Short Stories From Life

Lieutenant Ludwig Kreusler quickly scanned the pile of mail that had stacked up during the month the X-8 was away from base. At the bottom of the pile, he found the letter he had been looking for, and his eyes lit up. It was a thick envelope, addressed in a woman's handwriting, and it was originally mailed from Washington, D.C., U.S.A.

“Your Excellency will see you now, sir.” The orderly had entered quietly and stood at attention.

With a bit of an impatient shrug, the Lieutenant shoved the letters into his pocket and left the room.

He found Admiral Von Herpitz, the master of the sea, at his desk. As the young man walked in, the old Admiral stood up and approached him. This unexpected gesture of kindness made the young officer a bit uncomfortable until the old man, placing both large hands on his shoulders, looked him in the eyes.

“Awesome.”

The single word expressed a lot of praise and satisfaction. The old sailor was known to be a man of few words. Criticism came from him more often than compliments.

The Lieutenant couldn't find the right words. He felt extremely embarrassed by the situation. Like Herpitz, he was a man of action, and words just threw him off.

“These English,” the old Admiral said sternly, “we'll teach them a lesson. Have you seen the reports? There’s quite a bit of panic in America too over the Seronica. Two hundred of the lost passengers were American.”

A stack of papers was spread out on the table. Kreusler quickly went through them. The Berlin newspapers featured the sinking of the Seronica with huge headlines followed by columns of pure excitement. The publications from London, Paris, and some from New York labeled the act a crime and called the culprits pirates. But they all devoted significant attention to it. The X-8 had turned into the most feared vessel in the world. Berlin figuratively lifted her young captain onto her shoulders. He discovered he was the hero of the moment.

“You’ve done well for the country,” Von Herpitz repeated as the Lieutenant was leaving.

In his own cabin, Kreusler forgot the Seronica and the X-8. The hefty letter with the Washington postmark captured his attention.

For two years, until the start of the great war, Kreusler had been the naval attaché at the German embassy in Washington. He was well-liked in the social scene of the American capital. He was highly educated, a deep thinker, an original mind, and an engaging dinner guest. Dorothy Washburn, the youngest daughter of the Senator from Oregon, made her debut in Washington during Kreusler's second winter there. The two met and were complete opposites; he was tall, serious, blond, and contemplative, while she was petite, dark, lively, and full of life. Love was bound to happen.

The long letter was captivating. It absorbed every line, word, and syllable of the deep affection this amazing woman gave him. One paragraph was particularly stunning. It said:

“To be close to you, my love, I’ve arranged, with the kind help of our friends, to come to Berlin as a nurse. I’m not sure when exactly, but rest assured, I will come as soon as I can. Do you long to see me, my dearest, as much as I long to see you? Well, maybe it won’t be long now. Could you arrange to be wounded—just a little, of course, my love—so that I could take care of you?”

The letter concluded with heartfelt love notes and promises of loyalty. The final page had a single word, “Over,” and on the back, a woman’s most significant update, a postscript. This said:

“P. S. Everything is set. It’s all sorted out. Even my dad has agreed, knowing how much I love you. I’m leaving next week.”

And then:

“N. B. The ship I'm on is the Seronica.”

“Don’t worry,” said the renowned surgeon. “She’s going to be fine. She has a strong constitution.”

“She will be fine because you are in charge of the case,” the nurse whispered, with an appreciative look.

“She will make it,” agreed Reverend Paul Templeton, “because I will pray.”

He didn't notice the ironic look that exchanged between the nurse and the doctor, both materialists. He had bent down and kissed his wife, who was lying on the wheeled table meant to take her to the operating room. She was asleep, as the anesthetic had kicked in quickly.

For a moment, he hovered over her before stepping aside. Once the door of the operating room had closed behind the wheeled table covered with a sheet, he stepped out onto the small upper balcony under the stars, knelt down, and sincerely spoke to his Maker.

A distant clock chimed eight. The procedure would take an hour....

He prayed humbly, but with great confidence. He had lived a spotless life, and his efforts were for a life equally pure. It was unimaginable that someone who had given everything and asked for nothing should be denied this, his first request. It was even more unimaginable that his wife, who deserved forgiveness, should be condemned. He prayed humbly, but with the assurance of a supportive listener.

It was a lovely May night, smooth and fragrant with blossoms. The south wind was softly sharing secrets with the elms; the stars shone with incredible kindness. Surely God was in His heaven, thought the Reverend Paul Templeton.

Then, from the darkness under the trees, came the soft, exciting laugh of a girl. He lifted his face from his hands and stared, hardly breathing, into the night, while his ears still held onto every note of that soft, exciting laugh, which spoke of young love in the springtime.

The dark shape of the hospital behind him disappeared quickly, like a scene dimmed on a dark stage. He was no longer on a small upper porch, but in a quaint summer house, shielded from the unkind moon by a tangle of blooming honeysuckle. He was no longer kneeling before his Creator, but sitting next to the girl who had once been Ellen McCartney.

She was wearing white. She was so close he could feel her warmth. Somehow, in that darkness, their hands touched and held on, shoulders brushing against each other—the scent of her hair filled his nose. The gentle, feminine softness of her body.

Now her palms were resting against his cheeks, drawing his head down; now, as gently as a butterfly on a flower, her lips brushed his one closed eye and then the other; now she laughed, a soft, exciting laugh, that expressed youth in love during springtime.

Prayer had lost its power, suffocated by the lush growth of memories. He recalled other kisses and shared in the joy of times gone by...

The distant clock struck nine, but he didn’t hear it. The scream of a woman in pain cut through the silence but couldn’t break through the walls of his dream. The girl who had been Ellen McCartney lay in his arms, her lips against his.

Then a hand landed on his shoulder.

“Come,” said the nurse, and went back into the room.

