It was the very next morning that Ruth's father, the Rev. George Bentley Heywood, received an urgent appeal from China to fill a vacancy in the missionary field. Ten days after receiving the message he, his wife and tearful daughter, were on a train for San Francisco.

The days that followed were solemn days for Cyrus. And it so happened that the next ten years were solemn years for Longfields. A new railroad carried through a neighboring town left the village stranded. The young men began to leave. When a house burned there was no rebuilding. The tottering sheds behind the weed-grown cellar of the Baptist Church were typical of the town's decay. It was significant that when Philetus Bisbee died—house and carriage painter—his business had so shrunk that no one took his place. The burning of the inn meant that Longfields as a resting place for travelers was to be forgotten.

People died in Longfields, but few were born. Pupils at the little red school house dwindled to about a dozen. The teacher's pay was so small that to accept the position became an act of charity to the village.

When Judge David Lincoln moved away he expressed sincere regret: "I am sorry to go, but lawyers cannot thrive on memories alone."

Wits of neighboring towns referred to the sleeping village as Pompeii, Old Has Been and Long Memories. The main street with its overhanging elms was always silent. And the common, once noisy with excited children, was solemn in its stillness. Every day seemed Sunday.

In short, Longfields went the way of many other New England villages. It became a restful and picturesque reminder of better days. But, after all, it was merely following, in its decay, the example of famous queens of fashion, Troy, Babylon and Thebes.

This gentle retirement to oblivion affected Cyrus less than his father. For Dr. Alton sent him away to school, to prepare for college, and the absent boy almost forgot the tragedies of his home. Moreover, Cyrus found much excitement in his new surroundings; much to learn—and unlearn—from contact with so many others of his age. They came from town and country and from almost every state. What he got from books was least in interest and often the least in value. That million-sided problem, Human Nature, was, as usual, the hardest to understand, the last to be solved.

Rarely does a boy with Anglo Saxon blood in his veins find it necessary to cure himself of too much polish. But even in this case Old Human Nature was triumphant. When away from Longfields Cyrus found his ceremonious courtesy was misapplied, misunderstood and almost a misdemeanor. His eighteenth century bows were regarded by his chambermaid as ironical; by his classmates as a silly affectation, and were resented by his instructors as efforts to be funny at their expense.

Further discouragement came one day in the friendly warning of an older boy. "You know, Drowsy, or you don't know, that those salaams of yours give the impression that before you came to this academy you were the colored porter on a parlor car."

The result was that before the end of the first term his manners were only a trifle better than those of other boys. Except, of course, when taken off his guard, as in his interview with the wife of a certain prosperous citizen who slipped and fell in coming out of the post office. She was a sensitive lady, irascible and of massive proportions. As she landed on the sidewalk, two snow white stockings with stalwart limbs inside waved briefly before the public eye. They resembled the whitened limbs of a billiard table. Letters fell from one of her hands. With the other she clung convulsively to a large umbrella. Three girls involuntarily laughed aloud.

As the lady climbed to her feet two light blue eyes shot fury from a purple face. When Cyrus stepped forward to gather up the scattered letters he forgot all his recent training, raised his cap, moved it gracefully in the air and bent low and reverentially—as the First Lord of the Bed Chamber might salute his Sovereign. But the boiling lady identified this seeming mockery with the laughter of the maidens. She brought the fat umbrella hard down upon the head of Cyrus, and she struck with all her might. Luckily for the recipient her hand was quivering with rage, and no physical damage was accomplished. But the damage to his pride was serious. As he straightened up and looked the lady in the face his cheeks were hot. The erstwhile drowsy eye showed astonishment—and anger. His cherubic lips had parted: "Then pick 'em up yourself, you stupid old——"

At that instant he recalled an injunction of his father. "Whatever may happen, Cyrus, always be a gentleman." He had not been told just how a gentleman should behave when beaten on the head with an umbrella—and in public. But he closed his lips without even beginning the sentence. He bowed again, and this bow was even more elaborate than the first.

