Tom Duffan's cabinet-pictures are charming bits of painting; but you would cease to wonder how he caught such delicate home touches if you saw the room he painted in; for Tom has a habit of turning his wife's parlor into a studio, and both parlor and pictures are the better for the habit.

One bright morning in the winter of 1872 he had got his easel into a comfortable light between the blazing fire and the window, and was busily painting. His cheery little wife—pretty enough in spite of her thirty-seven years—was reading the interesting items in the morning papers to him, and between them he sung softly to himself the favorite tenor song of his favorite opera. But the singing always stopped when the reading began; and so politics and personals, murders and music, dramas and divorces kept continually interrupting the musical despair of "Ah! che la morte ognora."

But even a morning paper is not universally interesting, and in the very middle of an elaborate criticism on tragedy and Edwin Booth, the parlor door partially opened, and a lovelier picture than ever Tom Duffan painted stood in the aperture—a piquant, brown-eyed girl, in a morning gown of scarlet opera flannel, and a perfect cloud of wavy black hair falling around her.

"Mamma, if anything on earth can interest you that is not in a newspaper, I should like to know whether crimps or curls are most becoming with my new seal-skin set."

"Ask papa."

"If I was a picture, of course papa would know; but seeing I am only a poor live girl, it does not interest him."

"Because, Kitty, you never will dress artistically."

"Because, papa, I must dress fashionably. It is not my fault if artists don't know the fashions. Can't I have mamma for about half an hour?"

"When she has finished this criticism of Edwin Booth. Come in, Kitty; it will do you good to hear it."

"Thank you, no, papa; I am going to Booth's myself to-night, and I prefer to do my own criticism." Then Kitty disappeared, Mrs. Duffan skipped a good deal of criticism, and Tom got back to his "Ah! che la morte ognora" much quicker than the column of printed matter warranted.

"Well, Kitty child, what do you want?"

"See here."

"Tickets for Booth's?"

"Parquette seats, middle aisle; I know them. Jack always does get just about the same numbers."

"Jack? You don't mean to say that Jack Warner sent them?"

Kitty nodded and laughed in a way that implied half a dozen different things.

"But I thought that you had positively refused him, Kitty?"

"Of course I did mamma—I told him in the nicest kind of way that we must only be dear friends, and so on."

"Then why did he send these tickets?"

"Why do moths fly round a candle? It is my opinion both moths and men enjoy burning."

"Well, Kitty, I don't pretend to understand this new-fashioned way of being 'off' and 'on' with a lover at the same time. Did you take me from papa simply to tell me this?"

"No; I thought perhaps you might like to devote a few moments to papa's daughter. Papa has no hair to crimp and no braids to make. Here are all the hair-pins ready, mamma, and I will tell you about Sarah Cooper's engagement and the ridiculous new dress she is getting."

It is to be supposed the bribe proved attractive enough, for Mrs. Duffan took in hand the long tresses, and Kitty rattled away about wedding dresses and traveling suits and bridal gifts with as much interest as if they were the genuine news of life, and newspaper intelligence a kind of grown-up fairy lore.

But anyone who saw the hair taken out of crimps would have said it was worth the trouble of putting it in; and the face was worth the hair, and the hair was worth the exquisite hat and the rich seal-skins and the tantalizing effects of glancing silk and beautiful colors. Depend upon it, Kitty Duffan was just as bright and bewitching a life-sized picture as anyone could desire to see; and Tom Duff an thought so, as she tripped up to the great chair in which he was smoking and planning subjects, for a "good-by" kiss.

"I declare, Kitty! Turn round, will you? Yes, I declare you are dressed in excellent taste. All the effects are good. I wouldn't have believed it."

"Complimentary, papa. But 'I told you so.' You just quit the antique, and take to studying Harper's Bazar for effects; then your women will look a little more natural."

"Natural? Jehoshaphat! Go way, you little fraud!"

"I appeal to Jack. Jack, just look at the women in that picture of papa's, with the white sheets draped about them. What do they look like?"

"Frights, Miss Kitty."

"Of course they do. Now, papa."

"You two young barbarians!" shouted Tom, in a fit of laughter; for Jack and Kitty were out in the clear frosty air by this time, with the fresh wind at their backs, and their faces steadily set toward the busy bustle and light of Broadway. They had not gone far when Jack said, anxiously, "You haven't thought any better of your decision last Friday night, Kitty, I am afraid."

