ON those days when 'Thusia was able to be downstairs Alice set a small dinner table in the sitting room so that she might enjoy the company of her husband and children. When David entered the sitting room Lucille had departed, and Roger was there, waiting for his belated dinner. Luckily his labors were not of sufficient importance to require prompt hours—his dinner hour sometimes lasted the best half of the afternoon. As David entered the room Alice ran to him, and threw her arms around him; he could do no less than embrace her, for anything else would have been like a slap in the face. He kissed her, but his face was grave.

“Father! Mother told you?” Alice said, still holding him. “Aren't you surprised! Why,” she pouted, “you don't look a bit happy! But I know why—you don't know Lanny. They don't know him, do they, pop?”

Her brother, who had already taken his place at the small table, fidgeted. He was hungry.

“He's all right!” he said. “Lanny's fine.” Somehow the young Roger's approval did not carry far with David.

“I think,” he said, “we are all hungry. We will have our food, and discuss Alice's affairs later. I know I am too hungry to want to talk.”

“And you aren't even going to congratulate me!” pouted Alice playfully.

The dominie cut short further talk by saying grace, following it by the operation of serving food from the dishes that were grouped around his plate, and then:

“How is your grandfather, Roger?”

“Fine as a fiddle, father. And, I say! we are going to play Derlingport this Saturday. We've arranged a series of three games, unless one or the other of us wins the first two. We play the first here, and the second in Derlingport. Honestly, I am glad to play a nine I'm a bit afraid of; this licking the spots off the grangers is getting monotonous. Derlingport has a pitcher that knows his business—Watts. But I'll chance Lanny against him any day.”

“I should think so!” said Alice.

“Oh, you!” said Roger. “Because he has curly hair? A lot you know about pitchers.”

“Well, I'm going to learn,” said Alice.

David broke the thread of the conversation. “'Thusia,” he said, “I have arranged to clear up the bills we owe.”

“David!” his wife exclaimed, her pale cheeks coloring with pleasure. “Did the trustees grant the advance on your salary?”

“No, hardly that,” he answered. “I saw Burton, but there is no money available. He was very kind. The trustees are going to give me an increase of salary—two hundred and fifty dollars more. It will be a great help. You see, with the increase, I can pay off the loan I am contracting in two or three years.”

'Thusia looked frightened.

“A loan? Are you borrowing money, David?”

“Lucille Hardcome offered it; she practically forced me to accept it, 'Thusia. It was all I could do to keep her from forcing it on me as a gift. That I would not hear of, of course.”

“How much are you borrowing?” asked 'Thusia, with an intake of breath.

“It will be about a thousand dollars; a thousand, I think.”

“She could hand you ten thousand and not feel it, from what I hear,” said Roger.

“'Thusia, you don't approve?” asked David. “Oh, I wish it could have been anyone but Lucille!” said 'Thusia. “It seems so—But I know so little of money matters. You would do what was best, of course, David. It will be a great blessing to feel we are not making the tradesmen wait for what is honestly theirs.”

“I should have consulted you,” David said, entirely without irony, for he did consult her on most matters of importance. “It is not too late to decline even now. I have not signed the note. She is to bring the money this afternoon. But, if I refuse—”

He related his conversation with Lucille, as well as he could recall it.

“I hardly see how you could refuse,” 'Thusia admitted. “If she was angered she would do something to show her displeasure. Deep as she is in the church affairs I hardly feel that she is with us heart and soul yet. She always seems like an outsider taking an interest because—I shouldn't say it—she likes the prominence. That is why I wish you could have had the money from another. I'm sure Mary would have lent it.”

“And of all the women I know,” said David, “Mary is the last I should wish to borrow from. Had I my choice I would choose an entire outsider; the more completely it is a business transaction the more pleased I am.”

No more was said then. Roger hurried away, not because his job called him, but because, as catcher of his nine, it was his duty to keep in practice; and some members of the nine might be on the levee willing to pitch to him. Alice still waited.

“Will you let me speak with your mother awhile, daughter!” David said. “Then we will call you.”

“Shall I take the dishes out first!” asked Alice.