The Reverend Paul Templeton snapped back to reality, and a wave of horror rushed through him like a burning poison. It was over—and he hadn't prayed! And even worse! When he should have been humbly praying, he had let his thoughts strut around, recalling memories that were, at best, silly and, at worst—shameful! He thought he heard a voice saying:

“I am the Lord of Revenge. My hand is heavy against those who disrespect Me!”

Mastered by despair, he clung to the iron railing. What could he expect from science when he had failed in his duty to faith? Somehow, he managed to struggle to his feet and make it to the room.

The figure covered by the sheets on the bed was completely still, the face paler than the pillow beneath it. He sank down next to her and buried his face, too overwhelmed with shame to cry. He knew with a terrible certainty that she was dead and that he had caused her death.

And then:

"Paul!"

It was just a faint sound, barely noticeable as human speech. He raised his head and looked into the face of the renowned surgeon.... He was smiling.

"Paul!"

He looked at the pale face of his wife ... and she was smiling.

“There, there,” said the great surgeon. “I told you she would come back. Her health——”

“Constitution!” the nurse scoffed. “It was you.”

“Or,” the surgeon smiled generously, “your prayers, sir.”

But the sick woman shook her head.

“No,” she said, “it wasn’t any of those things. I came back when I remembered——”

“Paul,” she whispered, “lean in.”

He complied. Her hands fluttered against his cheeks, and, as delicately as a butterfly on a flower, her lips brushed against his closed eye and then the other. And then the girl who had been Ellen McCartney laughed a soft, exciting laugh that captured the spirit of youth in love during springtime.

The empty vial—the smell of bitter almonds—and in the chair what used to be a man.

This note is on the desk:

“Goodbye. Ever since we got married, I've known. I love you. I love my friend. It's better for me to step away so you both can find happiness than for me to stay and for the three of us to be unhappy together. Once more, goodbye—and take care.”

“Robert.”

“And Solomon had seven hundred wives,” read Pastor Brandt.

Gretchen Edeler sat up to listen. A new idea had come to her. There was a troubling situation in the village of Eisen. Over three hundred men had gone off to war from the village. Only fifty-one had returned—just fifty-one—and there in Eisen were two hundred and eighty-one girls looking for husbands.

Of the fifty-one returning soldiers, twenty already had wives and families. Two had gotten married during the war, tying the knot with the nurses who had cared for them in the hospital. Hilda Sachs, the wealthy widow, had snagged one. That left just twenty-eight men available for husbands—twenty-eight for two hundred and eighty-one girls.

Yet no marriages happened. The men wanted to marry just as much as the girls did, but how could a guy make a choice with so many options available? That was the situation that Sunday morning.

After the service, Gretchen waited to talk to Pastor Brandt.

“Is everything in the Bible always true?” she asked anxiously.

“Yeah,” the pastor confirmed, “the Bible is always right.”

"About everything?"

"Yeah, about everything."

“The Bible says that Jacob had two wives and that Solomon had seven hundred wives. Is it okay for men to have multiple wives?”

“It was true in biblical times,” the pastor said cautiously. “Back then, many wives were needed to fill the land.”

“Many wives are needed now to populate the land,” Gretchen insisted. “Why shouldn’t each man in Eisen have ten wives now?”

“It’s against the law,” declared the pastor.

“It doesn't go against the Bible.”

The pastor thought for ten minutes.

“No,” he answered, “it's not against Bible law.”

“It would be for the good of the country.”

The pastor thought for twenty minutes.

“Yeah,” he decided, “it would be for the good of the country.”

“We’ll do it,” Gretchen announced. “Ten of us will take one husband. Better to have a tenth of a husband than to never have a husband at all. Will you marry us?”

The pastor thought for thirty minutes.

"Yeah," he finally said, "for the good of the country."

Quickly, Gretchen shared her news. Quickly, the girls embraced Gretchen's plan. They quickly organized themselves into groups of ten and chose a husband. The twenty-eight men swiftly agreed. What man wouldn’t?

Only Selma Kronk, the plainest of plain old maids, was still single. In angry disbelief, she rushed to Frau Werner’s coffee gathering and revealed to the married women gathered there the terrible Gretchen plan.

"Impossible!" declared Frau Stern.

"Unbelievable!" declared Frau Heitner.

“It can't be!” declared Frau Werner.

In angry outrage, they urged their husbands to step in.

“It’s for the good of the country,” the husbands all agreed. “What man wouldn’t want ten wives if he could?”

They reached out to the Mayor, the Governor, and even the Kaiser himself, but it was all for nothing. Everyone was on board with the idea.

So the Gretchen plan was put into action. Each war hero took ten wives, not just in Eisen, but across the entire country.

Nevertheless, Mrs. Werner and the other upset supporters of monogamy got their revenge.

As always happens after a war, all the babies born were boys.

“Aha!” shouted Frau Werner joyfully as each new birth was announced. “Twenty years from now, there won’t be enough women for everyone. Each wife will have to have ten husbands. I wonder how the men will feel about that?”

He worked as an orderly in the hospital, having landed the job through a friend from his Grand Army Post. The work wasn't suited for someone who's particular, but John wasn't that type of person. In his duties, he took on the tough-guy attitude of a veteran, and while observing the interns with a knowing squint, he would say, “Oh, this isn’t anything; an old soldier is used to this stuff. If you want to see the real deal, just go to war.” And he would laugh at them, and they would laugh right back at him.

He wore his G. A. R. emblem prominently on all occasions. At the slightest opportunity, he would drone on with long stories about fighting, about how he had chased Johnny Reb and how those were the good old days. The students, still close enough to the classroom to feel a lingering dislike for the textbooks' heavy focus on the Civil War, would tease him, but John never caught on.

On Memorial Day, he marched and participated in as many events as he could fit into the limited time available. He wore a committee ribbon like a medal for bravery. Once, he carried a flag in a parade, and for weeks, he talked about Old Glory, the Stars and Stripes, and the regimental colors that had been used in far-off battles.