"Why, no, Jack. I don't see how I can, unless you could become an Indian Commissioner or a clerk of the Treasury, or something of that kind. You know I won't marry a literary man under any possible circumstances. I'm clear on that subject, Jack."

"I know all about farming, Kitty, if that would do."

"But I suppose if you were a farmer, we should have to live in the country. I am sure that would not do."

Jack did not see how the city and farm could be brought to terms; so he sighed, and was silent.

Kitty answered the sigh. "No use in bothering about me, Jack. You ought to be very glad I have been so honest. Some girls would have 'risked you, and in a week, you'd have been just as miserable!"

"You don't dislike me, Kitty?"

"Not at all. I think you are first-rate."

"It is my profession, then?"

"Exactly."

"Now, what has it ever done to offend you?"

"Nothing yet, and I don't mean it ever shall. You see, I know Will Hutton's wife: and what that woman endures! Its just dreadful."

"Now, Kitty!"

"It is Jack. Will reads all his fine articles to her, wakes her up at nights to listen to some new poem, rushes away from the dinner table to jot down what he calls 'an idea,' is always pointing out 'splendid passages' to her, and keeps her working just like a slave copying his manuscripts and cutting newspapers to pieces. Oh, it is just dreadful!"

"But she thoroughly enjoys it."

"Yes, that is such a shame. Will has quite spoiled her. Lucy used to be real nice, a jolly, stylish girl. Before she was married she was splendid company; now, you might just as well mope round with a book."

"Kitty, I'd promise upon my honor—at the altar, if you like—never to bother you with anything I write; never to say a word about my profession."

"No, no, sir! Then you would soon be finding some one else to bother, perhaps some blonde, sentimental, intellectual 'friend.' What is the use of turning a good-natured little thing like me into a hateful dog in the manger? I am not naturally able to appreciate you, but if you were mine, I should snarl and bark and bite at any other woman who was."

Jack liked this unchristian sentiment very much indeed. He squeezed Kitty's hand and looked so gratefully into her bright face that she was forced to pretend he had ruined her glove.

"I'll buy you boxes full, Kitty; and, darling, I am not very poor; I am quite sure I could make plenty of money for you."

"Jack, I did not want to speak about money; because, if a girl does not go into raptures about being willing to live on crusts and dress in calicos for love, people say she's mercenary. Well, then, I am mercenary. I want silk dresses and decent dinners and matinees, and I'm fond of having things regular; it's a habit of mine to like them all the time. Now I know literary people have spasms of riches, and then spasms of poverty. Artists are just the same. I have tried poverty occasionally, and found its uses less desirable than some people tell us they are."

"Have you decided yet whom and what you will marry, Kitty?"

"No sarcasm, Jack. I shall marry the first good honest fellow that loves me and has a steady business, and who will not take me every summer to see views."

"To see views?"

"Yes. I am sick to death of fine scenery and mountains, 'scarped and jagged and rifted,' and all other kinds. I've seen so many grand landscapes, I never want to see another. I want to stay at the Branch or the Springs, and have nice dresses and a hop every night. And you know papa will go to some lonely place, where all my toilettes are thrown away, and where there is not a soul to speak to but famous men of one kind or another."

Jack couldn't help laughing; but they were now among the little crush that generally gathers in the vestibule of a theatre, and whatever he meant to say was cut in two by a downright hearty salutation from some third party.

"Why, Max, when did you get home?"

"To-day's steamer." Then there were introductions and a jingle of merry words and smiles that blended in Kitty's ears with the dreamy music, the rustle of dresses, and perfume of flowers, and the new-comer was gone.

But that three minutes' interview was a wonderful event to Kitty Duffan, though she did not yet realize it. The stranger had touched her as she had never been touched before. His magnetic voice called something into being that was altogether new to her; his keen, searching gray eyes claimed what she could neither understand nor withhold. She became suddenly silent and thoughtful; and Jack, who was learned in love lore, saw in a moment that Kitty had fallen in love with his friend Max Raymond.

It gave him a moment's bitter pang; but if Kitty was not for him, then he sincerely hoped Max might win her. Yet he could not have told whether he was most pleased or angry when he saw Max Raymond coolly negotiate a change of seats with the gentleman on Kitty's right hand, and take possession of Kitty's eyes and ears and heart. But there is a great deal of human nature in man, and Jack behaved, upon the whole, better than might have been expected.