“Yes.”

'Thusia raised herself a little on her pillows when Alice had quitted the room, and David drew a chair to the side of her couch. For a few moments they were silent.

“How did it happen!” David asked finally.

“David, you must not think unkindly of her; Alice is such a child—such a dear girl! She has no worldliness; how should she have with you and me for her parents! I think I am to blame if she has chosen wrongly. I am afraid I have neglected her, David.”

“What an idea, 'Thusia! That is preposterous. Of course, I do not think unkindly of her; but I do think she has chosen foolishly, as girls sometimes will.”

“Yes, but I mean what I say, David. I am tied here, of course, but I have given her so much freedom. I have trusted to her instinct to choose suitable companions, when I should have remembered how careless and foolish I was when I was her age.”

“What nonsense, dear!” said David. “If anyone is to blame it is myself. How could you do any more than you have done, kept close here as you are? How serious is it, 'Thusia?”

“I have hardly had time to decide; I am afraid it is very serious. She was all ecstasy and happiness until she saw I was not as happy as she was. I am afraid I let her see it too plainly. We must not let her think we are angry with her, David; she is very much in love with him. Oh, she praised him as a girl will praise a lover—her first lover!”

“I suppose she met him through Roger,” said David thoughtfully.

“No,” 'Thusia said. “I imagine Alice rather scorns Roger's ball-playing friends. I think Lanny Welsh called something after her one evening when she was passing the Eagle office—passing the alley there. He thought she was some other girl, I suppose. She was furious; she thought it was the rudest thing she had ever known, but the next time she passed he stopped her and apologized. She thinks it was noble of him. After that he tipped his hat whenever she passed, and she nodded to him. Then Roger introduced them. Lanny Welsh asked him to, I suppose. Now they are engaged.”

David rested his head on his hand, and was silent. 'Thusia watched his face.

“It is unfortunate; most unfortunate,” he said wearily.

“David, do you know anything about him!” 'Thusia asked.

“Only hearsay,” he answered.

“Has he been a bartender!”

“I have heard that. You know what his father is—little better than a blackmailer.”

“David, what can we do?” asked 'Thusia.

“I don't know,” he answered. “No doubt she would give him up if we asked it.”

“I'm not so sure of that,” said 'Thusia. “She is a good girl, but you do not realize how she loves the boy—or thinks she loves him. She might think we were unjust to him.”

What she implied David knew. Alice was, above all else, loyal. The very intimation that Lanny Welsh lacked friends might strengthen her partisanship, for she was like her father in having always a kindly feeling for the under dog. The most uncompromised earthly happiness is not the portion of those who feel for the under dog, for some dog is always under. If a person is to take any interest in the world's dog fights, and seek enjoyment therefrom, he must be thoroughly callous, and not care a snap of his fingers what happens to the under dog. This hard-hearted placidity must yield those who possess it a fund of unvexed joy; most of us find our joy alloyed by our pity for Fortune's unfavorites. A fair amount of carelessness regarding the under dog is necessary for the most complete worldly success; and our dominie, seeking to know himself, felt that if he had desired to prosper greatly in a worldly way he should have been born without his keen desire to see the under dog on top for a while, or at least without his inclination to prevent all dog fights.

On the whole he did not think, however, that the callous-hearted got the best out of life. The tough tympanum of a bass drum yields one sound, and the tom-tom may be a fine instrument for war or joy dances, but a delicately attuned violin quivers with more varied vibrations, and even the minor chords must satisfy some of its fibers. In the museum of eternity the tom-tom may have a place as a curiosity—as the musical instrument of a crude people—but even a child can imagine its one note; the fingers of the virtuoso tingle to touch the glass-enclosed violin, and the imagination pleasures in the thought of the notes of joy and sorrow it has given forth in its day.

