Four weeks from that crisp morning when Carmen led the bewildered, stupified lad to her home, she and Sidney sat out upon the little porch of the cottage, drinking in the glories of the winter sun. January was but half spent, and the lad and girl were making the most of the sudden thaw before the colder weather which had been predicted might be upon them.

What these intervening weeks had been to Carmen, none might have guessed as she sat there with the sunlight filtering in streamlets of gold through her brown hair. But their meaning to the boy might have been read with ease in the thin, white face, turned so constantly toward his fair companion. They were deeply, legibly written there, those black nights, when he would dash out into the hall, determined to break through the windows of the nearest dram shop and drink, 120 drink, drink, until the red liquor burst from his eyes, his mouth, his nostrils! Those ghastly nights, when Carmen would stand before him, her arms outspread across the door, and beat back the roaring devils within him! Those long days of agonized desire for the vicious drug which had sapped his manhood! Those fell hours, when low curses poured from his burning lips upon her and upon all mankind! Those cold, freezing sweats, and the dry, cracking fever! Those hours when, with Carmen always by his side, he tramped mile after mile through drifts and ice, until he dropped at length from sheer exhaustion, only to awake, hours later, to find that the girl had brought him home, safe, unharmed!––

And then, oh, the “Peace, be still!” which he began to hear, faint at first, but growing in volume, until, at last, it became a mighty, thunderous command, before which the demons paled and slunk away, never to return! Oh, the tears of agony that had given way to tears of joy, of thanksgiving! Oh, the weakness that had been his strength! And, oh, the devotion of this fair girl––aye, and of her associates, too––but all through her! Had she proved her God before the eyes of the world? That she had! Day after day, clad in the impenetrable armor of her love, she had stood at this struggling lad’s side, meeting the arrows of death with her shield of truth! Night after night she had sat by his couch, her hand crushed in his desperate grasp, flouting the terror that stalked before his delirious gaze! What work she had done in those long weeks, none would ever know; but the boy himself knew that he had emerged from the valley of the shadow of death with a new mind, and that she had walked with him all the dark, cloud-hung way.

As they sat there in the bright sunlight that morning, their thought was busy with the boy’s future. Old plans, old ambitions, had seemed to lift with the lifting of the mortal curse which had rested upon him, and upward through the ashes of the past a tender flower of hope was pushing its way. He was now in a new world. The last tie which bound him to his family had been severed by his own father two weeks before, when the shadow of death fell athwart his mother’s brilliant path. Mrs. J. Wilton Ames, delicate in health when recalled from abroad, and still suffering from the fatigue of the deadly social warfare which had preceded her sudden flight from her husband’s consuming wrath, had failed to rally from the indisposition which seized her on the night of the grand Ames reception. For days she slowly faded, and then went quickly down under a sharp, withering attack of pneumonia. A few brief weeks after the formal opening of the Ames palace its 121 mistress had sighed away her blasted hopes, her vain desires, her petty schemes of human conquest and revenge, and had gone to face anew her problems on another plane of mortal thought. It was rumored by the servants that, in her last hours, when she heard the rustle of the death angel’s wings beside her, a great terror had stricken her, and she had called wildly for that son whom she had never cared to know. It was whispered that she had begged of her husband to seek the lad and lead him home; that she had pleaded with him to strive, with the boy, to find the better things of life; that she had begged him to warn and be warned of her present sufferings, as she lay there, stripped of every earthly aid, impoverished in heart, in soul, in mind, with her hands dusty and begrimed with the ashes of this life’s mocking spoils. How true these rumors, none might say. What truth lay hidden in her mad ravings about the parentage of Carmen, and her confused, muttered references to Monsignor Lafelle, no one knew. But of those who stood about her bedside there was none who could gainsay the awed whisperings of the servants that this haughty leader of the great city’s aristocracy had passed from this life into the darkness beyond in pitiable misery and terror.

