untry's future. He had come a long
way from the buoyant faith of '66, and the change in him was typical of
the change in the West--in America--and it produced in me a sense of
dismay, of rebellious bitterness. Why should our great new land fall
into this slough of discouragement?

My sympathy with the Alliance took on a personal tinge. My pride in my
own "success" sank away. How pitiful it all seemed in the midst of the
almost universal disappointment and suffering of the West! In the face
of my mother's need my resources were pitifully inadequate.

"I can't go up to see mother this time," I explained to my father, "but
I am coming out again this fall to speak in the campaign and I shall
surely run up and visit her then."

"I'll arrange for you to speak in Aberdeen," he said. "I'm on the County
Committee."

All the way back to Boston, and during the weeks of my work on my novel,
I pondered the significance of the spiritual change which had swept over
the whole nation--but above all others the problem of my father's
desperate attempt to retrieve his fortunes engaged my sympathy. "Unless
he gets a crop this year," I reported to my brother--"he is going to
need help. It fills me with horror to think of those old people spending
another winter out there on the plain."

My brother who was again engaged by Herne to play one of the leading
parts in _Shore Acres_ was beginning to see light ahead. His pay was not
large but he was saving a little of it and was willing to use his
savings to help me out in my plan of rescue. It was to be a rescue
although we were careful never to put it in that form in our letters to
the old pioneer.

* * * * *

Up to this month I had retained my position in the Boston School of
Oratory, but I now notified Brown that I should teach no more in his
school or any other school.

His big shoulders began to shake and a chuckle preceded his irritating
joke--"Going back to shingling?" he demanded.

"No," I replied, "I'm not going to shingle any more--except for exercise
after I get my homestead in the west--but I think--I'm not sure--I
_think_ I can make a living with my pen."

He became serious at this and said, "I'm sorry to have you go--but you
are entirely right. You have found your work and I give you my blessing
on it. But you must always count yourself one of my teachers and come
and speak for us whenever you can." This I promised to do and so we
parted.