VERY soon after he had entered on his administrative duties in connection with the business his father had bequeathed him, John Morton had found that one thing was certain—he must give his whole heart and mind to the work, or things would go wrong. Judge Lowell had put it to him characteristically when he said: “You must either attend strictly to the executive work, or pay some one else to do it for you. A leader cannot sit astraddle.” Morton had not believed him, at first, but it was not long before he found, to his sorrow, that the judge was right; and then he knuckled down to the system.

When he began gradually to master the fundamental principles of generalship underlying the direction of so gigantic an enterprise, he experienced a curious sense of elation and self-satisfaction. Nothing pleased him more than to notice the admiration in the eyes of the old warhorses of his father’s army. The knottiest of problems, he found, would yield to earnest thought and tactful work.

Those who, at the beginning, had looked at him evasively or contemptuously, had of late given both their approval and confidence. The heads of the many diversified interests had tested him and had found he was not wanting. They realized that he was both able and strong. “A chip of the old block,” some of them said with a smile, and others would remark: “I told you the acorn wouldn’t drop very far from the oak,” or “Old Dan in his prime wasn’t in it with the boy.” These were the opinions expressed by those who were in the business with him.

“The Street” had even begun to whisper that it wasn’t wise to monkey with young Morton, and grizzled old bankers had found it desirable to consult with him before deciding on some of their “big moves.” From the outset he had declined offices on financial boards, pleading lack of experience; but somehow important enterprises would be mentioned to him at their inception. The players on the chess-board knew that it was safer to give Morton a chance to make a move or not, as he felt inclined. Thus it was that every day found Morton more firmly seated in his father’s ample chair, and found also that the work connected with his duties left him more and more invigorated.

His life with such responsibilities was bound to become circumscribed in ever-narrowing circles, and could not fail to leave on him, both in his features and bearing, indelible marks of care and thought. He found little room for indecision, small opportunity for moroseness, and fewer moments for idle dreaming. He carried himself so seriously that his old friends at the club scarcely recognized in him the John Morton of the past. He no longer found time for intercourse with men of science, nor for indulgence in reading books. John Morton had, indeed, come into Adam’s legacy—work and plenty of it.

Mrs. Morton and Ruth, although they could have but few opportunities for coming in contact with the business world, heard some of these good opinions. Married ladies, from whom their husbands kept no business secrets, would repeat what they had been told; fiancÉes would carry the expressions their future lords and master had made about Morton; Judge Lowell, on his occasional visits, never failed to avow his high esteem of this paragon of a son. They heard that he had been elected to the dignified offices his father had held, and to which only honorable and estimable men were called; that his advice and counsel were sought in matters of public welfare, civic improvement and works of charity. The Randolph in him may have been strong, but there was enough Morton in his composition to make his power felt, and those who looked to him for action were not disappointed.

Mother and admiring sister regretted his now regular absence from their drawing-room gatherings and his even less frequent visits to the country home. But the women of America are content to accept the demands that business makes on their husbands and brothers. As long as John kept his health and looked as handsome as ever, with his face lit up by his humorous smile, they were satisfied.

They had almost forgotten the existence of “the dark lady” of the Carpathians. Ruth had gone so far as to say that she believed John “had been stringing” them about her. She still was as determined as ever to marry her handsome brother to some beautiful American girl, which was her reason for not sharing in her mother’s pride at his continued devotion to business. Not that she objected to hear people talk in praise of John; but she could see no sense in working so hard for money when they already had more than they needed. John lived like a hermit, she said.

Her brother would listen to her smilingly, pat her on the cheek and explain that the interests of their estate demanded it. Her mother would talk of the sacred duty John owed to his father’s plans. But neither argument had much weight with Ruth, for whom life was a much more interesting affair than mere money-making. However, she said nothing, but quietly made up her mind to carry out her plans. She’d see that John married, come what may.Moved by the desire to be nearer her son, Mrs. Morton, towards the middle of the summer, had brought her household goods from Newport to the big mansion on the Hudson. John had agreed to come there at least once during the week and to spend his Sundays with her. She made occasional trips to New York for shopping and visiting purposes, on which Ruth would often accompany her—especially for the shopping. On such occasions they generally succeeded in bringing John home with them. They found that he was willing to break important engagements, though to them these engagements seemed strangely unimportant. He would meet them at some store or at the Terminal, and his escort was always an added pleasure to them. Mrs. Morton, in particular, felt a great pride in driving home with her son. Their arrival was like a triumphal entry into some feudal castle. Her eyes would beam with delight as she noted the servants’ admiring glances at “Mr. John,” or the proprietary pride of the old station-master’s greeting of “Mr. Morton.”

