handed him the money in silence, and waited till he had folded and
put away the bills. Then he said: "Charles, you was always the smart one
of the family, and ye'd be all right now if ye'd pass the booze and get
down to hard work. It's _time_ ye were off, for ye've done nothin' but
loaf and drink here. I've enjoyed your talk--part of the time; but I can
see ye'd grow onto me here like a wart, and that's bad for you and bad
for me, and so I'm glad ye're going."

"Can't you--" He was going to ask for a position--something easy with
big pay--when he saw that such a request would make his telegram a lie.

As he hesitated Mart continued: "No, I'll back no play for ye. I'm a
gambler, but I take no chances of that kind. If you see the old father,
write and tell me how he is."

Charles, though filled with rising fury, was sober enough to know in
what danger he stood, and forcing a smile to his face, shook hands and
went out to his carriage--alone.

As Mart met Bertha a few minutes later he remarked, with calm
directness: "There goes a cheap rounder and a sponge. I've been a
gambler and a saloon-keeper, but I never got the notion that I could
live without doin' something. Charles was a smart lad, but the divil has
him by the neck, and to give money is to give him drink."

Bertha remained silent, her own indictment was so much more severe.

CHAPTER VIII

BERTHA RECEIVES AN INVITATION

Colorado Springs lies in a shallow valley, under a genial sun, at almost
the exact level of the summit of Mt. Washington. From the railway train,
as it crawls over the hills to the east, it looks like a toy village,
but is, in fact, a busy little city. To ride along its wide and leafy
streets in summer, to breathe its crystalline airs in winter, is to lose
belief in the necessity of disease. The grave seems afar off.

And yet it was built, and is now supported, by those who, fearing death,
fled the lower, miasmatic levels of the world, and who, having abandoned
all hope (or desire) of return, are loyally developing and adorning
their adopted home. These fugitives are for the most part contented
exiles--men as well as women--who have come to enjoy their enforced stay
here beside the peaks; and their devotion to the town and its
surroundings is unmistakably sincere, for they believe that the climate
and the water have prolonged their lives.

Not all even of these seekers for health are ill, or even weakly, at
present; on the contra