"I beg your pardon, madam."

Then he turned, put on his cap and walked away.

Again was heard the giggle of the girls. That a person should apologize for being hit on the head with an umbrella was too funny for silence.

Meanwhile, the cost of all this experience and of his pursuit of knowledge fell heaviest on his father. The practical obliteration of his native town and field of work meant financial embarrassment for Dr. Alton. The few remaining inhabitants of the village were now too poor to pay a doctor. To fit Cyrus for college, and keep him there, Dr. Alton exhausted the small capital left him by his father. When that was gone he tried to sell his orchard and the best portions of the farm. But no purchasers appeared. He did sell, however, to a dealer in Boston, some family heirlooms; rare pieces of Colonial furniture and all his Canton china.

To Cyrus, meanwhile, Fate was paying especial attention—with more to come. During his last year in college a surprising change took place in his ways of spending time—surprising, but familiar to biographers. Such transformations, where indifference suddenly changes to ambition, indolence to industry, and where the trifler becomes in earnest, have frequently occurred, as with Julius CÆsar, St. Paul, Henry V of England, William Shakespeare, Mirabeau and many other notables. So there was nothing original in this sudden awakening of Cyrus. During the first three years of his college course he was a "good fellow." When classmates entered his room with "Come along, Drows, old man; chuck the books, and now for the real life," he joyfully obeyed and took chances on recitations: with the usual result that only distant relations were maintained with the upper end of his class. It was the price of popularity and of the joy of living. Toward the end of his last year, however, his more festive companions were horrified by an unexpected miracle. A little book came into his hands. It threw a dazzling light on the possibilities of electricity. It aroused his curiosity and so kindled his imagination that he turned his back on the "real life" and became studious. This sudden thirst for knowledge caused a shock to his festive pals. They were anxious about him. For, indeed, is there not cause for alarm, when a Bully Boy, a Rattling Good Sport and a Live One suddenly loses his grip on "real life" and becomes a Bookworm, a High Brow and a Dead One?

But Cyrus did not weaken. He clung to his new love. Unavailing were such arguments as "Chuck the science, Drowsy. There's time enough for wisdom when you are old!" or, "Don't be a chump, Drows. You can't be young forever. Remember, Youth is short and Science long."

And he felt neither shame nor repentance when his own chum rebuked him. "Drows, old man, you are just a crank. Harvard Students are not giving points to old sharps in science. For God's sake don't be a freak and get musty before your time."

But words were wasted. This new ambition had brought to him a revelation of his real self. He had no suspicion, at the time, that the reading of this little book was to lead to adventures surpassing the wonder tales of his childhood. To his brain came a dazzling light. He began to realize the infinite possibilities of man's power, with the hidden forces of the universe once in his control. A fantastic dream, perhaps, but the more he thought the deeper grew his conviction. He knew—or thought he knew—that he had it in him to open wider the door that hides the secrets of the air. Greater still would have been his confidence had he known that a part of his inheritance was the courage and the genius of the famous Italian scientist who wrote the book. And it appeared from the little portrait of the author that he, too, had slumbrous eyes. It was ordained, however, that their relationship was to remain hidden both from the great discoverer and from his yet more daring grandson.

At the end of the four years at Harvard, Dr. Alton's finances were low, indeed. But Cyrus argued for a course in Chemistry and Physics at the Institute of Technology in Boston. He took the course, and it was clearly understood that it meant bitter economies for both father and son. But the economies were calmly faced. Some of them meant serious sacrifice in personal comfort, not only in the little luxuries of life, but in clothing, food and fuel. Of blows to pride they made no account.