And he fought only to save his country, he would insist. He didn't have his eye on Uncle Sam's money, no way; he could take care of himself, and if he couldn't, well, there were others who would. When the young guys accused him of wasting his pension, he angrily reminded them that they couldn't even grow facial hair.

He was always ready to defend himself with a strength that made the students and nurses regret when he got sick. They speculated that his campaigning might have drained his energy. The house surgeon told them he would never recover. After that—and it wasn't long after—John began sharing his stories with a more serious audience.

He had been in bed for a week and had started to suspect what was really going on when he called for the young man who had shown him the most respect one evening.

“Have a seat,” he said, avoiding eye contact with the young man; and for a while, only the sounds of the tired ward could be heard. Eventually, John spoke in a worried tone, ready to share some secrets.

“I’ve been a soldier now for forty-five years,” he said, “and for once I just want to be myself.... I kind of like you, and there isn’t anyone else I can talk to, because I don’t have anyone....

“In ’61 I was on my father’s farm in Pennsylvania. I was only a kid then—fifteen—but when the war started, I wanted to go so badly. But my mother cried and begged me not to, and my dad said he’d beat me, so I tried to forget it.

“But I couldn’t. A lot of other boys were going away to enlist and they were all treated like heroes. You would’ve thought they’d already won the war by themselves the way people acted when they left—the girls crying about them and the teacher and the minister and the circuit judge talking to them and all the ones who stayed home angry because they weren’t going, too.

“It kept getting harder and harder to work on the farm, and finally I said, ‘Well, I’ll go anyway.’ I knew Mom and Dad wouldn’t change their minds, so I didn’t say anything to them. But I went to all the other boys and told them. ‘I’m going away to enlist,’ I’d say, and when they laughed and said, ‘Your mom won’t let you,’ I’d act all wise and tell them to watch me, and I’d strut around and wink slyly.”

“They talked about it so much I was scared my dad would find out, but he didn’t, and I held back as long as I could because all the other boys looked up to me. I was a man, for sure, then. None of them who left was as important as I was. The girls heard about it too, and I could see them out of the corner of my eye watching me, whispering, and saying, like girls do, all the things the boys were trying not to say. That just made the boys talk more, too.”

“So after a few days, I ran away. The first night, I stayed close to the town and after dark sneaked back to listen to them talking. ‘He’ll be back soon,’ one guy said. Another, wanting to show he knew more, chimed in, ‘No, he won’t come back unless it’s in a police car or in a coffin.’ And the others laughed.

“I thought that was okay—in blue or in a coffin. ‘No way I’m backing down; I'm the guy for that,’ I told myself."

“It took me three days to walk to the city. When I told the recruiting sergeant I wanted to be a high corporal, he laughed and pounded me and put me through my paces. Then he said I couldn’t be a soldier. My eyesight wasn’t good enough."

"I cried about that; just a kid, you know—there were a lot of kids younger than me fighting. But I remembered the guy who said, 'He won’t come back except in a uniform or a coffin,' so I went where the soldiers were and hung out with them until they let me help with peeling vegetables and pot-wrestling and stuff like that. Then I got to be sort of a water boy. Man, I was proud!... But that only lasted a month, and then I had to leave."

“I just couldn’t go home without the blue, and it seemed too soon to get a coffin yet, so I went to New York and stayed all through the war. I nearly starved, too.

“After it was over, I went back home. They didn’t suspect anything, of course, and before I knew it, I had told them I’d been in the army. I hadn’t planned to, but somehow it just slipped out.

“Right away it was all friendly with those who had been at the front, and we were going around acting all high and mighty, and the girls seemed to think we were better than everyone else.... Well, sometimes I....

“I was just a young guy, you know, and kept getting deeper and deeper into it without ever thinking it would mean anything. When someone says, 'John, do you remember that group of trees the Fifty-eighth camped under at Antietam?' you just say, 'Yeah.' And the next time you’re talking about Antietam, you just include those trees without even thinking about it. That’s how it was for me. I read books to get my facts straight and no one ever caught me slipping up. I used to correct them.... Eventually, I started believing it all myself....

“Then the G. A. R. Post was set up in our town.... And that’s how it went.

“Well, it’s been a long time. If I had known from the start maybe it would have been different.... But it was my right, after all, wasn’t it? Come on, don’t you think it was meant for me? It wasn’t my fault. I swear, I wanted to fight! Just one chance and I swear—”

“They cheated me out of it and I got even. That’s all it was. I never took any pension. I’ve had the glory, like them.... I’ve paid for it.... I only took what was mine.”

“And the Post will bury me.”

“The French Government refuses to accept your services.” The words echoed in his ears repeatedly in the dull hum of the engine as the monoplane ascended into the velvet night sky. Was that diplomatic mistake from two years ago so completely unforgivable? Was exile not enough? Would the Republic deny him even the right to fight under her flag? “The French Government refuses to accept your services.” The recruiting officer had stated it, and General Joffre had reinforced the unyielding message in response to his direct request for enlistment. And now the hum of the propeller, the engine's buzz, and the rush of air through the braces whispered the words relentlessly in his ears as the massive wings lifted him into the darkness.

Below, the ghostly beams of the fortress's searchlight stretched upward, reaching out toward him. The main searchlight of the fortress was focused on a French cruiser that had crept too close to the fort and was firing shells in quick bursts up at the battlements on the hill. The sparks of fire from the ship’s side looked like tiny points of light far below. Occasionally, balls of flame appeared above and around the vague shapes of the fortifications, and the smoke from exploding shells drifted weakly across the bright, searching beams of light. Down there, France, unafraid, faced the Turk in the darkness. From the opposite shore, distant lights of Asia sparkled in the night.

Behind that main searchlight, Henri had said, lay the entrance to the ammo storage. That passage was the crucial point of the fortress. An explosion there would set off the ammo and destroy the entire center of the fortifications.