For once Kitty did not do all the talking. Max talked, and she listened; Max gave opinions, and she indorsed them; Max decided, and she submitted. It was not Jack's Kitty at all. He was quite relieved when she turned round in her old piquant way and snubbed him.

But to Kitty it was a wonderful evening—those grand old Romans walking on and off the stage, the music playing, the people applauding and the calm, stately man on her right hand explaining this and that, and looking into her eyes in such a delicious, perplexing way that past and present were all mingled like the waving shadows of a wonderful dream.

She was in love's land for about three hours; then she had to come back into the cold frosty air, the veritable streets, and the unmistakable stone houses. But it was hardest of all to come back and be the old radiant, careless Kitty.

"Well, pussy, what of the play?" asked Tom Duffan; "you cut –'s criticism short this morning. Now, what is yours?"

"Oh, I don't know papa. The play was Shakespeare's, and Booth and Barrett backed him up handsomely."

"Very fine criticism indeed, Kitty. I wish Booth and Barrett could hear it."

"I wish they could; but I am tired to death now. Good night, papa; good night, mamma. I'll talk for twenty in the morning."

"What's the matter with Kitty, mother?"

"Jack Warner, I expect."

"Hum! I don't think so."

"Men don't know everything, Tom."

"They don't know anything about women; their best efforts in that line are only guesses at truth."

"Go to bed, Tom Duffan; you are getting prosy and ridiculous. Kitty will explain herself in the morning."

But Kitty did not explain herself, and she daily grew more and more inexplicable. She began to read: Max brought the books, and she read them. She began to practice: Max liked music, and wanted to sing with her. She stopped crimping her hair: Max said it was unnatural and inartistic. She went to scientific lectures and astronomical lectures and literary societies: Max took her.

Tom Duffan did not quite like the change, for Tom was of that order of men who love to put their hearts and necks under a pretty woman's foot. He had been so long used to Kitty dominant, to Kitty sarcastic, to Kitty willful, to Kitty absolute, that he could not understand the new Kitty.

"I do not think our little girl is quite well, mother," he said one day, after studying his daughter reading the Endymion without a yawn.

"Tom, if you can't 'think' to better purpose, you had better go on painting. Kitty is in love."

"First time I ever saw love make a woman studious and sensible."

"They are uncommon symptoms; nevertheless, Kitty's in love. Poor child!"

"With whom?"

"Max Raymond;" and the mother dropped her eyes upon the ruffle she was pleating for Kitty's dress, while Tom Duffan accompanied the new-born thought with his favorite melody.

Thus the winter passed quickly and happily away. Greatly to Kitty's delight, before its close Jack found the "blonde, sentimental, intellectual friend," who could appreciate both him and his writings; and the two went to housekeeping in what Kitty called "a large dry-goods box." The merry little wedding was the last event of a late spring, and when it was over the summer quarters were an imperative question.

"I really don't know what to do, mother," said Tom. "Kitty vowed she would not go to the Peak this year, and I scarcely know how to get along without it."

"Oh, Kitty will go. Max Raymond has quarters at the hotel lower down."

"Oh, oh! I'll tease the little puss."

"You will do nothing of the kind, Tom, unless you want to go to Cape May or the Branch. They both imagine their motives undiscovered; but you just let Kitty know that you even suspect them, and she won't stir a step in your direction."

Here Kitty, entering the room, stopped the conversation. She had a pretty lawn suit on, and a Japanese fan in her hand. "Lawn and fans, Kitty," said Tom: "time to leave the city. Shall we go to the Branch, or Saratoga?"

"Now, papa, you know you are joking; you always go to the Peak."

"But I am going with you to the seaside this summer, Kitty. I wish my little daughter to have her whim for once."

"You are better than there is any occasion for, papa. I don't want either the Branch or Saratoga this year. Sarah Cooper is at the Branch with her snobby little husband and her extravagant toilettes; I'm not going to be patronized by her. And Jack and his learned lady are at Saratoga. I don't want to make Mrs. Warner jealous, but I'm afraid I couldn't help it. I think you had better keep me out of temptation."

"Where must we go, then?"

"Well, I suppose we might as well go to the Peak. I shall not want many new dresses there; and then, papa, you are so good to me all the time, you deserve your own way about your holiday."