At last Cyrus finished his course at the "Teck." His return to Longfields was on a smiling afternoon in May and he found his father at home, sitting on the porch with Luther Dean. Cyrus and his boyhood friend had seen little of each other during the last six years. Luther had grown into a rather handsome young man. Otherwise Fortune had not favored him. With many other American boys, his ambition was to become a millionaire, and to be quick about it. And with many other boys in this upsetting country, he looked down, in fancy, from the glittering peaks of sudden wealth, upon the patient plodders in the valley below. Not for him the goody mottoes of the Sunday School. Not for him a wasted youth in "starting at the bottom, working your way up" with "slow but sure," and all the other maxims for smothering talent. For him the Napoleonic grasp of opportunity, the cutting of the Gordian knot. He believed in quick achievement. He believed

"There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune."

And he believed in short cuts. His models for success were the millionaires "who had struck it rich." And he was firm in the faith that his revolt from "Patient Industry," "Honest Toil" and similar delusions was a sign of genius. In other words, he was the sort of youth no man desires in his employ. For brief periods he had held positions in different establishments in Worcester. Now, again, he was out of a job.

But Luther's manners were good, and his raiment above reproach. At present, as the three men sat on the porch, his spruce attire was in striking contrast with the almost shabby garments of Dr. Alton and his son. But Dr. Alton happened to be one of those men who have no need of clothing unless for warmth or propriety. In his head and face and figure were lines of strength and beauty that gave distinction. In his bearing and in all his movements there was dignity and a natural grace. Were he dressed as a beggar at a coronation he would have held his own.

As for Cyrus, the last ten years seemed to have made little difference, merely transforming him from boy to man; this change, as wise men have long suspected, being mostly outward. He grew to the usual height, had the usual number of teeth, recited from the usual books, played the usual games, committed the usual follies, absorbed the usual experience from the various victories and defeats of our usual life, still retaining at twenty-one the drowsy eyes and curving lips of his early childhood. Deep within him, however, were aspirations and a strength of purpose that contradicted the languid eyes and boyish mouth.

After the greetings, and when various questions had been asked and answered, Dr. Alton lighted his old briarwood pipe, took a whiff or two and said to his son:

"And the great idea, Cyrus, any further developments?"

"I should say there were! I've got it, father!"

Dr. Alton raised his eyebrows. "Really? You don't mean——"

"Yes I do. I mean just that. I have found it. It's the wonder of wonders. And it works—even better than I hoped."

Dr. Alton straightened up and smiled—a smile of surprise and pleasure.

Cyrus returned the smile. At the same time his drowsy eyes became less drowsy and in his voice was a mild excitement. "And so simple! Why, I feel like laughing when I think of it. The only wonder is that hundreds of people have never discovered it."

"What is it?" said Luther.

Cyrus hesitated a moment, as if to be sure of his words. "It's a simple and inexpensive device for concentrating in a space about the size of your two hands any quantity of electrical force."

"When you say any quantity, do you mean enough to run a typewriter—or an automobile?"

"I mean enough to run a railroad train or an ocean steamer; or to lift this house—or any other building."

Luther smiled the smile of doubt. "And the thing is no bigger than your two hands?"

"It resembles two metal soup plates back to back."

Luther whistled—a short whistle signifying a deficiency of belief. "That sounds kind of—kind of—as if somebody had wheels in his head. How does the miracle get its power?"

"From the atmosphere around it."

"With no dynamo, nor motor, nor transformer?"

"All that is between the metal dinner plates. Why manufacture power when the whole universe is vibrating with it? It is like manufacturing air to breathe."

Luther leaned forward, excitement in his face. "Why it doesn't seem possible. And you have really done it, Drowsy?"

Cyrus nodded.

"But it will revolutionize everything!"

"Yes—it will."

"Is it some new form of electricity you discovered?"

"No, merely a new way of applying our old knowledge. You see, it has been known for some time that air is energy. Dancing about us, in the atmosphere, is plenty of power waiting to be harnessed; power enough to toss mountains into space if we could only direct it. You may have read about the tremendous force in the vibrations of atoms."

"No; not a word."