A searchlight swept across the sky and zipped past just behind the monoplane. The flashes from the guns on the hill were now just beneath him, and their roar created a powerful background noise to the whirring of the machine. He took a wide turn toward a spot behind the fortress. The searchlight was circling the sky again. For a split second, the airplane was outlined in its full brightness. The beam flickered and returned, zigzagging to find him again. This time, it caught him and kept track of him. A shell exploded below him. If even a single piece of shrapnel hit the nitroglycerin he was carrying, France wouldn't gain much from this final flight of his.

The fortress was not far behind him. He turned around and pointed the nose of the monoplane straight down toward the base of the central searchlight. Its beam had stopped focusing on the battleship and was quickly rising toward him. Suddenly, its bright light hit him directly in the eyes. He gripped the controls and steered tightly toward that dazzling target.

“The French Government refuses to accept your services.” He smiled grimly. They couldn't really turn them down now. The air rushed past him so quickly that it felt stiff like a stream of water under high pressure. Below him, at that point of light, death stood smiling. The explosion of a shell bursting behind him was drowned out by the howling wind in his ears. The light grew rapidly larger, and the outlines of the battlements became clear. “The French Government——” the world ended in a crash of blinding whiteness.

“He was aimed straight at the magazine,” said Abdul, the gunner. “If the shell from the French cruiser hadn’t hit him, we would all have been with Allah by now.”

They had been playing “cut-in” Bridge until the Charltons went home at midnight. Instead of going with them, Norris went back to the library with Steuler and his wife. In the past, Barclay Norris had proposed to Barbara; but Steuler’s passionate advances captured her imagination, and Norris stayed their loyal friend. In the library, Steuler yawned without any apology. He grabbed a suitcase from the coat closet and headed for the stairs.

“You and Barbara can stay up all night, my friend; but me—I’ve been traveling, I can’t keep my eyes open! Good night!”

Norris stopped him with a slight motion of his head, nodded toward a chair at the table, lit a cigar somewhat deliberately, and sat down.

“There’s something I need to talk to you about, Max—right now.... Don’t go anywhere, Bab. It really concerns you—quite a lot.” He looked over his cigar critically during a few moments of silence. “Max, you might have heard that my law practice sometimes brought me in contact with the Government, but you probably didn’t realize I was officially part of the Secret Service. When we got pulled into this war, we considered your likely sympathies. But you signed up for the Spanish War, even though you never got further than Chattanooga. You took the oath of allegiance. We believed your loyalty had been proven, so we put our trust in you. However, we’ve been constantly battling against betrayal, even in the most unexpected places. You were suspected again. Do I need to say more? Lieutenant Schmidt was arrested ten minutes after you left him this morning. I saw you get specifications from him for the Wright Multiplane, the Maxim Chlorine Shell, and the perfected ‘Lake’ Submarine. I also know you have a copy of the State Department’s codebook.”

Barbara Steuler stood at the end of the table, her eyes widening with a look of disbelief and angry astonishment.

“Barclay! Are you crazy? Are you seriously accusing Max of these awful things? My husband?”

Norris spoke softly but firmly.

“I’m stating facts, Bab—not accusing you. Because I’ve been your friend, and his, I’m giving him this chance to return the papers and code before it’s too late. Right now, I’m the only one who really knows. He intended to set sail on Grunwald’s yacht for Christiania at sunrise. There’s still time for him to get on board and escape. I’m responsible for the unknown man I’ve been following today!”

She turned sharply to her husband and was horrified to see that he wasn’t denying it; he was looking at their old friend with a gleam of hatred in his eyes. Soon, he yanked open a drawer in the table, shoving one hand into the back of it.

“So! You even suspect where I hid the codebook? Yeah? Well, it's just the luck of the game, I guess. You think I won't get arrested if I reach the yacht before morning? No? You're the only one who knows—so far? And what if I never come back? I have to leave my wife with the man who has always loved her—” There was a flash, a loud bang. Norris stumbled up from his chair and fell headfirst onto the floor.

“Max! Max! A traitor! A killer! Oh my God!”

He grabbed a canvas-covered book from the drawer, quickly stuffed it into the suitcase, then got his overcoat and hat from the closet. In his rush, he missed the automatic pistol lying on the table. So focused on leaving with what he had, he seemed to have completely forgotten her. But a faint, struggling voice made him turn around at the door.

“Another step—and I’ll—kill you!” The gun was aimed straight at his heart. (He’d seen her shoot.)

“Put that book on the table.” He hesitated, thinking about making a quick exit through the doorway. “When I say three! One!…” With a quiet curse, he took the code out of the suitcase.

“Clear your pockets!”

There was no doubt about the look in her eyes. He checked his pockets.

“Now—go! Without the suitcase!”

“Barbara! You want me to leave you! Like this!” Her face was pale, and in her eyes, there was a deep horror, a stunned awareness of that still body on the floor behind the table.

“My people fought at Lexington and Concord—for principles more important than life itself. You pledged your loyalty to those principles and to their flag. And you are—this! You’ve killed our loyal friend—when he was giving a traitor a chance, putting himself in great danger! Go! Quickly!”

As the front door slammed, she rushed to the window and watched him down the block. A guy who did things like that might come back later, catch her off guard, and grab the papers. Her mind was racing. There was no safe place to hide them. They had to be destroyed right away! Ripping the book apart, she stacked the pages on the andirons in the fireplace with the other papers, then set them on fire. Once they were completely gone, she heard footsteps coming from the stairs; a little figure in pajamas peeked around the curtain. (A wave of intense gratitude washed over her that he looked like her people, with no sign of the foreign blood.)

“Mom! What was that loud noise?”

“Maybe it's someone’s car, dear—a flat tire or a backfire, you know.” She made an effort to speak calmly, positioning herself so he couldn’t see behind the table.

“Mom, who was down here with you?”