Sometimes Ruth would go alone to visit a school friend, who would assist her in selecting her purchases. It was on one of these private expeditions that she ’phoned John and, catching him in a moment of weakness, wheedled him into a promise to meet her at Maillard’s that day at five, and to take her back to Tarrytown.

Punctual, as always, John was at the confectioner’s—the favorite place of those ladies who believe they need reviving refreshment of a stronger nature than can be obtained at the ordinary department stores. His arrival made Ruth and Hattie Brown, her friend, the envy of the other girls, who saw this distinguished-looking man greeting them. Is it unkind to suggest that Ruth had selected the place of rendezvous with this effect in view?John had met Miss Brown on many previous occasions, so that he looked at the girls’ effusive leave-taking without much emotion. Ruth’s great charm to him had always been her perfect naturalness of manner, but this did not prevent her behaving as other girls did when she was with them. Once alone in the carriage with him, however, she quickly resumed her vivacious self and was her brother’s comrade again.

The girl was excited, full of fun and bubbling over with laughter, much to her brother’s amusement. Something unusual must have happened.

“You know that piece of fine old timber on our grounds, John? I mean on the slope to the river.”

John nodded.

“Well, I’ve taken a fancy to it and want it all for myself. It’s been neglected, because it hasn’t got what people call ‘a wonderful view.’ It needs draining and some paths cutting through it. Won’t you spare an hour and come with me to look it over?”

“I don’t mind,” her brother remarked carelessly.

“And you will please me, won’t you, John, dear, and have the woods put into good condition? I’m tired of hearing about grand vistas and glorious sights and distant purple hills and all that kind of rot. It’s a perfectly lovely bit of timber, and if you go the right way about it, it can be made into a most delightful spot and a real refuge for birds and small game. Put some quail on the place and mummy and I will see that they are taken care of and fed in the winter. Now is just the time, before it gets too cold. If you do this for me, John, I’ll reciprocate. Oh, I’ve made the most marvellous discovery to-day. I’ll let you in on it, if you’ll be good.”

Ruth rattled away without pausing for breath.

“Well, sis, I’ll go round the place with you and try to see it with your enthusiastic eyes; but the superintendent is really the right man. However, your wish shall be a command. Now, what’s this wonderful reward I’m to get for being good?” He spoke in a bantering voice, smiling at the excited face.

“I’ll tell you in good time. It’ll do you good to feed on your curiosity a little. You haven’t enough emotion in you, anyway, John. All you do is work and plan. Before you know it, you’ll be nothing but a thinking machine. Ah, but I’ve got a charm up my sleeve that’ll make you come out of your shell and be your old self again. Oh, John, if you only knew!”

“What is this mysterious thing you are hiding? A new collie, or a plant that sings between drinks, or some new genius? Tell, oh, sloe-eyed daughter of my race!”

“You can laugh at me, if you like; but I tell you, John, I’ve struck it rich. You’ll have to wait. All things come to him who waits. First my woods and roads and drains, and then—your reward.”

They had arrived at the Terminal by this time and John had all he could do to guide Ruth through the crowd into the train. In due course they reached home and a short time after the modest family of three were seated round the dinner-table.

Though a simple function, dinner was always an important affair for Mrs. Morton when her son was with them. She took pride in seating him in the high-backed chair at the head of the table and would gaze lovingly at his handsome face and listen entranced to his conversation. In Mrs. Morton’s opinion John could talk better than Daniel Webster. A day’s absence would afford her an excuse for discovering new virtues in her boy. Unlike the other women of her station, she had remained what they would have characterized as “old-fashioned.” Home to her had its old meanings and old duties—it meant home, and not a mere stopping-place for the country club or the golf links or the porch for slangy gossip. So that visitors to her house still found in it the air of bygone days and were grateful for it.

Mrs. Morton had long since laid out her course of life and kept to it. She knew that so long as John felt that he was taking care of her and Ruth, he would stick to his business. She herself was not at all necessary to him; but her pride lay in his strength and ability to succeed. She was deeply afraid he might drift again into the “bohemian life” of aimless study and travel, as she classed his previous lapses into those fields. She could understand being a gentleman of leisure, even approve of it; she could easily accept the life of ceaseless labor and planning of business enterprises, for she had had the example of that in her boy’s father; but she could see nothing in studying for study’s sake, or in a devotion to research for the object of discovery. This might do for eccentric foreigners or crazy college professors; but for a Morton or a Randolph?—Never!