"Well, every atom is a center of energy. And every atom is composed of millions of electrons. Do you happen to be interested in electro kinetics?"

"Don't even know what it means."

"It relates to the properties of electric currents. My discovery is merely the concentration and directing of those currents. The apparatus is about the size of an apple pie, and so simple that I laugh when I think of it."

"But, Drowsy, you can't get so much power in such a little mechanism. That thing could never start a locomotive or an ocean steamship."

"Start it! A dozen of these little things fastened to an ocean steamer could lift it in the air to any height, crew, passengers and cargo, and drive it at any rate of speed and for any distance. And at no cost."

Luther whistled. "Is Cyrus guying us, Doctor, or is he only dotty?"

Dr. Alton smiled, but gave no answer.

"After you had lifted the steamship up into the air," said Luther, "how soon could you get her across the ocean?"

"That's for the captain to decide. He could do it comfortably in an hour or two—or, in five or ten minutes, if he were really in a hurry."

"Oh, I say, Drowsy, come down to earth again, and join us."

"No, I can't come down when I once get up. But I don't blame you for not believing it, Luther. I only believe it myself when I see it working. It is really easy to understand, though, when you know that electro magnetic waves in the ether are cavorting through space at the rate of about a hundred and eighty-six thousand miles a second, forced by our friends the electrons. There's no reason why my device should not go at about the same rate. That would take our passengers and cargo across the ocean in considerably less than one minute."

Dr. Alton shook his head. "No, Cyrus, that's too sudden even for a Yankee."

Luther assumed an expression of alarm. "Do you think Cyrus will get over this, Doctor? Is he wild on other subjects, or is it only one screw that's loose?"

Cyrus laughed and turned toward his father. "What an awful joke if Luther should be right! I could easily believe it a crazy dream if one or two scientists had not already prophesied it. The thing was sure to come. And now that it's here it seems too simple to be true. I merely happen to be the first man to stumble on it."

"Just what is it?" said Luther. "How do you do it? What's the process?"

For an instant their eyes met. To Luther came an odd sensation he had known as a boy—that the tranquil gaze of Cyrus was reading his secret thoughts. As his thoughts at that moment were not for publication the sensation was disturbing. To hide his embarrassment he turned away toward Dr. Alton, and made a joking remark about trips to Europe, over and back, on Saturday afternoon. "It even beats wireless," he said.

"Well, rather!" said Cyrus. "Wireless will soon be a back number."

Again Luther whistled. "Wireless a back number! Well, that's certainly going some!"

But Dr. Alton showed little surprise, merely regarding his son more attentively. "What is to take its place, Cyrus?"

"Just the spoken word. Its transmission through the ether with no mechanical appliance for sending or for receiving."

Luther smiled. "It will have to be a pretty loud voice."

"No louder than wireless. It will be carried by the same forces that carry the wireless message, only more simply applied. The air about us is alive with electric force that is perfectly willing to take our messages without the machinery."

Dr. Alton smiled. "Well, you seem to have confidence in it. That's a good beginning, anyway."

Cyrus also smiled. "I have already done it."

"Already done it?"

"Yes, sir; and more than once. Billy Saunders and I went out into the country, stood nearly a mile apart, spoke in ordinary tones and each heard more than half the other said."

"With no instruments whatever?"

"None except a little receiver about the size of your watch."

Luther whistled again. On his face was a look of surprise—the Surprise that's the brother of Doubt.

Dr. Alton was looking earnestly at his son. "Is that really true, Cyrus? Are you absolutely sure no previous knowledge of each other's intentions may have helped a little?"

Then Cyrus explained the experiments in detail. He told how they purposely chose subjects unknown to each other; how they put on paper the words as they arrived; that the percentage of messages correctly received increased at every trial; and that weather conditions, wind, rain or sunshine seemed to make little difference in the results. After answering other questions, he said to his father:

"But that is only the beginning. The day is coming when even the spoken word will be superfluous."