“Uncle Barclay, sweetheart. But—oh, no!—he's gone now.” (Norris’s love had been the truer, deeper affection; she’d known it for a while.) “Run along back to bed, darling. Mom will come up soon.”

She felt suffocated as the boy hugged her impulsively and padded softly upstairs. As she listened to his careful steps, another sound—a faint rustling from behind the table—made her heart stop for a moment. With shaky limbs, she leaned across the table and looked. The dead man was in a slightly different position; there was a barely noticeable movement of his chest. She reached breathlessly for the phone.

“Please give me Bryant 9702!... Yes! Doctor Marvin’s house! Right away!”

Melting snow in the spring and heavy rains in the fall flooded from the foothills, flowed through the arroyo, and were absorbed and lost in the dry lands below. The Mormons arrived, built a dam in the ridge—and, suddenly! there was a lake. This is how Burning Bush, Cortez County, New Mexico, came to be, on the edge of lush alfalfa fields. And since there was coal, the railroad extended a line to transport it; and because there was a railroad, ranchers brought in their cattle and shepherds with their sheep and wool.

In the terms of a now-discarded census classification, the “souls” making up Cortez County’s population were officially categorized as “white men, Mormons, and Mexicans.” Additionally, there were Indians, who couldn’t vote and didn’t count. Lastly, there was Ah Sin.

Ah Sin was not your typical laborer. He had actually been the top student at the Chinese mission on the Coast. He could speak and read English, perform mental math using American arithmetic, and recite entire passages from the Bible. With the cash he saved up over ten years of hard work in domestic service, he moved to Burning Bush and opened a general store. It was the only store in town, and it was profitable.

Ah Sin—smiling, polite, honest—worked fifteen hours a day and saved his earnings in the bank. Eventually, he would return to China as a wealthy man. Then Moses showed up.

That Moses would come to Burning Bush was inevitable. Burning Bush had begun to thrive. The scent of its success had spread far and wide, and the Israelites could smell it.

The new store, brightly painted in greens and yellows, was the most eye-catching place in town. When Moses moved in, even the Montezuma hotel looked smaller. It had two display windows made of clear glass—each filled with items labeled with signs announcing discounted prices. Spanning the entire width of its impressive false-front design was this sign:

With such simple attractions, the simple are easily drawn in. The Burning Bush paused, observed—and listened to the clever Moses. It’s the new thing that grabs your attention and fills your ears. Ah Sin had forgotten to strike his gong. Tradition faded away and shifted to the newcomer. In about a month, the Celestial could barely keep up.

Ah Sin, struggling with his business, was worried. Bringing prices down didn't bring back his customers. With a unique sense of style, he arranged a new window display — but it was all for nothing. Something was wrong. But what?

Ah Sin’s innocent mind couldn't understand it. Left to his own thoughts, he struggled as best he could with the problem. The Bible teachers had told him that the Jews were a race scattered and suffering the consequences of their wrongdoings. Ah Sin believed this to be the absolute truth. Yet he, a Christian, seemed about to be outmatched by an Israelite.

“Very funny,” said Ah Sin to himself. “He'll make it good. Christian catches hell.”

He walked out into the street, his shop empty for now, and thought deeply about his competitor's place across the way. Something about the sign seemed confusing and made him think. He shook his head. Then he stepped back and looked critically at his own shop, with its simple sign: “Ah Sin—General Store.” Soon his expression brightened, and that night he lost an hour of sleep searching the Scriptures. Hadn't his teachers told him to turn to the Bible in times of doubt and struggle? They weren't there to guide him, but he had a lead.

He woke up the next morning dressed and full of energy. And all day, whenever he had time from work, he worked on a canvas sign, lettering it himself with a brush and India ink, smiling happily the entire time.

It was Curly Bob, the foreman of the Frying Pan crew on Sun Creek, who noticed it first. Riding into town at a brisk pace, looking for cut plug, his wandering eye caught sight of the new announcement from Ah Sin. By nature and training, Curly was not one for showing feelings, but when he saw what Ah Sin had created, he yanked hard on the reins, causing the horse to rear back on its hind legs. There, in the early morning light, Ah Sin had put up a sign that stood out against the competition. In large, bold letters a foot high, it called out to the business of Burning Bush:

Whereupon Curly Bob, cursing quietly in admiration, treated the whole group to tobacco.

In the cramped office of A. Slivowitz & Co., makers of dyes, everything was buzzing. Every clerk was focused at their desk, working diligently and happily, and there was a general feeling of activity and productivity.

That was because A. Slivowitz was standing in the doorway of his private office, watching.

The chubby head of the firm observed the scene comfortably for a few minutes. Then, catching the eye of his young but capable private secretary, he signaled him with a mysterious gesture to the inner office.

The secretary, who was quick-witted and attentive, immediately stood up and followed, even though it wasn't typical for A. Slivowitz to call for him like this. His boss sank heavily into his swivel chair and gestured for the secretary to close the door and sit down. For a minute or so, he remained silent, fiddling with his large gold watch chain and observing the young man through squinted eyes. But if the secretary felt anxious, he didn’t let it show.

“Mr. Sloane,” started Slivowitz, finally, in his deep voice, “you’ve been with the firm now how long—six or five months, right?”

“Almost six,” the stylish young man confirmed quickly.

"You’re a smart guy, Mr. Sloane," his boss continued, looking at the huge diamond on his left hand. "You've already learned a lot about dyeing. You’d make a great dyer. Now, Mr. Sloane, I’m going to let you go."

The secretary raised his eyebrows slightly, but otherwise he didn’t show much concern. Maybe the big man’s tone, which had a hint of clumsy humor, put him at ease.

“Business is good for me,” Slivowitz continued, chuckling heartily. “I’m a businessman, Mr. Sloane, first and last, and nobody ever pulls anything over on me.”

Knowing a bit about his boss's business tactics, Sloane could have expanded. What he said was: “Thanks to your royal purple, Mr. Slivowitz. You've nearly dominated the market.”