The news of his mother’s death had come at a time when the boy was wild with delirium, at an hour when Waite, and Hitt, and Carmen stood with him in his room and strove to close their ears against the shrieking of the demon that was tearing him. Hitt at once called up Willett, and asked for instructions. A few minutes later came the message that the Ames house was forever barred against the wayward son. And it was not until this bright winter morning, when the lad again sat clothed and in his right mind, that Carmen had gently broken the news to him.

“I never knew her,” the boy had said at length, rousing from his meditations. “Few of the rich people’s children know their parents. I was brought up by nurses and tutors. I never knew what it was to put my arms around my mother, and kiss her. I used to long to, at times. And often I would plan to surprise her by suddenly running into her arms and embracing her. But then, when I would see her, she was always so far away, so cold, so beautifully dressed. And she seldom spoke to me, or to Kathleen, until we were grown up. And by that time I was running wild. And then––then––”

“There!” admonished Carmen, reaching over and taking his hand. “That’s in our little private cemetery, you know. The old error is dead, and we are not going to dig it up and rehearse it, are we?”

He smiled wanly. “I’m like a little baby,” he said sadly. 122 “I’m just beginning to live. And you are my mother, the only one I’ve ever known.”

Carmen laughed merrily. “Let me be your sister,” she said. “We are so near of an age, you know.”

He raised her hand to his lips. “You are my angel,” he murmured. “My bright, beautiful angel. What would I have been without you!”

“Now, Sidney!” she warned, holding up a finger. “What have I told you so often that Jesus said? ‘Of mine own self I can do nothing.’ Nor can I, Sidney dear. It was––” her voice sank to a whisper––“it was the Christ-principle. It worked through him as a channel; and it worked through me.”

“You’re going to teach me all about that,” he said, again pressing her hand to his lips. “You won’t cast me adrift yet, will you, little sister?”

“Cast you adrift! Never, Sidney dear! Why, you’re still mine, you know! I haven’t given you back to yourself yet, have I? But now let’s talk about your work. If you want to write, you are going to, and you are going to write right.”

“And you, Carmen?” he asked, wondering.

“Back to the Express,” she said lightly. “I haven’t written a word for it now for a month. And how dear, funny old Ned has scolded!”

“You––you dropped everything––your work––all––for a poor, worthless hulk like me,” he sighed. “I––I can’t understand it. You didn’t know me, hardly.”

“Sidney dear,” the girl replied. “It wasn’t for you. It was for God. Everything I do is ‘as unto Him.’ I would have done the same for anybody, whether I knew the person or not. I saw, not you, but the human need––oh, such a need! And the Christ-principle made me a human channel for meeting it, that is all. Drop my work, and my own interests! Why, Sidney, what is anything compared with meeting human needs? Didn’t Jesus drop everything and hurry out to meet the sick and the suffering? Was money-making, or society, or personal desire, or worldly pleasure anything to him when he saw a need? You don’t seem to understand that this is what I am here for––to show what love will do.”

“No,” he murmured. “I––I guess I know only the world’s idea of love.”

“And that is love’s counterfeit, self-love, sentimentalism, sex-mesmerism, and all that,” she added. “But now, back to your work again. You’re going to write, write, write! My, but the world is hungry for real literature! Your yearning to meet that need is a sign of your ability to do it. But, remember, everything that comes to you comes from within. 123 You are, in fact, a miner; and your mine is your mind; and that is unlimited, for God is the only mind, infinite and omnipresent. Now you are going to mine that mind.

“Listen,” she went on hurriedly. “Don’t be afraid to be afraid. We never fear a real thing; we fear only our false thoughts of things. Always those thoughts are absolutely wrong, and we wake up and find that we were fearing only fear-thoughts themselves. Haven’t you ever noticed it? Now destroy the chains of fear which limit your thought, and God will issue!

