THE following Sunday Morton, standing on the upper deck of the good ship Umbria, saw in the distance the serrated outline of his country’s real metropolis. Up the bay, past the gaunt and gray structures looming above the sands of Coney Island, through the leaden murk and mist of the late autumn day, his eyes roved and lingered, glorying inwardly at the pride and pomp of New York. He took in deep draughts of the air. It was good to be back again, and his heart lifted.

He was met at the pier by a representative from the office who told him that his father’s condition was still unchanged. He had received word to tell Mr. Morton that he was to take the train for Cleveland without delay.

At daybreak, the following morning, he was once again in Cleveland, the city of his childhood, the place of his home. The coachman, an ancient servitor of the Mortons, greeted him with welcoming smiles and glad words. Even the horses knew him and neighed as he stroked their manes. The drive through the deserted streets, so familiar to him, brought back to his mind so many memories that he could scarce see the houses for the moisture in his eyes. The tinkling of the silver harness, the hoof-beats of the spirited animals were music to his ears. Ah, at last, there was the tall iron gate that led to home! With a bound he was through it and running swiftly up the pebbled approach he almost fell into the waiting, outstretched arms of his mother and sister.“Home at last, John,” cried the mother, kissing and hugging him while Ruth had her hands on his arms.

“Yes, dear mother, home at last. But how is father?”

Bravely restraining her tears she told him:

“Father is very weak, but cheerful. The doctors are non-committal, but won’t you go up to him, dear? He was sleeping at little while ago, but I think he’s awake now. And, ah, he does so want to see you.”

Then followed more embracing. The handsome mother held her boy at arm’s length, bathing him with the lovelight that streamed from her eyes. “Oh, but you’re so altered—so brown and big—and—and—just the same dear boy.” Her voice broke in sobs.

“Of course, I’m just the same, dear mother. Would you have me different? And here’s our little Ruthie. Little? Why bless me, Ruthie, but you’ve grown to be quite a lady! Yes, and a mighty good-looking one at that! I suppose I shall have to behave myself now, eh?” He kissed her affectionately, his arms about her shoulders.

“Oh, Jack, I’m so glad you’re home again. You’ll stay with us now, always, won’t you? We did miss you awfully. You do look nice, John. I like your mustache, but you’ve quite a serious look in your eyes. He looks just like you, mamma, really he does, although not so handsome, of course. But you’ll pass in a crowd.”

John laughed and gave her another hug.

“All right, old girl, I don’t mind; so long as I look like mother I guess I’ll do.”

The nurse preceded him up the stairs to the bedroom. Propped up in bed lay a thin, gray-haired man, looking pale and wan, but with eyes bright and with a look in them anticipatory of pleasure.“Father, dear father,” John whispered brokenly as he bent lovingly over the smiling and happy face.

“Ah, dear boy, welcome home. Stand back, John, and let me get a good look at you. My, but you do look fit! I am glad to see you again, my lad, though I’m sorry you find me in this scrape.” The sick man’s eyes twinkled and a humorous smile bent the pale lips. “Well, well, so you are ready to settle down with the old folks, eh? No more exploring and adventure? By George, you’re some man, John, some man. You make me want to ask her name. Never mind, lad, you needn’t tell me right now. My—but it’s good to have you home again.”

“Dear dad, I am so glad to be home again. You are looking fine and not a bit changed. Get well again, dad, because I want you to teach me how to be of use to you. I want you to be proud of me.”

“Proud of you, John? Why, I always have been and still am proud of you. There isn’t a finer fellow in Ohio. You’ll make good; I’m dead sure of that. All right, nurse, I’ll be good. John, I’m afraid we’ll have to obey Miss Persing. She says that six in the morning is too early for children of my age to be up. I’ve got to sleep for a couple of hours longer. No, you go back to mother and Ruth. I guess they’re dying to hear all you have to tell them. Hello, mother; good morning, my dear.” Mrs. Morton and Ruth had that moment appeared in the doorway. His wife went to the bedside and kissed her husband tenderly while Ruth stroked his hand.

“What’s the orders, nurse?” Mr. Morton asked as he looked at her over his wife’s shoulder.

“You would better be resting, Mr. Morton. The doctor will be here at half past eight and he’ll scold me if he finds you feverish.”“All right, Miss Persing, I’ll be good.”

The family withdrew leaving the old man, weak and pale but with a face wreathed in happy smiles. His head sought the pillow gratefully and soon he was sleeping like a child.

It was now that John heard the full details of the accident to his father. He had been suffering all summer, diabetes the doctors had said. When they came to New York from Newport, he was much improved and felt himself well enough to go out to Utah to look over his pet mine, the Calumet Minnie. It was there the accident occurred. Nobody knew just how it happened. The elevator had been inspected only the week before. In the cage with him were the manager, Carson, the superintendent, two engineers and a foreman. At the hundred and fifty foot level something went wrong—the safety clutch didn’t work—and the cage dropped some eighty feet. Carson was killed, the foreman also, and the rest badly hurt. His father’s weakened state before the accident complicated things and the doctor considered the case serious. Later in the seclusion of her own room, his mother broke down utterly before him. She knew his father would never get better, she said, and she feared the worst. John tried all in his power to comfort her, but he succeeded only in bringing pathetic smiles to her face and hopeful looks in her eyes as she looked at him. He understood what was passing in her thoughts and swore inwardly that he would never fail her.

Then came the anxious days of hope and fear, when the elder Morton’s strength failed to respond to the doctors’ treatment. To John these days were inexpressibly distressful. Gloom settled on the old mansion which had seen the happiest times for both parents and children. John did all he could to brighten the home, and spent many hours with his father in intimate talk of his ambitions and aims in life. It was in these confidences that he learned to know his father and, in knowing him, to honor and admire him.