"They can't touch it, that purple; absolutely," the dyer agreed, feeling quite pleased. "But”—and he leaned in closer—“just between us, this Domestic Dye Works, they call it mauve, and it really bothers me."

He pulled his chair closer and placed a chubby hand on Sloane’s knee. “I’m going to fire you,” he said again, winking. “I want you to go to the Domestic Dye Works and get a job there. Find out the formula for their mauve—you get what I mean—and come back with it, and you’ll get your job back and a hundred or seventy-five dollars.”

Sloane jumped. For a moment, he looked at his boss, his face flushing from red to pale; then he got to his feet.

“Sorry, Mr. Slivowitz, but I can’t think about it,” he said.

“Oh, come on, Mr. Sloane!” the dyer said, laughing as he leaned back in his chair. He pulled out a thick cigar and bit off the end. “Your scruples are admirable, Mr. Sloane, but business is business; and trust me, Mr. Sloane, you can't mix business with ethics. Those things are fine, but you have to outsmart the other guy before he outsmarts you, right?”

“That might be—” started the secretary as he walked toward the door.

“Maybe? Didn’t I just tell you it is?” Slivowitz paused mid-match strike to glare. “You don’t need to worry about them finding out where you came from and firing you, either, Mr. Sloane,” he added, more softly and with a sly look. “I’m smart, I am. A small thing like recommendations to a clever guy like me——” The match broke. He tossed it into the spittoon and picked another one.

Sloane stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Mr. Slivowitz——” he started again.

“Of course,” continued his employer, “I could make it—well, a hundred fifteen, Mr. Sloane. But, believe me, not a cent more, definitely.”

The secretary shook his head firmly.

“What?” shouted Slivowitz. “You mean to say you’re not going to do it? Fine; you’re fired anyway, got it?” Then with a sinister look in his eyes, “And if you don’t bring me that formula, you’ll be out of the Domestic Dye Works; and you won’t get a job anywhere else, either! Now, make your choice.” This time the match lit successfully.

Sloane smiled. “That’s totally impossible,” he said. “I was planning to resign in a day or two, anyway.”

“Eh?” exclaimed the head of the firm, his jaw dropping and his flushed face turning a bit pale. Faced with several possibilities, he forgot about the match in his fingers.

“Yes. You see—you’ll find out sooner or later—the Domestic Dye Works sent me here to learn the formula for your royal purple.”

And the door slammed shut behind A. Slivowitz’s personal assistant.

The short winter day in Alaska was getting brighter as Gertrude pushed her chair back from the breakfast table and announced that she planned to go for her walk right away. Her brother agreed without concern, but Keith interrupted with a worried expression.

“Shouldn’t you go with her, Bob? I guess I’ve turned into an old granny, but since Jacques told us about that outlaw who threatened to kidnap a white girl for his wife, I don’t like the idea of Gertrude being out of sight.”

The girl leaned over him gently.

“Don’t worry, dear,” she said. “Jacques had been drinking a lot when he told you about this mythical exile. Plus, I’m no Helen of Troy to be taken for my looks. I’d much rather have Bob stay with you.”

And she kissed him, put on her warm layers, grabbed her snowshoes, and set out for her daily hike that had kept her in shape ever since she arrived on the last boat, rushed here by a cable from Bob when her fiancé had his shoulder crushed, making it impossible for the young men to return to the States with their money. She and Bob had taken care of him during his recovery, but it had been a tough winter for him, and she understood why he had become a little anxious, although she thought his worries about her were completely unnecessary, as did Bob.

When she was half a mile from the cabin and a small rise in the ground blocked her view of it, she spotted a dog team approaching and smiled, thinking that Keith would definitely see this as a sign of danger. As they passed her, the driver tipped his cap, and she quickly got the impression that he was very different from the people she had recently met, making Jacques’s wild story seem less ridiculous. As she looked back, now feeling alarmed, she saw that the stranger had turned and was coming toward her. He stopped the dogs close to her and politely asked, with a foreign accent:

“Can you tell me, miss, how close I am to a place to stay?”

“Our cabin is over the hill,” she replied quietly, her fear increasing, which was understandable, as he lunged at her, wrapping her in a blanket, so she couldn't speak or fight back, and putting her on the sled.

She couldn’t tell if it was hours or minutes before she was picked up, taken into a cabin, and the blanket was taken off her while a fierce-looking husky dog growled a hello. Her captor shook off his heavy coat, took off his cap, and said with overly dramatic politeness:

“Mademoiselle, please take off your parka and let me help you with your snowshoes. It is my honor, mademoiselle, to propose to you.”

Resolutely facing her fear, Gertrude looked directly at him. The man clearly was, or had been, a gentleman; but what must his life have been like to lead him to this! As calmly as she could, she replied:

"I have to decline your offer. Please allow me to go home."

“Ah, no, miss. I’m afraid I can’t allow that. As for marriage—do as you like, but you have to stay here.”

"Not alive," she said.

“Ah, but, miss, how could you not?” he asked, with an exaggerated mockery of politeness. “It’s not so easy to die”—with a sudden wave of bitter sadness.

“There are many ways,” she replied. “Here’s one.”

And, grabbing a dog whip that was lying nearby, she hit the husky hard and, as he angrily jumped to his feet, threw herself on the floor in front of him. He bit down on her arm while his owner held onto his throat, and the fight rocked the cabin. Finally, the man broke the dog's grip and pulled him to the door. Gertrude's thick clothes had protected her arm from anything worse than a surface wound, but as he wrapped it up she said:

“The dog won’t forget, and if he lets me down, I can find another solution.”

His face, which had gone pale, turned a deep red as he spoke quickly.

“For God’s sake, don’t think—but why shouldn’t you? You’re free, miss. Your courage shows me I’m not as much of a brute as I thought I had become, and it also shows that there’s one woman in the world whose ‘no’ really doesn’t mean ‘yes.’ I’ll take you home right away, on my word as a Marovitch.”