And Tom Duffan said, "Thank you, Kitty," in such a peculiar way that Kitty lost all her wits, blushed crimson, dropped her fan, and finally left the room with the lamest of excuses. And then Mrs. Duffan said, "Tom, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! If men know a thing past ordinary, they must blab it, either with a look or a word or a letter; I shouldn't wonder if Kitty told you to-night she was going to the Branch, and asked you for a $500 check—serve you right, too."

But if Kitty had any such intentions, Max Raymond changed them. Kitty went very sweetly to the Peak, and two days afterward Max Raymond, straying up the hills with his fishing rod, strayed upon Tom Duffan, sketching. Max did a great deal of fishing that summer, and at the end of it Tom Duffan's pretty daughter was inextricably caught. She had no will but Max's will, and no way but his way. She had promised him never to marry any one but him; she had vowed she would love him, and only him, to the end of her life.

All these obligations without a shadow or a doubt from the prudent little body. Yet she knew nothing of Max's family or antecedents; she had taken his appearance and manners, and her father's and mother's respectful admission of his friendship, as guarantee sufficient. She remembered that Jack, that first night in the theatre, had said something about studying law together; and with these items, and the satisfactory fact that he always had plenty of money, Kitty had given her whole heart, without conditions and without hostages.

Nor would she mar the placid measure of her content by questioning; it was enough that her father and mother were satisfied with her choice. When they returned to the city, congratulations, presents and preparations filled every hour. Kitty's importance gave her back a great deal of her old dictatorial way. In the matter of toilettes she would not suffer even Max to interfere. "Results were all men had to do with," she said; "everything was inartistic to them but a few yards of linen and a straight petticoat."

Max sighed over the flounces and flutings and lace and ribbons, and talked about "unadorned beauty;" and then, when Kitty exhibited results, went into rhapsodies of wonder and admiration. Kitty was very triumphant in those days, but a little drop of mortification was in store for her. She was exhibiting all her pretty things one day to a friend, whose congratulations found their climax in the following statement:

"Really, Kitty, a most beautiful wardrobe! and such an extraordinary piece of luck for such a little scatter-brain as you! Why, they do say that Mr. Raymond's last book is just wonderful."

"Mr. Raymond's last book!" And Kitty let the satin-lined morocco case, with all its ruby treasures, fall from her hand.

"Why, haven't you read it, dear? So clever, and all that, dear."

Kitty had tact enough to turn the conversation; but just as soon as her visitor had gone, she faced her mother, with blazing eyes and cheeks, and said, "What is Max's business—a lawyer?"

"Gracious, Kitty! What's the matter? He is a scientist, a professor, and a great—"

"Writer?"

"Yes."

"Writes books and magazine articles and things?"

"Yes."

Kitty thought profoundly for a few moments, and then said, "I thought so. I wish Jack Warner was at home."

"What for?"

"Only a little matter I should like to have out with him; but it will keep."

Jack, however, went South without visiting New York, and when he returned, pretty Kitty Duffan had been Mrs. Max Raymond for two years. His first visit was to Tom Duffan's parlor-studio. He was painting and singing and chatting to his wife as usual. It was so like old times that Jack's eyes filled at the memory when he asked where and how was Mrs. Raymond.

"Oh, the professor had bought a beautiful place eight miles from the city. Kitty and he preferred the country. Would he go and see them?"

Certainly Jack would go. To tell the truth, he was curious to see what other miracles matrimony had wrought upon Kitty. So he went, and came back wondering.

"Really, dear," says Mrs. Jack Warner, the next day, "how does the professor get along with that foolish, ignorant little wife of his?"

"Get along with her? Why, he couldn't get along without her! She sorts his papers, makes his notes and quotations, answers his letters, copies his manuscripts, swears by all he thinks and says and does, through thick and thin, by day and night. It's wonderful, by Jove! I felt spiteful enough to remind her that she had once vowed that nothing on earth should ever induce her to marry a writer."

"What did she say?"

"She turned round in her old saucy manner, and answered, 'Jack Warner, you are as dark as ever. I did not marry the writer, I married the man.' Then I said, 'I suppose all this study and reading and writing is your offering toward the advancement of science and social regeneration?'"

"What then?"

"She laughed in a very provoking way, and said, 'Dark again, Jack; it is a labor of love.'"

"Well I never!"

"Nor I either."

THE HARVEST OF THE WIND

Chapter I

"As a city broken down and without walls, so is he that hath no rule over his own spirit."

