John Eddring, one morning, a month, or so after the Big House battle, sat in the offices devoted to the use of the division claim agent of the Y. Y. lines, whose headquarters were situated in a squat building around which went on the scattered industries of the city known as the industrial capital of a certain region of the South. Beyond these dingy confines might have been seen other structures yet more squat and dreary, from which issued the lines of iron rails which led out into the South, rails which even here paralleled the shores of the great river, as though dependent upon it for maintenance and guidance. The mighty flood, unmindful, swept toward the South, its tawny mane far out in midstream wrinkled by the breath of an up-stream air.

Beyond the nearest bend there arose, above the cover of the gray forest, the dense smoke of a steamer, and near at hand there came now and again the coughing roar of the whistles of yet other river boats. Slow smoke issued also from steamers tied up at the levee, where, under low wooden canopies, lay piles and rows of brown-cased cotton bales, continually increased in number by other bales brought up in long drays, each drawn by a single mule. Above the hot wharves rose the slope of close stone riprapping, fence against Father Messasebe, who now and then, in spirit of sport or of forgetfulness, reached out for his immemorial tribute of the soil. The sun was reflected from this wall down on the depot building and the wharf floor beyond. Across the water came the strumming of a banjo, and the low note of singing also arose from the rooms where workmen shuffled about with truck and hook, shifting the cotton bales. An inspector, almost the only white man at the wharf, moved slowly from bale to bale, ripping the covers with his knife and probing with his cotton auger into the middle of each bale to test its quality. Mules dozed about with lopping ears. Nowhere was there haste; neither here nor on the street; nor in the railway offices beyond, where sat John Eddring, agent of the personal injury department of this southern railway.

The room was not attractive, with its few chairs, its rows of letter files, its desks and copying presses. The table at which Eddring sat was worn and lacking in polish. Upon the wall hung a map showing the divers lines of the Y. V. railroad; a chart depicting the street crossings in the city of New Orleans; an engineer's elevation of a bridge somewhere on the line. Severely professional were these surroundings; as was indeed the central figure in the room, who now sat at his desk opening the morning mail. He looked up presently as there came a knock at the door, and soon was on his feet, hat in hand; for the first caller of the day proved to be a lady. Apparently she was an acquaintance of the claim agent, who addressed her by name.

"Come in, Mrs. Wilson," he said pleasantly.

Mrs. Wilson, just arrived from a small town down the railroad, had brought with her her sister, her mother and four children, not to mention a neighbor who had come along to do a little shopping. Eddring employed himself in getting a sufficient number of chairs for this little body of visitors. Inquiries as to the health of himself and his family ensued, reciprocated politely by Eddring, who asked after Mrs. Wilson's kith and kin and the leading citizens of her town. These preliminaries were long, but the claim agent was apparently well acquainted with them and regarded them as necessary.

"Well, now, Mr. Eddring," said Mrs. Wilson, "I've come in heah this mawnin' to see you about ouah hawse. You know ouah Molly hawse got kilt down at the depot two weeks ago by the railroad kyahs. I declare, I felt so bad I sat down and cried; I couldn't get supper that day. We was so much attached to Molly—why, Mr. Eddring, you don't know how bad we-all did feel about that hawse. It don't seem right to us nohow."

"No, things do go wrong sometimes, Mrs. Wilson," said Eddring, soothingly. "Now, I know that horse. Mr. Wilson drove me behind her the other day when I was down at your town. Good horse. A little old and a trifle lame, if I remember right." He smiled pleasantly.

"Lame! Why, Molly never was lame a day in her whole life. She never did have no lameness at all, unless it was a sort of hitch now and then like, but you couldn't call it right lame. Now, Mr. Wilson didn't come up. I tol' him you was a mighty nice man and you wouldn't let a lady get the worst of a business deal. I thought we could talk it over and you would do about what was right. Now, two hundred dollars—"

"Two hundred dollars! Why, my dear madam, you know I can get you another horse—"

"Get us another hawse like Molly! I'd like to know where you can get a hawse that's been in ouah family twenty years for any two hundred dollars! Why, Mr. Eddring, I always thought you was a fair-minded gentleman."

"Don't call me that, don't call me a gentleman," said Eddring, "and don't you call me fair-minded! But now, just look here. We didn't ask that Molly horse to get on our track. We didn't want to kill her, now, did we? All we wanted was to steam up there to the platform, and put off some groceries and let off a few passengers. We didn't want to kill anybody's horse. Now, I know Molly has been in your family a long time; a good horse, I don't deny it. We couldn't make it right with you if we paid you a thousand dollars; so just let's forget it and try to be friends. Let me give you a check for forty dollars."

"Forty dollars!"

