did not know I would take it as I did. I used to say to myself, "It will always be the same. I can still love and that will be enough. " But I found that God had put a shovelful of plain earth into the making of me. She wrote me about the other man. I took her letter and made for the bleak, damp shore. It was a windy night and the waves were pelting the beach. Earth, wind and waves seemed to my all-edge self to be rending my very soul for entrance, to tear from me the most precious thing I had ever owned. The fiercer, the more terrible, the storming became, the more wildly the beating against my heart. And all the time I could see the boy's face (and the worse since he was only a boy) ; I could see him standing against the dark sky holding out his hand for his possession which I could not give him. As I stood there, wild rebellion and hatred storming in my heart, I saw the red flicker of the lighthouse lamp — then I laughed aloud. How easy! If I could not give her up, I could give myself up and it would be the same. Treas- ure and all could drop into the dark depths and for only a second would even the waters give sign that there Pais ThMy-aix existed such a raving maniac, storming against man and fate and God. Courage came then out of my very weak- ness. I found myself at the very end of the pier. I think I ran the last few steps and then just as I lurched forward to drop over, something crashed. I say crashed because, though it came from within, I felt my very ears go deaf with the noise of it. I heard it before it was too late. To you, dear Doc, who have had the higher vision before, it will seem a simple thing. You read my story before 1 tell you. God alone knows when I ever heard these words before — He alone knew to send them to me then. I heard the words more clearly than human lips could ever have spoken them in the awful din of the sea's rush. "Stop! " And then, "When he suffered, he threatened not but committed himself to Him that judgeth righteously. " It was so easy. Doc. I slept that night under a sky lit by a million golden lights. When morning came, the peace was still there and I knew that I had found "the shepherd and bishop of my soul." Yesterday I ran into Grovertown and saw the old physician. Sam went along with me. The doctor said my condition was astounding, that he had not be- lieved it possible. He said I could stand a trip to Colo- rado. Have you ever heard of Cranman's Creek-* Well, out there in the keeping of the Rockies, Dr. Lawrence has always planned to found a Sanatorium for "lungers' ; he asked me if I would go and start it. I told him I would give my soul for "lungers. " Sam and I did not talk much on the way home. I was thinking too deeply. I think 1 had almost forgotten his presence. After we were seated by the fire in my living room I told him of the doctor's offer. "Sam, is it not wonderful," I said, "that I should be able to do something for those for whom my heart feels the strongest thrills of sympathy •>" Page Thirly-aeoen He did not answer and I turned to see if he had understood. He was looking at me and in those eyes of his was the tenderest, saddest look I've ever seen. "David," he said, and I could scarcely distinguish his words, his voice was so husky, "I 've wanted to do things ever since I've known you, to give things away, things I've spent all my life hoarding, because learning the things you've taught me has been my only real joy. Will you take some of my selfish wealth along with you to Cranman's Creek?" I was silent for a minute, my eyes searching the depths of his, their silver tenderness, their dark hunger. At last I found voice. "And you?" I questioned. "Does that matter?" he asked. "Most of all," I answered. Then the joyful love that came over his face — it was a sight worth a weary walk to see. He knew that the giver, too, was wanted. So, Doc, when you bunk it to Denver next summer, get a horse and travel up Lighthouse Valley to Cranman's Creek. God willing, you will find there a happy resting place. Ask for Sam and your faithful "lunger" David. Page Thirty-eight U' O ^ ' « * /« '»^' ^^^,^^ vv .^^"-. * aV ^j. -Ao^ 'bV'' . A * A <:'^ ;*