She looked at him in disbelief and said slowly:

“Is it possible—are you Count Boris Marovitch?”

"Yes"—in deep amazement—"that's my name, but how did you know?"

“This letter should interest you,” she said. “It’s from Varinka. I went to a convent school in Paris with her.” And she watched him eagerly as he read aloud the part she pointed out.

“Do you remember me telling you about my cousin Boris, who got sent to Siberia for killing a prince in a duel? They thought he was shot while trying to escape, but the guard has confessed that he was bribed to help him, so he might still be alive. The Czar would happily pardon him if he returned, as his violent tendencies could be useful in the current war crisis. And Olga has definitely rejected all other marriage proposals, so——”

A sudden sharp breath cut through the reading, and the letter slipped from his trembling hands, landing on the floor as he stared at her, his face pale and tense.

“Mademoiselle, this is overwhelming,” he gasped. “Your courage—your generosity—I’ve insulted you in the worst way, and yet you return to me honor, love, and life—I can’t express——” And he sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

She walked over to him and placed her hand softly on his shoulder.

“I’m glad you’re happy, Count,” she said, “and I’m sure we’re going to be great friends. Please take me home now.”

They met Bob halfway, walking briskly with a worried expression, his rifle slung over his shoulder. “This is my brother, Mr. Stacey,” Gertrude said. “Bob, this is Count Marovitch, whom Varinka mentioned. He’s leaving tomorrow by dog sled to the States on his way to Russia.”

Like Sir Roger’s neighbors looking over the hedge, I often watched an elderly gentleman in his shirt sleeves from my stone wall, who kindly let me play the role of Spectator. He was an old-fashioned New Englander, with a thoughtful, stooped head; but most notably, he had a sharp yet warmly humorous blue eye that retains its brightness as he ages, seeming to become more vivid and alive even as the years fade the color from his hair and take the warmth from his walnut-colored cheeks.

Such an eye, to a lawyer like me, used to looking for a story in every human face, seemed to perfectly capture the essence of eighty years: a carefree childhood among peers—in home decor, in the barn and pigsty, in orchards and gardens; a youth that already sees a new generation among most of these companions of his earthly journey; a middle age, pushed away from the romantic idea of companionship on the road, into the persistent and ultimately successful view of using the environment for its own purposes; and then old age, free to go back and shower forgotten affection on the “old things!” This or that “landmark,” dear and familiar from the beginning of life. These periods, all slipping unnoticed into the next, yet each with its own distinct outline and color, had all taken their turn in my neighbor’s blue eyes. And the look that comes only at the end, when life has been generous with responses and unwavering in the accumulation of values—that was the look I cherished as something valuable.

It was a late summer day that made me truly appreciate its beauty and significance. The older man showed up in his shirt sleeves, but he carried himself with a lot of formality in his calm manner, at the door of my small "portable" law office, at the edge of the orchard.

“I’ve been told, sir,” he began, “that you’re a lawyer.”

I bowed and offered him a chair, but he kept standing.

“I have come,” he said, “to ask for your help in putting together my last will and testament—that is,” he calmly corrected, “if your vacation time is not affected by this.”

While I was figuring out how to agree, he kept talking:

“You've probably heard, since moving into this pretty chatty neighborhood, that my son owns the place.”

The kind, sharp old eyes reflected a sense of what George Eliot calls "an enormous patience with how the world is."

“Everything belongs to John and Mary. But there are a couple of old things that they don’t care about. They’re up in the lean-to. The old mirror that I used to look into as a kid over my mother’s shoulder still holds the image of her smiling at me. And the old ladder-back chair she used to sit in and hold me; and swat me too—and maybe that took the most love of all. That’s it. John and Mary don’t want them. They’re just old things, like me. It’s natural, perfectly natural. At their age, I probably felt the same way.”

He stopped and looked through the trellis, where the red-tinted vine leaves were starting to drop.

“The young leaf buds pushing off the old leaves. It’s nature.”

Before sunset—for the old man was oddly impatient—I had his “will” signed, witnessed, and sealed. The old mirror and chair were to go to a tiny, quirky old lady, known in the neighborhood as “Miss Tabby” Titcomb because of her forty-plus cats, and aside from that, she lived alone.

“Little Ellen,” he called her, as he fondly recalled their school days together. “Mom would have been really happy if Ellen and I had gotten along. But a boy is just as likely, when pushed in one direction, to take off in another; and I was at that restless age.

“I’ve never said this before to any man, but I would have been a better husband to Ellen. Mary was a loyal wife, and better than I deserved. But she didn’t understand, like Ellen did, when to push hard and when to ease off. That’s what a man needs in a woman. Ellen always knew exactly when and where.”

The next morning, which was Saturday, I was riding down Bare Hill Road—coincidentally, right past Miss Tabby’s—when my horse startled; and that tiny old lady, with a huge gray cat beside her, appeared from behind the lilac bushes. People bigger than “little Ellen” have been scared by Prince’s antics, but she calmly placed her hand on his restless neck as if he were just a slightly larger kitten, and then spoke to me in a soft, gentle voice:

“I’ve heard—and I hope you don’t mind me saying—that you’re a lawyer, Mr. Alden; and I have a small matter I don’t want to share with anyone here since it's private. It’s a letter for Mr. Thomas Sewall, to be delivered after my death, which I feel is coming soon.” She spoke with a hint of relief, as if she had been under some long stress.

I grabbed the small envelope.

“It’s just the cats,” she felt compelled to share further; “the young ones and the clever ones will all make friends. But the two old ones! Mr. Sewall has a thing for the old ones. And”—she paused for a long time, while I anxiously promised her I would take great care of the letter—“there’s—something in the note besides the cats,” she managed to say bravely. “You’ll make sure it doesn’t end up in John and Mary’s hands?”