"Now, then, Mrs. Wilson, this is not to be for Molly, it's just trying to be friendly. I want to feel free to come down and sit at your table and look you all in the face."

"I don't see how you could do that, and only pay me forty dollars,
Mr. Eddring." A grieved look sat on the lady's face.

"Well, now, I reckon I could, if I just saw you dressed up in a new gown that I saw in the window down at the store this morning. I reckon I could, if I saw hanging in your hall that hat that I saw this morning, down on the street."

"Do you think forty dollars would buy them, Mr. Eddring?" asked Mrs.
Wilson.

"Surely it would, and leave you enough to pay for your whole trip up here, and buy some things for the children besides. Now, look here, I don't want you to think I'm offering that to pay you for Molly. I ain't paying for any horses for Mr. Wilson. He is a gentleman that don't need ask favors of anybody, and he's going to pick out his own horses. You tell him I said he was a good judge of a horse. I want you to tell him I scorn to offer you money for this here Molly horse of yours—I scorn to do so. Mr. Wilson will make more than two hundred dollars in a day or so, the way cotton is going up this week. I just throw in this forty dollars—here is the voucher for it—so as to show you I am your friend. Now, if you ever want any shopping done up here any time; Mrs. Wilson, just write to me and I'll do the best I can. I'd go right down to the store with you to look at that dress, if it wasn't that I have to be right busy here for a while. Good-by, Mrs. Wilson, good-by, madam. Good-by to you all. I am glad you all came in. Good-by, little folks; here's something;" and each, small hand received a silver piece from the claim agent.

Mrs. Wilson passed out with a puzzled expression on her face. On the stairway she sighed. "Well, he is a nice man, anyhow," said she, to her companion.

This little party had scarce disappeared before there came another visitor, this time a fat colored woman of middle age, who labored up the stair and halted at the door.

"Come in, auntie," called the claim agent, from Ms desk, "what's the matter?"

"You know whut's the matter, Mr. Edd'ron," said the caller. "You 'membehs me?"

"Yes," said the claim agent, "you had a baby run down at the street crossing yesterday. We sent it to the hospital. How is it getting along?"

"Hit's daid, Mr. Edd'ron. Yas sah, my lil' Gawge is daid."

"What? Oh, pshaw!"

"Yas sah, lil' Gawge done die six o'clock dis maw-nin'." She shook with sobs. The claim agent dropped his own face into his hands. The weary look came back again into his eyes. At last he turned and went up to the black woman where she stood sobbing, and extended his hand.

"There, there, auntie," he said, "I'm sorry, mighty sorry. Now, listen. I can't settle this thing this morning. Here is ten dollars of my own money to help bury the boy decently. As soon as I can, I will take up the matter, and I will settle it the best I can for you. Now, go away; please, go away."

The negro woman ceased her sobbing as she took the bill.

"Ten dollahs," said she, "ten dollahs for dat baby! Dat'll buhy him right fine, it sho' will, Mr. Edd'ron. You'se a fine man, Mr. Edd'ron, 'deed you is."

Eddring smiled bitterly. He paced up and down the room, his head bent down. Presently he turned to his assistant.

"Go on over to the depot," said he, "and see if there is any more mail. I don't think I will do any letters just now."

Left alone, he continued to pace up and down, until at length he heard steps and again a knock at the door, after the custom in business in that region. This time there entered the tall form of his whilom friend, Colonel Calvin Blount, from his plantation down the road. Him he saluted right gladly and asked eagerly regarding his health.

"I am well, right well," said Blount, "Just came up to see about a little cotton. It looks like twelve cents before long."

"Well, with cotton at twelve cents you ought not to have any quarrel with the world, Colonel Blount."

"Well, now," replied Blount, "I need about everything I can get to put my place in order again. It's some months now since we had our little war down there, and I haven't got together half the hands I need yet. Some of my people cleaned out and we never did hear anything more of them. We've got plenty of niggers in jail down there yet; but that ain't the way we want it. We want 'em to get out of jail and into the fields at work. They'd rather stay in jail. They get as much to eat, and more time to rest."

"Well, they did raise trouble that time, didn't they?" said Eddring. "What do you suppose started them, Colonel? Who was it put them up to do it?" Blount shook his head.

"That's the puzzle," said he. "It was some one with brains; and not the kind of brains that grows under kinky hair, either."

The two men sat silent for a time. "Oh, by the way," said Blount, at length, "I was just going to say I brought up Mrs. Ellison and Miss Lady with me this morning. I left them over at the hotel right now. Do you know, Eddring, that girl has grown up to be a plumb beauty! She's handsome enough to just scare you. Why, I never did know there was so many young men in this whole town before that were acquainted with me. Looks like she was a public menace to business on the streets. Pine girl. And just as good as she's handsome!"

