HUGH called at the Patriot office to congratulate the major on Fewer’s retraction. He found him in his den dictating an editorial to his daughter. Hugh was made welcome, not only by the major’s words, but also by Marie’s smile.

“You see that my daughter is my amanuensis,” said the major. “She has mastered the pothooks of shorthand so thoroughly that she is able to report the speeches of our public men, although some of them are very rapid talkers. In addition to this she is the ‘typo’ of the Patriot. She has worked in the printing-office for four years, and during the last year has read and corrected her own proof. I maintain that an experience in a country printing-office is a liberal education in itself.”

Hugh was very much surprised to find that one so young as Marie possessed so much practical knowledge. These accomplishments, added to her rare musical talents, increased the interest that he was beginning to feel in her.

Marie soon returned to her type-setting case in the back room, and the major, taking up some copy that was lying on the table, said, “We are enjoying good times in southwestern Kansas, but the metropolitan dailies of our larger cities constantly remind us that something is wrong in our economic system. While one class surfeits itself with feasting, another class in the same locality is starving. Has it ever struck you, Mr. Stanton, that something is radically wrong and unfair in the distribution of wealth?”

“Really, Major,” replied Hugh, “I am not sufficiently versed in political economy to discuss the subject intelligently. I believe that there is an improvident class of laborers in this country, who, when out of employment, are immediately out of money—a people who signally fail in the obligations that they owe to the general government and to themselves.”

“The obligations of the government and of its citizens,” said the major, warmly, “are mutual. A government that demands defense from its citizens in the hour of peril, and fails to provide work for them in the time of peace, is cowardly and lame in solving the simplest elementary problems of human existence and comfort.”

“But is there so much want and misery abroad in the land?” asked Hugh. “Thanksgiving proclamations from the various States disclose the fact that prosperity and plenty abound. I fear, Major, that you are pessimistic on this subject.”

“My dear Stanton,” replied the major, earnestly, “a Thanksgiving proclamation, nine times out of ten, is a burlesque on our civilization. If the same amount of energy were expended in encouraging enterprises that increase the riches and happiness of communities, as is put forth in enacting laws that encourage and protect individual riches, much more good would result. A selfish law begets and encourages selfishness, and smothers every altruistic virtue. The result is, that robbery and jobbery are alike legalized; not by the consent of the governed, but by bribed legislatures. The rich grow richer, and, under the legal protection of bristling bayonets, they enforce oppressive and unjust laws; while the poor continually grow poorer and more miserable. I cannot blame the masses for not tolerating the licentious luxury of the rich. All just laws derive their legitimate power from the consent of the governed.”

“Would you not consider, Major, that he would indeed be a bold man who would take issue with Ruskin on this subject?” asked Hugh.

“He might be rather a very foolish man,” replied the major. “What does Ruskin say?”

“He says,” replied Hugh, “that none but the dissolute among the poor look upon the rich as their natural enemies, or desire to pillage their homes and divide their property. None but the dissolute among the rich speak in opprobrious terms of the vices and follies of the poor.”

“That’s all right, Stanton,” said the major, but there was an irritable ring in his voice, as he arose and walked back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back. “That’s all right,” he repeated; “the trouble is, however, that too many of the rich are dissolute.”

“How about the poor?” asked Hugh. “Is n’t there a considerable number of them who would like to divide up property?”

“Hold on, Stanton,” said the major; “stop right there. You and I must not talk politics. My convictions are so strong that I find myself irritated by your words. I am beginning to feel ugly toward you.”

“Questions of social or political reform, at best, are usually unsatisfactory,” replied Hugh, “and I quite agree with you that nothing can be gained by heated discussions.”

The major made no reply, but soon afterward, at his request, they walked down the street toward his home. On reaching the privacy of the library, the major turned to Hugh and said, “Stanton, I have something to say to you. I feel like taking you into my confidence more than I have ever done, and still—well, I don’t know,—some other time, perhaps, might be better.” Hugh observed an earnestness in the words of the major, and in the expression of his face, that he had never noticed before. There was a soft intonation in his musical Southern voice that was most convincing. This, together with his dignity and refinement of manners, elevated him in Hugh’s eyes almost to the height of sublimity. He turned away from Hugh in apparent half indecision, and went into another room; but soon returned with a violin.

“What, are you master of all musical instruments?” asked Hugh, looking up in pleased surprise.

“Master is a strong word,” replied the major, as he gently tuned the aged Stradivarius, and softly thumbed the strings. Then, tenderly embracing the violin with his chin, as he placed it in position, he brought his bow at right angles, and Schumann’s “Trbumerei” trembled from the strings in soft and plaintive melody, filling every corner of the room with echoing and reechoing notes of sweetness. Other airs followed one after another in quick succession, and, as he played, the pleading tones seemed to grow richer and deeper in their harmonic cadences.

The gathering twilight deepened into night, but still the major went on caressing and winning from the violin selections and improvisations that would have charmed the most cultured ear. Sometimes the strings would cry out like the pleading wail of a lost soul, and float away through the window, charging the night wind with quivering melody. Again the notes seemed glints of moonbeams falling aslant through the gloaming, and lighting up the face of the old man as if with a halo of glory. Then the music changed, and it seemed no longer to be the work of mortal hands, but, rather, the soulful touch of some rare and heavenly spirit that was sweeping over the strings with sublime inspiration—with divine outpourings of a soul.

The elevation running through the harmony was devoutly exalting. The notes were brought together in full, rich strength, deftly caught back again, then bursting forth like a raging storm on the boundless ocean. Presently a single note rang out like a warning of danger. It was a wild, surging tone, and cried piteously, as if pierced and torn. Then the music ceased, and the silence of night throbbed with countless echoing notes that floated away on the invisible air. Tears were in the strings of the old violin, in the trembling zephyrs that were wafted in at the open window, and in Hugh Stanton’s eyes. It was music never again to be heard, yet never to be forgotten.