Dan Morton prided himself on the great fortune he had made, because in making it he had never wronged another and he had brought the treasures of the earth to enrich his fellow-men’s lives. That was the secret spring of his success and power; and he knew how to use that power because he was most keenly aware of the responsibility which its use entailed.

The younger son of a Connecticut banker, who had made considerable money in his native state, Dan Morton, quite early in life, had become impatient of the narrow New England environment. He decided to go West. With the legacy left him by his father, he followed the then drift towards the great undeveloped country beyond the Mississippi. Mines, ranches and the building of railroads claimed his enthusiastic attention. The astonishing development of the Middle West gave his investments a solid foundation and furnished opportunities for realizing greatly increased values. During the second half of the decade following the Civil War, Dan Morton had become a power in the financial world of America. Great sections of the Pacific Slope and the country of the Oregon trail were largely opened up by the aid given by him and his associates. It was in this way that he helped to promote the country’s wonderful growth.

He had married a beautiful girl, the daughter of an old Southern family and had settled in Cleveland where he built a fine mansion. In spite of his increasing wealth, his tastes remained simple and his manners unassuming. Neither he nor his wife took any active part in what is known as “Society,” though they maintained a beautiful country house overlooking the Hudson.

When his son was born, he was called after his grandfather, John Morton. As the boy grew up he became his father’s pride and hope. Dan Morton looked on him as the reincarnation of himself, the child who would grow up to be a man to carry on the work he had begun. When the young man was ready to enter college, he developed a rather unexpected taste for study and research—most un-Morton like, as his mother would say. His father decided not to discourage the youth, but hoped that in time he would turn from these strange gods and worship the gods of his fathers. Indeed, he even encouraged him, possibly because he realized that opposition might but confirm him in his inclinations. But so wise a man as was Dan Morton knew also that an earnest search for truth and a true desire for knowledge are in themselves ennobling and must result in useful work. That John should apparently be engaged in profitless labor, never for a moment touched his almost religious conviction, that his son would return to the Morton fold and hold the belief that life meant working for a reward and that it was the reward that gave meaning to life.

During the years John spent at the various colleges, he attended at home and abroad, acquiring learning if not wisdom, his father kept on piling up riches, and patiently waiting for the young man to exhaust himself of his dreamy desires and to come back to earth, as he put it. But he always spoke of him with great pride, and if anyone referred to his son’s aimlessness, he would say: “John won’t play second fiddle to anybody—not even to me. And when I’m ready to quit, John will take my place—a better man than his old dad was.”This was the man that John came to know as he had never known him before during their quiet chats in the sick-room. It was to this man, so practical in his every thought that it seemed as if there could not possibly be a chord in his being that would vibrate to romance, it was to this man that John unbosomed himself of his secret. He told him in detail of all that had happened, descanted, as only a lover can, of the beauty of the girl and wound up by saying: “I intend, dad, to make that girl my wife—if—if she will have me.”

“My boy, I am proud of you,” said his father. “You showed yourself a man. If she won’t have you, she’s no judge of what a man is—and the future generations of Mortons won’t be the losers. But if she is all you describe her to be, she knows a hawk from a hernshaw.”

John laughed at his father’s way of stating the case; but the words made him very happy. As time passed and but scant and unsatisfying news came from either Tyler or Don, he became very restless. He had received one letter from HelÈne which he treasured; but it contained what he took as merely a courteous acknowledgment of her gratitude. He took several flying trips to New York at his father’s request, but always returned distrait and unhappy. He wrote several heartfelt letters to the Comtesse, but received no replies.

Christmas came and with it a severe winter. It was a quiet and subdued Yule-tide for the Mortons. Old Dan Morton was failing fast. The shadow of the coming tragedy had fallen on the house. Before the New Year had arrived, the elder Morton lay dead in the stilled solemn room. The man who had been such a power in the world had no longer any power. Henceforth the forces of nature which he had conquered would deal with him in their own silent, resistless and inevitable fashion.

John took his heartbroken mother and sister South, away from the place where they had known joy and experienced sorrow. They recovered somewhat their interest in life amid the richer scenes and more vivid life of the sun-bathed lands. It was here that he spoke, for the first time, to his mother of his feelings for a girl he had met in Europe. She said very little, because she knew it would be of no use; and she also knew that she could trust his taste. She saw that it was very near to his heart, and urged him to go back. If, she said, he felt convinced that the girl was, indeed, necessary to his happiness, he must lose no time in winning her. He had not told her everything and declined to give the girl’s name or station in life. She was good and beautiful, he said, and he was sure his mother would welcome her and love her. In that case, his mother urged, his first duty was to himself. He must go at once.

It was not his mother’s words, however, but a cable from McCormick that decided him. Donald had cabled that the Comtesse HelÈne had left the Ducal Palace secretly five days ago leaving no trace behind. She had been hunted for high and low and even detectives had been employed. Would Mr. Morton cable further instructions.

John lost no time in instructing Don to continue the search and advised him that he was sailing for Europe by the first boat. To his mother he gave an envelope with HelÈne’s handwriting on it, at the same time begging her, if a letter came from Europe for him addressed in the same hand, to notify him by cable of its receipt.

While New York matrons who had their daughters’ welfares to think of were busy planning a season’s siege of the bachelor millionaire’s heart, the unconscious object of their thoughts was sailing away from them—back to a land he longed to see because somewhere in it lived one for whom his whole being yearned, and without whom life would not be worth living for him.