But Ruth had no such compunctions of mind, no such scruples of conscience or carefully set plans. As they sat over the meal and she listened to the serious discussion between her mother and John on subjects in which she had not the slightest interest, she became impatient.

“Mother, dear,” she said, breaking in. “I must tell you what happened to me this afternoon. Please stop talking shop and bothering about those horrid men in their offices, without souls, who sit there like spiders in webs. Anyone listening to you two would think you were a couple of promoters.”

“I think, Ruth, you might have chosen a better comparison,” remarked Mrs. Morton severely. “What is this wonderful thing that happened?”

Ruth, not a bit abashed at the reproof, went on:“Well, Hattie and I were snoopin’ around looking for things, you know——”

“My dear, I wish you’d be a little more select in your vocabulary,” remonstrated her mother mildly.

“Mummy, dear, you must let me tell my story my own way. As I was saying, Hattie and I were shopping. You know Hattie simply won’t have anything else but the latest and Frenchiest, and no trouble’s too much for her so long as she digs it out. We had been to all the likeliest places—to Arnitt’s and Longman’s and Carson’s and many others, when she insisted that we should go to Madame Lucile’s. The great lady herself waited on her, and Hattie tried on almost everything there was in the place—hats, bonnets, laces, plumes, frocks—and could not be suited. While the things were on the shelves they looked beautiful, but when Hattie tried them on she couldn’t bear them. I am sure Madame must have been disgusted. Even I was getting ashamed of her. Well, at last Madame suggested that Mademoiselle Hello-a, or a name something like that, should come and give her opinion. The young lady, she said, was the very latest arrival from abroad and was absolutely faultless in her taste. Well, Mademoiselle with the profane name was sent for and well, she is simply wonderful!”

Ruth gazed at her listeners with eyes that said what no words could express. They seemed to suggest dreams of delight and beauty. John leaned back and roared with laughter. Ruth gave him a mingled look of pity and disdain, and turned to her mother.

“Mamma, you never in your life saw such a beautiful girl. Honest, she’s simply a wonder. It’s all very well for you to laugh, John, but you’ve not seen her. But I’ll take you to see her and then you’ll know if I’m right or not. I don’t believe she’s a day older than I am, but, somehow she’s quite womanly. And her face, oh, mother, it’s like the face of that beautiful Gainsborough picture we have, only much younger. Her hair is the loveliest color and her eyes are like violets. As for her figure—well—I’d give my eye-teeth to have one like it.”

“Say, Ruth, let up a little, won’t you?” chuckled John, “if you go on I’ll have to be carried out by the butler.”

“Let me tell you, you’ll have to be carried out when you see her; she’s a stunner.”

“Ruth, dear, don’t get so excited,” begged Mrs. Morton.

“I’m not excited, mother; but John doesn’t understand. He’s never heard her speak, or he wouldn’t make fun of what I’m saying. She talks the prettiest English in the loveliest voice you ever heard—and she’s so modest and refined. I tell you she’s one in a million. I bet she’s a lady—every inch of her—and I couldn’t help saying nice things to her. You ought to have seen her blush when I said I’d like to know her. If the girl ever does her blushing stunt when you’re around, John, you’ll just walk right up and propose to her on the spot. And I hope she’d accept you. And now, here’s my proposition. If you fix up my woods, I’ll introduce you to her. Mummy, dear, you must come to New York with me and invite her out. You’ll fall in love with her. You will come and ask her, won’t you?”

“But, Ruth, how can we invite a shop-girl to this house? You are so impulsive, my dear.”

“She’s not a shop-girl; she’s a lady,” exclaimed Ruth, indignantly.

“But a girl you know nothing about; how can you think of it? I never heard such a thing! What did Hattie Brown say?”

“Oh, Hattie! She thought her very beautiful; but she prefers dark people. Madame Lucile told us afterwards that the young lady was highly educated. Now, I’ve said all I have to say. If you don’t want to meet her, John, that’s your loss. But I tell you she’s a wonder.”

John saw that his sister was really in earnest and would hurt her feelings if he carried his jocular manner too far. Rising, he went up to her and put his arms around her shoulders.

“All right, sissie, some day I’ll ask you to introduce me. But not just now. I’m going to Idaho. I’ll seek your kind favors when I get back. Mother, dear,” he turned to Mrs. Morton, “I’ve got to go to Jackson’s Hole next week. Do you mind if I take the opportunity to put in a week’s shooting? I feel I need the rest.”