Eddring felt the blood surge up into his face, but he made no comment. He knew that the one unsafe thing for him to do was to see again this same Miss Lady, and yet against this decision all the riotous blood of his heart surged out in protest. He took a swift turn to the window.

"By Jove, Colonel," he cried, "out there goes that fellow Jim Hargis, from over near Jewelville. He's got that brag dog of his along."

"Dog? What dog?" cried Blount.

"There, that's the one," said Eddring, pointing out a man passing by, who was accompanied by a pepper-and-salt foxhound. "Do you see that dog? Well, Jim Hargis says that's the coldest-nosed hound ever run a trail, and he's got five hundred dollars to bet his equal don't live in the South."

"Humph," sneered Blount, "I reckon he never did see my old Hec."

"Hec! Why, he says he'd make Hec look like a pot-licker if he ever got mixed up with his dog."

"What! My old Hec! Five hundred dollars! Say, you just holler to him, while I run down stairs." And away went the irate Colonel, his hands fumbling in his pockets.

Eddring did not stay to see the result of his stratagem. Instead, as he found himself alone, he walked up in front of the little mirror which hung upon the wall. He gazed straight into it, examining with frowning face the reflection which he witnessed. He ran a hand across the gray-tinged hair, turned up a corner of the mustache with a reflective finger, man-fashion, and looked eagerly, searchingly, at the face which confronted him. It was a face slightly lined, a trifle tired. He stood there thinking, questioning this image. As he turned away he sighed.

The wind rustled the dingy curtains at the dingy window, as he flung himself discontentedly into a chair, A bar of sunlight lay across the floor; at the window there came the sound of a song bird from a near- by tree; but these signs and sounds of an outdoor world John Eddring did not note. He felt nothing but the grim imprisonment of these dusty walls. In his soul was revolt, rebellion. He smote his hand hard upon the papers which, lay before him on the desk.

"This, this," he exclaimed aloud, "this is all my life! Good God! it is to buy life, human life, human sufferings, and to buy them cheap! I swear, I can see blood on every voucher that I sign! That's my business. I must buy these things cheap; and they say I don't buy them cheap enough—they want me to put in my whole heart, and honor, and principles. Here is my salary for the month." Pie drew the slip of paper toward him and sat looking at it. "And here is the last correspondence from the superintendent. Complaints, all of it. Once I thought I should succeed. Success-yes, I have succeeded—in being absolutely wretched every day of my life. God! God! Is this all?"

He pushed the papers from him and half rose, leaning over the desk, resting on his hands.

"Success," he muttered again to himself. "What is it? I gave up the law and I took the salary." He paused and sighed. "At any rate," he resumed, musing still aloud, "my old mother has had a roof over her head, and has had three meals a day. Well, it's made me old. I suppose I oughtn't to mind, but oh, damn everything! Damn everything, I say!" He scattered the papers with a blow of his hand, and whirling, stood once more before the mirror, which seemed to have some unusual interest for him. He did not at first hear the step of the visitor who now entered the door and came gently up behind him.

"Confound you!" cried he, suddenly, as at length he caught the footfall. "What do you mean by coming in like that?"

The frail and gray-haired lady who halted at this salutation was as much startled as himself. "Why, John!" said she. "Why, John!"

Turning, Eddring caught her by the hand, his face flushed.

"Mother!" he cried, "I thought it was the clerk."

"Why, John," repeated Mrs. Eddring, "I didn't know that you ever swore."

"I don't, mother, except sometimes. The fact is—well, today I just had to."

"You were thinking of something else."

"Well, yes. I beg your pardon. I was just feeling pretty good over the way business matters were going, and—well, the truth is, I was just a little—well, a little exuberant, you know."

Mrs. Eddring seated herself and looked about her at the dingy little office, which ever seemed to her poor housing for one who, in her belief, was the greatest man in all the world.

"I beg your pardon, John," said she, "for intruding in your business hours, but I was down-town to-day, and I thought I would just drop in to see you." She gazed at him keenly, noting with a mother's eye the worn look on his face.

"I don't think you've been looking well lately, John," said she.
"Does your arm still trouble you?"

"Why, of course not, it's all well. Why, I'm feeling fine, fine! You and I ought to be feeling well these days, for you know we have just finished paying for our house, and everything is looking perfectly splendid all around. You didn't know I had a raise in my salary last month, did you?" He turned his back, as he said this last, that his mother might not discover on his face so palpable a falsehood.

"Is that so, John?" she said. "Why, I'm so glad!" A faint spot of color came into the faded cheeks, and the old eyes brightened. "Well, I'm sure you deserved it. They couldn't pay you more than you're worth."