"Just what do you mean, Cyrus?"

"I mean communicating thought by electric induction—by direct vibrations."

"Say, Cyrus!" exclaimed Luther, "the Arabian Nights isn't in it with you!"

"No, it isn't," said Cyrus. "For I have already done it."

"Done what?"

"Sent thought waves—and received them."

"Oh, come off."

But Dr. Alton was looking earnestly at his son. He recalled one or two occasions when Cyrus had accomplished this very thing. And now, as they looked into each other's eyes, he suspected his own thoughts, at this very moment, were being read. His suspicions were correct, for Cyrus answered an unspoken question.

"Yes, sir, it's the same as those you are recalling. But now I understand it. Much depends, of course, on the individual. Latent faculties in individuals, however, can be surprisingly developed. I do believe that within a few years our thoughts, spoken and unspoken, will be traveling through the air as wireless travels now."

Dr. Alton made no reply. He closed his eyes for a time and smoked in silence. His thoughts went back to those unexplained episodes when Cyrus was a boy; then further back to the villa by the Adriatic. He was recalling a conversation in the loggia of that hidden villa when Luther rose to his feet and exclaimed:

"Is there anything, Cyrus, too impossible for you to believe?"

"Nothing—if it is interesting. I never reject a good fairy tale. Why be a skeptic? To look at a skeptic's face is enough. His digestion is never good. He thinks with his stomach and his stomach reacts on his brain. That means farewell to enthusiasm and to all the best things of life. Ambition and gastric juice are partners. Had Buddha, Christ or Mohammed been skeptics you never would have heard of them. No skeptic could possibly succeed as an inventor, poet, explorer, patriot, or as any other kind of hero. He fails before he begins."

Cyrus paused for a moment, then added: "Perhaps you are both saying to yourselves, better be a skeptic than a credulous ass. But that's open to argument. The credulous ass is not only happier but he has Hope for a backer, and he is a heap sight more likely to get somewhere than the pessimist. The pessimist never starts."

His father nodded approval.

Luther put on his hat. "Right you are, Drowsy. Me for a credulous ass. I swallow all you say, electric miracles and all. Of course, this sending ideas about the world free of expense and without even the trouble of saying them, is quite a morsel for the ordinary throat, but I've got it part way down and am holding on to it. If what you say is true, miracles are with us. Jimminy! It's a large idea!"

"No miracle at all," said Cyrus. "Not half so miraculous as the growth of that apple tree from a seed. And the human brain! Two handfuls of gray matter—and what it achieves! Did you ever happen to realize what a self-starting, Johnny-on-the-Spot, up-to-date miracle your memory is?"

Luther laughed. "Well, no. Not enough to forget my meals."

"Then do it some time. It's the champion mystery of the world. No man knows how it works. We know it furnishes us with names and places, facts and figures and events without limit, and they come to us instantaneously without waiting to be called. A thousand telegraph clerks with an acre of pigeon holes could not accomplish in an hour what your memory does in a second. It is quicker than greased lightning. It's the miracle of miracles. Why, Luther, these thought waves of mine, compared with it, are so simple and so easy that any normal baby could operate them."

"I guess you are right."

After a few more words, this conversation ended, and Luther departed. But Dr. Alton and Cyrus sat a long time on the little porch talking seriously of the Great Discovery.

But the inventor, later that afternoon, was not too much absorbed in electric wonders to visit a corner at the end of the garden. There he straightened up a slab that marked a grave. The slab was of wood. He brushed the surface with careful hands and read the letters he himself had carved nine years before.

HeRe Lies
Zac ALton He
Was VeRY SmARt
and ALSO
GooD

These lines Cyrus always read with a smile—not of mirth, but of satisfaction with their truth and justice to his old friend's character. Pleasant indeed were those memories!—lively and bounding memories: of adoration for himself and of unswerving loyalty to the final breath of a short but joyous life.