“Well,” without waiting for his reply, “now you have reached that plane of thought where you don’t really care for what the world has to offer you. You have ceased to want to be rich, or famous. You are not afraid to be obscure and poor. You have learned, at least in part, that the real business of this life lies in seeking good, in manifesting and expressing it in every walk, and in reflecting it constantly to your fellow-men. Having learned that, you are ready to live. Remember, there is no luck, no such thing as chance. The cause of everything that can possibly come to you lies within yourself. It is a function of your thought. The thought that you allow to enter your mentality and become active there, later becomes externalized. Be, oh, so careful, then, about your thought, and the basis upon which it rests! For, in your writing, you have no right to inflict false thought upon your credulous fellow-mortals.”

“But,” he replied, “we are told that in literature we must deal with human realities, and with things as they are. The human mind exists, and has to be dealt with.”

“The human mind does not exist, Sidney, except as supposition. There are no human realities. The world still awaits the one who will show it things as they really are. Human realities, so-called, are the horrible, ghastly unrealities of carnal thought, without any basis of the divine Christ-principle. I know, we are told that the great books of the world are those which preserve and interpret its life. Alas! is it true greatness to detail, over and over again in endless recital, the carnal motives of the human mind, its passions and errors, its awful mesmerism, its final doom? Yes, perhaps, on one condition: that, like a true critic, you picture human concepts only to show their unreality, their nothingness, and to show how they may be overcome.”

“But most books––”

“Ah, yes, most books are written only to amuse the dispirited human mind for a brief hour, to make it forget for a moment its troubles. They are literary narcotics; they are 124 sops to jaded appetites, that’s all. A book, for example, that pictures an injured man discovering a great treasure, and then using it to carry out his schemes of revenge––well, what influence for good has such a work? It is only a stimulus to evil, Sidney. But had it shown him using that great wealth to bless his persecutors and turn them from their mesmerism to real life and good––”

“Such things don’t happen in this world, Carmen.”

“But they could, and should, Sidney dear. And they will, some day. Then will come the new literature, the literature of good! And it will make people think, rather than relieve them from the ennui of solid thought, as our present novels do. The intellectual palate then will find only insipidity in such books as pour from our presses now. The ability to converse glibly about authors who wallow in human unrealities will then no longer be considered the hall-mark of culture. Culture in that day will be conformity to truth.”

The lad smiled at the enthusiastic girl. “Little sister,” he said, “you are a beautiful idealist.”

“But,” came her quick reply, “are you not a living illustration of the practicability of my idealism, Sidney?”

The boy choked, and tears filled his eyes. Carmen stole an arm about him. “The most practical man who ever lived, Sidney dear, was Jesus. And he was the greatest idealist. He had ideas that differed very radically from other people’s, but he did not hide them for fear of giving offense. He was not afraid to shock people with the truth about themselves. He tore down, yes; but he then reconstructed, and on a foundation of demonstrable truth. He was not afraid to defy the Rabbis, the learned, and the puffed-up. He did not bow abjectly before the mandarins and pedagogues. Had he done so, and given the people what they wanted and were accustomed to, they would have made him a king––and his mission would have been a dead failure!”

“And for that they slew him,” returned the boy.

“It is the cowardly fear of slaughter, Sidney, that keeps people from coming out and standing for what they know to be right to-day. You are not one of those cravens.”

“But the people who do that, Carmen, are called demagogues and muck-rakers!”

She laughed. “And the muck-rakers, Sidney, have made a sorry mess, haven’t they? They destroy without ruth, but seldom, if ever, put forth a sane suggestion for the betterment of conditions. They traffic in sensationalism, carping criticism, and abuse. ‘To find fault,’ said Demosthenes, ‘is easy, and in every man’s power; but to point out the proper remedy is the 125 proof of a wise counselor.’ The remedy which I point out, Sidney, is the Christ-principle; and all I ask is that mankind seek to demonstrate it, even as Jesus bade us do. He was a success, Sidney, the greatest success the world has ever known. And why? Because he followed ideals with utter loyalty––because he voiced truth without fear––because he made his business the service of humanity. He took his work seriously, not for money, not for human preferment, but for mankind. And his work bears the stamp of eternity.”

