dren were kissed good night--and at last he stood the rector's
cross-examination and had his name placed upon the register. It was a
hard struggle, but he weeded out his oaths until but one was left--a
bold "by the blood." He said that he would part even with this safety
valve but that it would require time; and it did. The Major believed in
the gradual moral improvement of mankind, but he swore that the world
intellectually was going to the devil. And for this conviction he had a
graded proof. "Listen to me a minute," he was wont to say. "I'll make it
clear to you. My grandfather was graduated with great honors from
Harvard, my father was graduated with honor, I got through all right,
but my son Tom failed."

CHAPTER II.

One hot afternoon the Major sat in his library. The doors were open and
a cool breeze, making the circuitous route of the passage ways, swept
through the room, bulging a newspaper which he held opened out in front
of him. He was scanning the headlines to catch the impulsive moods of
the world. The parlor was not far away, down the hall, and voices
reached him. And then there came the distressing hack, hack, of a hollow
cough. He put down the newspaper, got up, and slowly strode about the
room, not shaking with joviality as he walked. In the parlor the voices
were hushed, there was a long silence, and then came the hollow cough.
He sat down and again took up the newspaper, but the cough, hack, hack,
smote him like the recurrence of a distressing thought, and he crumpled
the paper and threw it upon the floor. Out in the yard a negro woman was
singing; far down the stream a steamboat whistled. And again came the
hollow cough. There was another long silence, and then he heard light
footsteps in the hall. A young woman halted at the door and stood
looking at him. Her face was pale and appeared thin, so eager was her
expression. She was slight and nervous.

"Well," he said. She smiled at him and said, "Well." Then she slowly
entered the room, and with a sigh took a seat near him. The cough from
the parlor was more distressful, and she looked at him, and in her eyes
was a beseeching sadness.

"Louise."

"Yes, sir."

"What did I tell you?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Don't say that, for you do know."

"You've told me so many things--"

"Yes, I know. But what did I tell you about Carl Pennington?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Yes you do. I told you that I didn't want him to come here. Didn't I?"