they ran into Henry Fenn, who in his free choice of a mate was
hurrying to one who he thought would give him a home--a home and
children, many children to stand between him and his own insatiate
devil. Henry greeted Grant:

"Why, boy--oh, yes, been to see Maggie? I wish she could help you,
Grant."

And from the veranda came a sweet, rich voice, crying:

"Yes, Henry--do you know where they can get a good nurse girl?"

CHAPTER XI

HERE OUR FOOL GROPES FOR A SPIRIT AND CAN FIND ONLY DUST

Henry Fenn and Margaret Mueller sat naming their wedding day, while Grant
Adams walked home with his burden. Henry Fenn had been fighting through
a long winter, against the lust for liquor that was consuming his flesh.
At times it seemed to him that her presence as he fought his battle,
helped him; but there were phases of his fight, when she too fashioned
herself in his imagination as a temptress, and she seemed to blow upon
the coals that were searing his weak flesh.

At such times he was taciturn, and went about his day's work as one who
is busy at a serious task. He smiled his amiable smile, he played his
man's part in the world without whimpering, and fought on like a
gentleman. The night he met Grant and the child at the steps of the
house where Margaret lived, he had called to set the day for their
marriage. And that night she glowed before him and in his arms like a
very brand of a woman blown upon by some wind from another world. When
he left her his throat grew parched and dry and his lips quivered with a
desire for liquor that seemed to simmer in his vitals. But he set his
teeth, and ran to his room, and locked himself in, throwing the key out
of the window into the yard. He sat shivering and whimpering and
fighting, by turns conquering his devil, and panting under its weight,
but always with the figure and face of his beloved in his eyes,
sometimes beckoning him to fight on, sometimes coaxing him to yield and
stop the struggle. But as the day came in he fell asleep with one more
battle to his credit.

In Harvey for many years Henry Fenn's name was a byword; but the pitying
angels who have seen him fight in the days of his strength and
manhood--they looked at Henry Fenn, and touched reverent foreheads in
his high honor. Then why did they who know our hearts so well, let the
blow fall upon him, you ask. But there you trespass upon that old
question that the Doctor and Amos Adams have thrashed out so long. Has