"My soul! Master Jesus, my soul!
My soul!
Dar's a little thing lays in my heart,
An' de more I dig him de better he spring:
My soul!
Dar's a little thing lays in my heart
An' he sets my soul on fire:
My soul!
Master Jesus, my soul! my soul!"

The singer was a negro man, with a very, black but very kindly face; and he was hoeing corn in the rich bottom lands of the San Gabriel river as he chanted his joyful little melody. It was early in the morning, yet he rested on his hoe and looked anxiously toward the cypress swamp on his left hand.

"I'se mighty weary 'bout Massa Davie; he'll get himself into trouble ef he stay dar much longer. Ole massa might be 'long most any time now." He communed with himself in this strain for about five minutes, and then threw his hoe across his shoulder, and picked a road among the hills of growing corn until he passed out of the white dazzling light of the field into the grey-green shadows of the swamp. Threading his way among the still black bayous, he soon came to a little clearing in the cypress.

Here a young man was standing in an attitude of expectancy—a very handsome man clothed in the picturesque costume of a ranchero. He leaned upon his rifle, but betrayed both anger and impatience in the rapid switching to and fro of his riding-whip. "Plato, she has not come!" He said it reproachfully, as if the negro was to blame.

"I done tole you, Massa Davie, dat Miss Lulu neber do noffing ob dat kind; ole massa 'ticlarly objects to Miss Lulu seeing you at de present time."

"My father objects to every one I like."

"Ef Massa Davie jist 'lieve it, ole massa want ebery thing for his good."

"You oversize that statement considerably, Plato. Tell my father, if he asks you, that I am going with Jim Whaley, and give Miss Lulu this letter."

"I done promise ole massa neber to gib Miss Lulu any letter or message from you, Massa Davie."

In a moment the youth's handsome face was flaming with ungovernable passion, and he lifted his riding-whip to strike.

"For de Lord Jesus' sake don't strike, Massa Davie! Dese arms done carry you when you was de littlest little chile. Don't strike me!"

"I should be a brute if I did, Plato;" but the blow descended upon the trunk of the tree against which he had been leaning with terrible force. Then David Lorimer went striding through the swamp, his great bell spurs chiming to his uneven, crashing tread.

Plato looked sorrowfully after him. "Poor Massa Davie! He's got de drefful temper; got it each side ob de house—father and mother, bofe. I hope de good Massa above will make 'lowances for de young man—got it bofe ways, he did." And he went thoughtfully back to his work, murmuring hopes and apologies for the man he loved, with all the forgiving unselfishness of a prayer in them.

In some respects Plato was right. David Lorimer had inherited, both from father and mother, an unruly temper. His father was a Scot, dour and self-willed; his mother had been a Spanish woman, of San Antonio—a daughter of the grandee family of Yturris. Their marriage had not been a happy one, and the fiery emotional Southern woman had fretted her life away against the rugged strength of the will which opposed hers. David remembered his mother well, and idolized her memory; right or wrong, he had always espoused her quarrel, and when she died she left, between father and son, a great gulf.

He had been hard to manage then, but at twenty-two he was beyond all control, excepting such as his cousin, Lulu Yturri, exercised over him. But this love, the most pure and powerful influence he acknowledged, had been positively forbidden. The elder Lorimer declared that there had been too much Spanish blood in the family; and it is likely his motives commended themselves to his own conscience. It was certain that the mere exertion of his will in the matter gave him a pleasure he would not forego. Yet he was theoretically a religious man, devoted to the special creed he approved, and rigidly observing such forms of worship as made any part of it. But the law of love had never yet been revealed to him; he had feared and trembled at the fiery Mount of Sinai, but he had not yet drawn near to the tenderer influences of Calvary.

He was a rich man also. Broad acres waved with his corn and cotton, and he counted his cattle on the prairies by tens of thousands; but nothing in his mode of life indicated wealth. The log-house, stretching itself out under gigantic trees, was of the usual style of Texan architecture—broad passages between every room, sweeping from front to rear; and low piazzas, festooned with flowery vines, shading it on every side. All around it, under the live oaks, were scattered the negro cabins, their staring whitewash looking picturesque enough under the hanging moss and dark green foliage. But, simple as the house was, it was approached by lordly avenues, shaded with black-jack and sweet gum and chincapin, interwoven with superb magnolias and gorgeous tulip trees.