"No," said Eddring, grimly, "they are not apt to." His mother caught no hidden meaning, but went on.

"You're a good business man, John, I know," said she, "and I know you have always been a gentleman in your work." Here spoke the old South, its pride visible in the lift of the white crowned head, and the flash of an eye not yet dimmed in spite of the gentleness of the pale, thin face.

Eddring gulped a bit. "Well, you know, in business," said he, "a fellow pretty near has to choose—"

"And you have always chosen to be a gentleman."

"As near as I could, mother," said he, gravely. "I have just done the best I could. Now, as I was saying, I am feeling mighty fine to-day. Everything coming out so well—the truth is—"

"John," said his mother, sharply, "why do you say 'the fact is,' and 'the truth is'? You don't usually do that."

He did not answer, and there went on the subtle self-communings of the mother-brain, exceedingly difficult to lead astray. For the time she did not voice her thought, but approaching him, placed a hand upon his shoulder, and brushed back a lock of hair from his forehead.

"Pretty gray, isn't it, mother?" said he, smiling at her.

"Nonsense! Is that what you were thinking about?"

"Well, you see, I'm getting—"

"No, you're not! You don't look a day over twenty-five."

"That's right. That's right," said he, blithely. "I am twenty-five, exactly twenty-five; and they're raising my salary right along. What'll it be when I'm fifty?"

"You ought to have a new necktie, John," said his mother, smoothing down the lapel of his coat. "A rising man, like you, my son, must always remember little things."

"That's right," said he. "That's right. You know I'm so careless. The truth is—"

"There you go again, John! Now why are you so particular to tell me that what you are saying to me is the truth? Just as if you ever in your life said anything which wasn't true."

He did not answer, but hurriedly turned away, that the keen eyes might not examine his face too closely. She followed him.

"John," said she, sharply, "tell me, what's the trouble? Tell me the truth."

"I have," said he. The words choked him, and she knew it. He evaded once more the attack of her eyes, but again she followed him, her face now very pale, her lips trembling.

"Boy," said she, "tell me, what is it? Is there a woman? Is there anybody?"

"Nobody in all the world but you," he declared bravely. It was of no avail, and he knew it, as the keen eyes finally found his own.

"John!" said his mother, "you have not been telling me the truth."

"Well, I know it," said he, calmly, and with far greater happiness. "Of course I haven't. Who said I was? O, Lord! you can't fool a woman any way on earth. Now here—"

"Who is this girl?" asked his mother, with a certain sternness as she gazed at him directly; "for of course I knew very well what was the matter. I suppose I shall have to face this some day, though it has been so long—"

Eddring looked her straight in the face in return, and this time without flinching.

"The dearest girl in the world," said he. "But I reckon she's not for me."

"Who is she? Where is she? Where did you meet her? Have you a picture?"

"I don't need one."

"What's her name—her family? Of course—"

"She hasn't any family. I don't know where she came from."

"John!"

"Well, it's true."

"But you could not expect—"

"I expect nothing!" cried he, again striking his clenched hand upon the table. "Here is my world. Oh, well, you know now if I ever swear, and why."

Her lip trembled. "I never knew you did," said she. "John, tell me, have you ever spoken to her?"

"Good God! no, never. How could I? What have I to offer a girl like her? Who am I? What am I?"

She caught his head in her arms and drew his face down to her bosom.
"There, there," said she. "There, there, now."

But presently he broke from her, and swung out into the room, erect and active once more, a sudden triumph in his carriage, a brighter glance in the eye for a time grown dull.

"Pshaw! Here," said he, "here I am, pitying myself! That isn't a good thing for a man to do. A man oughtn't to complain. He ought to take his medicine."

"Look," he cried, coming to her again, "maybe the world is just loving me, that's all, and doesn't know. Maybe it's the same as it was when I scratched my face on your breast-pin when I was a baby, when your arms were around my neck. You did not mean it. Maybe life does not mean it. Maybe it's just loving us all the time.

"Come, now, you shall see this girl who is of no family. Come with me. She is here, right in town, this very day."

"Where is she, John?"

"Why, Colonel Blount told me that she and her mother were over at the hotel. Could we call? Wouldn't it be all right if we did?"

"If the ladies are strangers in town," said Mrs. Eddring, slowly, "and if they are friends of yours, then I will call on them with you."

"Come!" said he, feverishly. "Come!"—then suddenly: "Tell me, mammy, does my hair look so awfully gray?"

"John," said she, "there isn't a gray hair in it. Come on, what are you waiting for?"

Eddring had turned, and was fumbling at a drawer in his desk. He raised a face flushed and conscious-looking. "The fact is, mother, I've got a new necktie right here, and—and I want to put it on."