“I’m afraid––” he began.

“You’re not afraid, Sidney!” the girl quickly interrupted. “Oh, why does the human mind always look for and expect that which it does not want to see come or happen!”

The boy laughed heartily at the quick sally of her delightfully quotidian thought. “You didn’t let me finish,” he said. “I was going to say that I’m afraid if I write and speak only of spiritual things I shall not be understood by the world, nor even given a hearing.”

“Well, don’t use that word ‘afraid.’ My! how the human mind clings to everything, even words, that express its chief bogy, fear.”

“All right; I accept the rebuke. But, my question?”

“That was the case with Jesus. And yet, has anything, written or spoken, ever endured as his spiritual teachings? The present-day novel or work of fiction is as fleeting as the human thought it attempts to crystallize. Of the millions of books published, a handful endure. Those are they which illustrate the triumph of good over evil in human thought. And the greatest of such books is the Bible.”

“Well, I’m hunting for a subject now.”

“Don’t hunt. Wait––and know! The subject will then choose you. It will pelt you. It will drive you to the task of transcribing it. Just as one is now driving me. Sidney––perhaps I can give you the subject! Perhaps I am the channel for this, too!”

He looked at her inquisitively. “Well,” bending over closer to her, “what is it, little sister?”

The girl looked out over the dripping shrubs and the soft snow. But her thought was not there. She saw a man, a priest, she knew not where, but delving, plodding, digging for the truth which the human mind has buried under centuries and centuries of material dÉbris. She saw him, patiently bearing his man-made burden, striving to shield a tender, abandoned girl, and to transfer to her his own great worldly knowledge, but without its dross. She saw the mighty sacrifice, when the man tore her from himself, and thrust her out beyond 126 the awful danger in which he dwelt. She understood now. The years had taught her much. It was love––aye, the love that alone makes men great, the love that lays down human life in self-immolating service.

She turned to the waiting lad. “You will write it, Sidney? I will tell you the whole beautiful story. It is an illustration of the way love works through human channels. And perhaps––perhaps, some day, the book may reach him––yes, some day. And it will tell him––oh, Sidney, it will tell him that I know, and that I love him, love him, love him!”

In the office of the manager of the Express three heads were close together that morning, and three faces bore outward evidence of the serious thought within.

“Miss Wall tells me, Ned,” Hitt was saying, “that her father used to be associated with Ames, and that, at his demise, he left his estate, badly entangled, for Ames to settle. Now it transpires that Ames has been cunning enough to permit Miss Wall to draw upon his bank almost without limit, he making up any deficit with his own personal notes.”

“Ah!” commented Haynerd. “I think I see the shadow of his fine hand!”

“And now,” resumed Hitt, “she is given to understand that Ames has been obliged by the bank examiner to withdraw his personal notes as security for her deficits, and that the revenue from her estate must be allowed to accrue to the benefit of the Ames bank until such time as all obligations are met.”

“Beautiful!” ejaculated Haynerd. “In other words, Elizabeth is simply cut off!”

“Just so. And now, another thing: Madam Beaubien’s lawyer called on her to-day, and informed her that Hood had gone into court and secured an injunction, tying up all revenue from her estate until it can be unraveled. That cuts off her income, likewise.”

Haynerd whistled. “The hound!” he ejaculated. “Ames is out to do up the Express, eh?”

“There is no doubt of it, Ned,” returned Hitt seriously. “And to utterly ruin all connected with it.”

“Then, by God, we’ll fight him to the last ditch!” cried the excited Haynerd.

“I think you forget, Ned, that we have a lady with us,” nodding toward Miss Wall, “and that you are seriously trying to reform, for Carmen’s sake.”

“I beg your pardon, Elizabeth,” said Haynerd meekly. “I really am trying to be decent, you know. But when I think of Ames it’s like a red rag to a bull!”

Miss Wall laughed. “Never mind, Ned. I admire your fighting spirit.”