The Scot in a foreign country, too, often steadily cultivates his national peculiarities. James Lorimer was a Scot of this type. As far as it was possible to do so in that sunshiny climate, he introduced the grey, sombre influence of the land of mists and east winds. His household was ruled with stern gravity; his ranch was a model of good management; and though few affected his society, he was generally relied upon and esteemed; for, though opinionated, egotistical, and austere, there was about him a grand honesty and a sense of strength that would rise to every occasion.

And so great is the influence of any genuine nature, that David loved his father in a certain fashion. The creed he held was a hard one; but when he called his family and servants together, and unflinchingly taught it, David, even in his worst moods, was impressed with his sincerity and solemnity. There was between them plenty of ground on which they could have stood hand in hand, and learned to love one another; but a passionate authority on the one hand, and a passionate independence on the other, kept them far apart.

Shortly before my story opens there had been a more stubborn quarrel than usual, and James Lorimer had forbidden his son to enter his house until he chose to humble himself to his father's authority. Then David joined Jim Whaley, a great cattle drover, and in a week they were on the road to New Mexico with a herd of eight thousand.

This news greatly distressed James Lorimer. He loved his son better than he was aware of. There was a thousand deaths upon such a road; there was a moral danger in the companionship attending such a business, which he regarded with positive horror. The drove had left two days when he heard of its departure; but such droves travel slowly, and he could overtake it if he wished to do so. As he sat in the moonlight that night, smoking, he thought the thing over until he convinced himself that he ought to overtake it. Even if Davie would not return with him, he could tell him of his danger, and urge him to his duty and thus, at any rate, relieve his own conscience of a burden.

Arriving at this conclusion, he looked up and saw his niece Lulu leaning against one of the white pilasters supporting the piazza. He regarded her a moment curiously, as one may look at a lovely picture. The pale, sensitive face, the swaying, graceful figure, the flowing white robe, the roses at her girdle, were all sharply revealed by the bright moonlight, and nothing beautiful in them escaped his notice. He was just enough to admit that the temptation to love so fair a woman must have been a great one to David. He had himself fallen into just such a bewitching snare, and he believed it to be his duty to prevent a recurrence of his own married life at any sacrifice.

"Lulu!"

"Yes, uncle."

"Have you spoken with or written to Davie lately?"

"Not since you forbid me."

He said no more. He began wondering if, after all, the girl would not have been better than Jim Whaley. In a dim way it struck him that people for ever interfering with destiny do not always succeed in their intentions. It was an unusual and unpractical vein of thought for James Lorimer, and he put it uneasily away. Still over and over came back the question, "What if Lulu's influence would have been sufficient to have kept David from the wild reckless men with whom he was now consorting?" For the first time in his life he consciously admitted to himself that he might have made a mistake.

The next morning he was early in the saddle. The sky was blue and clear, the air full of the fresh odor of earth and clover and wild flowers. The swallows were making a jubilant twitter, the larks singing on the edge of the prairie—the glorious prairie, which the giants of the unflooded world had cleared off and leveled for the dwelling-place of Liberty. In his own way he enjoyed the scene; but he could not, as he usually did, let the peace of it sink into his heart. He had suddenly become aware that he had an unpleasant duty to perform, and to shirk a duty was a thing impossible to him. Until he had obeyed the voice of Conscience, all other voices would fail to arrest his interest or attention.

He rode on at a steady pace, keeping the track very easily, and thinking of Lulu in a persistent way that was annoying to him. Hitherto he had given her very little thought. Half reluctantly he had taken her into his household when she was four years of age, and she had grown up there with almost as little care as the vines which year by year clambered higher over the piazzas. As for her beauty he had thought no more of it than he did of the beauty of the magnolias which sheltered his doorstep. Mrs. Lorimer had loved her niece, and he had not interfered with the affection. They were both Yturris; it was natural that they should understand one another.

But his son was of a different race, and the inheritor of his own traditions and prejudices. A Scot from his own countryside had recently settled in the neighborhood, and at the Sabbath gathering he had seen and approved his daughter. To marry his son David to Jessie Kennedy appeared to him a most desirable thing, and he had considered its advantages until he could not bear to relinquish the idea. But when both fathers had settled the matter, David had met the question squarely, and declared he would marry no woman but his cousin Lulu. It was on this subject father and son had quarrelled and parted; but for all that, James Lorimer could not see his only son taking a high road to ruin, and not make an effort to save him.