Youth—as Alice—when born and brought up with a pity for the despised is apt to carry the good quality over the line so far that it becomes unreasonable. There is such a thing as innate devilishness that deserves chastisement; some of the things other men scorn deserve our scorn also; some men and women, too. But a girl in love, as Alice was, or thought she was, is not a very reasonable being. With her love as a certainty, she scorns the past and sees perfection in the future. Young lovers are all egotists to the extent of thinking: “If I chose him he must be good at heart and, no doubt, his past weakness was because he had not known me.” In herself she sees his needed opportunity, and her loyalty to her ideal of herself and to him resents the interference of those who would interpose obstacles. Alice, being by nature loyal, and by nature and training inclined to pity, might easily be driven to a blind and gently berserk, but none the less everlasting, battle for Lanny Welsh by the very opposition that sought to win her away from him.

David was the less inclined to do anything instantly because his sense of justice was so strong. He knew too little about Lanny Welsh to condemn the young man in his own mind without further facts. Had he had the giving he would not have presented Alice to anyone like Lanny, for he would have chosen some youth he knew better—and that meant Mary Derling's boy Ben—but, having his innate desire to do justice to all men, and as Alice had already chosen Lanny, David felt he should learn more about Lanny before he made an absolute decision to oppose his daughter's choice. He knew enough of men and life to believe the tags the world put on young fellows were not always the proper tags. If the match was to be opposed the method of opposition to be adopted would depend on his knowledge of Lanny's character and circumstances, and as yet he knew little—too little to base an active opposition upon.

“What have you said to her, 'Thusia!” he asked.

“I told her I was surprised, and that I must speak to you before I could be sure what to say.”

This was close enough to the fact. The saying had taken an hour or more and had been flavored by affectionate weepings and embraces, but in what she told David 'Thusia did not miss the fact far.

“I'm glad of that,” he said. “I'll ask Alice to come in.”

She came, rosy-cheeked and tremulously happy, and the interview left her happy and less tremulous. Of her father's affection she was sure, and of his justice she never had a doubt. She was not surprised that he should wish to know more of Lanny before he ventured to feel enthusiastic about the engagement, and she was so sure Lanny was the best of men that she had no fear of the final result of her father's gentle investigations. From an interview so kindly, and permeated with affection, she went back to the kitchen happily.

“I imagine you'll have very little trouble in finding out all about him,” 'Thusia said, and then, her bravery shattering itself a little against her motherly ambition: “David, I'm sure it is a mistake! I'm sure she should not marry him!”

“I am afraid Alice has been too hasty,” said David.

They both meant the same thing: nothing more unfortunate could have happened. 'Thusia gave words to one of the reasons when she added: “Mary will be so disappointed!”

Not a word had ever been said on the subject, but the tacit hope had long been existent in the hearts of Mary and the two Deans that Alice and Ben Derling might become lifemates. Until Alice had dropped the bombshell of her engagement into the placidly intrenched hope everything had seemed trending that way. There was no question that Ben admired Alice, and Alice had seemed fond enough of Ben.

Although David had never allowed the filmy intuition to become an actual thought, the gossamer suggestion had floated across his mind more than once that it would be a good thing if Alice and Ben married. He thought, boldly enough, that it would be a suitable match in some ways—marrying in the same faith; marrying one who would be a good husband; marrying one whose social position in Riverbank would increase rather than lower David's own capacity for good in the community. Of the marriage as a financial matter beneficial to himself and 'Thusia he refused to think, but that gossamer ghost of thought would come floating by at times: an alliance with the Derling wealth would make old age less to be dreaded; somewhere there would be food and winter warmth and a nook by the fireside, where he and 'Thusia might end their days without dire penury in case, as is so often the case with ministers, he outlived his usefulness. He felt the thought, gossamer light as it was, to be unworthy, but it came unbidden, and there was comfort in it. And no man is a worse man for not wishing to end his life in an almshouse. Certainly no man is a better man for wishing to end his days on the Riverbank Poor Farm. The youth, Roger, unluckily, seemed little likely to be able to support himself; if Alice married into poverty, or worse, the state of the family in days to come threatened to be sad indeed.

But David went back to his study in hopefulness, for all that. Lanny Welsh might be better than he feared, and if Lucille Hardcome subscribed even half what she had suggested David might be able to keep even with the world or even save a little. He had hardly entered his study before Lanny Welsh and Alice came tapping on his door.