“Oh, John,” exclaimed his mother, “I’m so glad you’re going to take a vacation. You deserve it, and I’m sure you need it. When do you start? There’s nothing to keep you so far as I am concerned.”

“Thank you, mater, I’ll start next Tuesday. That will give me two days here. Judge Lowell arrives on Friday and promised to remain until I return. He’ll see to everything you may want. When you feel like going to town to stay for the season, I’ve leased the Arkwright house, and I’ve taken the even days for Box 17 at the Opera. Shall we have our coffee on the verandah, mother; it’s a lovely evening?”

Mrs. Morton smiled her assent; but said nothing further about his going away. Since her husband’s death she had clung to John with a double tenacity—a mother’s love for a son, and a woman’s reliance on the man. But she was too wise to permit her own feelings to come between them. When, later in the evening, the three were together in the spacious living-room, Ruth took her brother aside and finally got her way about the little wood.

The following morning Morton returned to the city. But this time he carried back with him his old dreams. Ruth’s story at the dinner-table had unlocked a door in his memory which he had kept closed; and now the gracious spirit wandered once more about the chambers of his mind giving him neither rest nor hope.

Would the promised letter arrive? Perhaps it was even now on its way to him across the ocean! What if it should come while he was away in Idaho? He made a note to leave instructions that it must be forwarded on to him.

Love is said to give the lover almost supernatural powers of insight and vision, as if the mysterious force produced a psychical state which responded in harmony to the presence of the loved one. If this be true, then Morton must have been born of a different species. In all his concentrated thoughts of HelÈne he saw her either in some retired village in Germany, or in some nunnery, or sitting in tearful neglect in a dreary attic, or living with some high-born relative and walking the world a queen in grace and beauty, the cynosure of all eyes. But never for one instant did he picture her in New York, working patiently and hopefully in a place he had passed a thousand times.

On the Saturday which was to be his last in town for some weeks to come, Morton decided to lunch at his club before leaving for Tarrytown. On the way he stopped his brougham at a gunsmith’s to purchase a rifle and ammunition for his hunting trip. Was it fate or did a mischievous fairy plan it?

It was a lovely day, one of those days on which in certain places of the earth, far from the madding crowd, fairies would come out of their secret places and dance in the green glades of the cool forest. New York’s caÑons of streets were blue and gold under the gracious sunlit skies. Surely one of those lively sprites must have mistaken the city in its shining beauty for a new kind of forest; for of a certainty he was there. He must have skipped in past the yawning policeman at the corner, heedless of the noise and the crowds, and careless of the consequences. Seeing Morton in his carriage he must have whispered to him to stop at the gunsmith’s shop and go inside and take his time. And this same little fellow must have arranged it that Michael Sweeney, the best judge in the city of a damascened barrel, with the finest touch for adjusting the trigger, should just then be in the shop to wait on customers. For Michael, withal his watery eyes, could weigh powder with the skill of an assayer and discourse of guns as though they were his beloved children. Morton forgot where he was and who he was, so entranced was he. All he felt was that he was going away for a vacation—he was putting work away and going to play! The fairy had certainly enchanted him.

Outside on the avenue the horses in the brougham stamped in nervous impatience, switching their short tails in vain efforts to keep the flies away; the old coachman on the box had grown tired of flicking his whip and had dozed off in the warm shade. And all the time Morton was under Michael’s spell. Then the fairy, who had timed it well, touched the weight of the old clock in the corner and started so loud a whirr that Mike was disconcerted. The asthmatic gong gave a hoarse ding-dong—it was one o’clock!

Immediately Morton realized that he was to get the 2.30 train and that he had had no luncheon. He made for the exit hurriedly, giving at the same time brusque instructions to Michael to bring his purchases to the carriage.Michael had wrapped everything very carefully, as was his custom, using the brown paper and string which the famous establishment always took care should be of the best, and hurried out in obedience to Morton’s instructions. Now what followed proves conclusively that there was a fairy or a leprechaun, as Michael would have called him, in New York that afternoon. For Michael had not taken two steps beyond his door, when the string broke and the contents of the brown paper parcel—hooks, lines and sinkers—were scattered, like the buttermilk from the pitcher of the fair Kitty of Coleraine, all over the place. Sweeney, the impeccable, looked aghast and could but stare at the articles rolling and sliding in every direction.

Morton was on the point of stepping into his carriage, but hearing the commotion he stopped and turned round. And here is where the fine Italian hand of the fairy came in. For now Morton also made a discovery.