“Of course,” Hitt continued, “oil still flows from our paternal wells. But in order to raise money at once I shall be obliged either to sell my oil holdings or mortgage them. They have got to take care of us all now, including Madam Beaubien.”

“Where’s Carmen?” asked Haynerd suddenly.

“Home, with Sidney. There’s another anomaly: while Ames is trying to ruin us, that girl is saving his son. Great world, isn’t it?”

“It’s a hell of a world!” cried Haynerd. “I––I beg your pardon, Elizabeth. The fact is, either you or I will have to retire from this meeting, for I’m getting mad. I––I may say things yet!”

“Say anything you want to, Ned. I like to hear your sulphurous language to-day. It helps to express my own feelings,” replied the woman.

“The circulation of the Express,” Hitt went on, “is entirely artificial. Our expense is tremendous, and our revenue slight. And still Carmen insists on branching out and putting into practical form her big ideas. Limitation is a word that is not in her vocabulary!”

“Hitt, can’t we fight Ames with his own fire? What about that Wales affair?”

“Ames is very cunning,” answered Hitt. “When he learned that the cotton schedule had been altered in the Ways and Means Committee, he promptly closed down his Avon mills. That was to scare Congress. Then he resumed, but on half time. That was a plea of distress. I presume he will later return to full time, but with a reduced scale of wages. He’s trying to coerce Congress. Now how does he intend to do it? This way: he will force a strike at Avon––a February strike––four thousand hands out in the cold. Meantime, he’ll influence every other spinner in the country to do likewise. They’ll all follow his lead. Now, can Congress stand up against that sort of argument? And, besides, he will grease the palms of a large number of our dignified statesmen, you may be sure!”

“Mr. Hitt,” said Miss Wall, “I suggest that you send Carmen to Avon at once. I know of no one who can get to the bottom of things as she can. Let her collect the facts regarding the situation down there, and then––”

“Send her first to Washington!” interrupted Haynerd. “Have her hang around the lobbies of the Capitol for a while, and meet a lot of those old sap-heads. What information she won’t succeed in worming out of them isn’t in ’em, that’s all!”

“But,” objected Hitt, “if she knew that we would use her information for a personal attack upon Ames, she’d leave us.”

“There’s no objection to her getting the facts, anyway, is there?” demanded Haynerd, waxing hot again.

“N––no, I suppose not. But that will take additional money. Very well, I’ll do it. I’ll put a mortgage on my Ohio holdings at once.”

“I don’t think I would be afraid,” suggested Miss Wall. “We might not use the information Carmen may collect in Avon or Washington, but something, I am sure, is bound to come out of it. Something always comes out of what she does. She’s the greatest asset the Express has. We must use her.”

“All well and good,” put in Haynerd. “And yet, if she finds anybody down there who needs help, even the President himself, she’ll throw the Express to the winds, just as she did in Sidney’s case. You can’t bank on her!”

“No, that’s true, Ned, for while we preach she’s off somewhere practicing. We evolve great truths, and she applies and demonstrates them. But she has saved Sidney––her Christ did it through her. And she has given the lad to us, a future valuable man.”

“Sure––if we are to have any future,” growled Ned.

“See here,” retorted Hitt, brindling, “have we in our numerous gatherings at Madam Beaubien’s spoken truth or nonsense? If you believe our report, then accept and apply it. Now who’s to go to Avon with Carmen?”

“Sidney,” suggested Miss Wall.

“Sid?” exclaimed Haynerd. “Huh! Why, if those Magyars down there discovered he was Ames’s son, they’d eat him alive!”

The telephone rang. Hitt answered the call. Then, turning to his companions:

“Waite says he wants a meeting to-night. He’d like to report on his research work. Guess we’d better call it. I’ll inform Morton. No telling when we may get together again, if the girl––” He became suddenly silent, and sat some time looking vacantly out through the window.

“She goes to Avon to-morrow,” he abruptly announced, “alone.” His thought had been dwelling on that ‘something not ourselves’ which he knew was shielding and sustaining the girl.