This was Saturday morning. On Sunday, while I listened absent-mindedly to the slow ringing of the meeting-house bell, my housekeeper commented as she brought in my coffee:

“Did you notice, sir? They were eighty-six. An old man and an old woman, both the same age, passed away in the night in the village.”

The old chair, where little Tom had been spanked and comforted when they were young together, and the mirror, still holding the image of the round, cheeky face over his mother’s shoulder, were put up for auction and I bought them for a little money. I would have paid a lot for them, but not into the hands of John and Mary! The cats are also sitting by the fireplace, where the letter “not entirely” about their disposal was burned to ashes.

And the “Old Things” that held onto these worldly friends? The minister—who was also a rare “old thing”—gave a funeral sermon for the two who were so oddly brought together by death; and his thin voice, like the sound of an old, cracked violin, still lingers in my memory:

“Their youth is refreshed like the eagle’s.... And they will run and not get tired, they will walk and not collapse.”

Intermittently, when the snow stopped falling for a moment, Wojak could see the regiments ahead, black against the white fields, endlessly crawling over the hilltop under the gray sky. Wojak was a big, bearded guy. He enjoyed these winter days. He liked the sensation that came with marching in the cold air. He appreciated the dull, rhythmic “scruff” of hundreds of feet as the regiment moved along, shaped by months of marching into a cohesive unit.

This was his own country they were marching through. His home was less than twenty miles away, close to this very road. As he walked along, thoughts of Sophy and little Stephan kept drifting into his mind.

At the top of the hill, the regiment stopped. Away from the road, partly obscured by trees that were stark and dark against the snow and the sky, stood the ruins of a house.

“Just like that is my house,” thought Wojak. “Behind, among the trees, the pigsty should be on the left, the stable on the right.”

He turned and walked through the fresh snow toward the house. Burnt beams at one end indicated where a fire had been extinguished by the snowfall. In the yard, under the soft new snow, the old layer had clearly been trampled. Behind the house, he found the pigpen and the barn.

“But the stable is bigger than mine,” he murmured.

He looked inside. A pile of hay was in the corner, and on it were some rags. The stable was so dark that Wojak thought he saw a child lying there. He walked over to the corner. On the hay was a little head with yellow hair, its round cheeks streaked with tears. The child was sleeping, but its breath came in small sobs. With awkward tenderness, the soldier picked the baby up.

“Stephan had curls like that,” he whispered.

As he stepped into the light, the child woke up. A chubby arm wrapped around the strong neck, and the blue eyes looked at him with the hint of a smile. But soon the realization hit the baby that this wasn't his father, but a stranger, and he started to cry, not out of anger, but with a deep sorrow that tugged at Wojak’s heart.

The company was coming together after the break when he reached the road. The curly head rested against his bearded face, and a big, awkward hand shielded the small body.

“Where did you get that, Wojak?” the lieutenant grumbled, staring blankly at the sad little bundle. “Drop the kid and fall in,” he ordered. “There’s no time for nonsense on this march.”

Wojak started to protest, but his habit of obedience was too strong. Reluctantly, he set the baby down in the snow and took his spot in the line. The child's sobs turned into a heartbroken wail.

“Forward, march!” shouted the officer, and the company started down the road. Wojak looked back and saw the little arms reaching out for him while snowflakes landed on the blonde head. Long after the hilltop vanished in swirling snow, he still felt like he could see them and hear the cries of the abandoned baby.

The sun was setting when the army set up camp four miles from Wojak’s farm. The orders were that no leaves of absence were allowed; but he knew the guard on duty, and home was too close to leave unseen for another four months.

The stars were shining brightly in an almost clear sky when he quietly slipped through the lines and started down the familiar roads toward Sophy and Stephan. Four months was a long time. The movement of armies had scarred the land. The big tree by Ivanovicz's cottage had been blown apart by a shell and had fallen through the roof. Jablonowski’s barns had been torched. The windows of the church at the corners were smashed, and a large hole had been blasted in the steeple. Wojak walked faster, and a wave of anxiety hit him as he entered the lane that led up to his barnyard. His heart sank: the thatch of the stable had been burned, and only the walls remained. He strained to see the house. It was gone. A few charred beams were all that marked where his home had been.

He ran closer. Snow had blanketed everything. Next to where the door used to be was a white mound with a stick stuck in the ground at its top. A little shoe was nailed to the stick. Wojak grabbed it with trembling hands.

“Stephan!” he gasped. “My little Stephan!”

After a bit, he looked up. Towering above him was a man on horseback who had silently approached through the soft snow.

"You are under arrest," said the lieutenant's voice.

Aunt Sarah was 63 years old. Uncle John was 64 years old.

If you talked to Aunt Sarah about any new trends in the world of ideas, she would say:

“Oh, yes, we reached that line of thinking in 1893. It's close, but not quite the final answer.”

If you talked to Uncle John about Schopenhauer, he would respond:

"I don't really trust those newfangled cultivators."

Uncle John and Aunt Sarah had lived together in the old family home for thirty-eight years.

Aunt Sarah always had a thirst for knowledge: she left the old Baptist church in her youth to join a cult centered on joy; she kept track of William James’s influential ideas in American philosophy like a mental telescope; she was aware of eugenics long before it became common knowledge thanks to the newspapers, and she explored the dusty, rickety attic of occultism at a time when the boldest minds in science were dismissing it as nonsense. But there was a shadow in the brightness of Aunt Sarah’s intellectual journey, an unclear spot in the clarity of her mysticism, an unresolved note in the melody of her simple life in the Wisconsin wilderness—

She was married.

She was married to Uncle John!

At 6 PM on June 1, 1915, Aunt Sarah looked up from reading Bennett’s “Folk Ways and Mores” when Uncle John walked in through the kitchen door. Uncle John had just finished his evening chores.

“Dad, we need to get a divorce!” said Aunt Sarah, closing the conversation with determination. “Marriage is an outdated convention; it's just one of the countless silly traditions that hold back the progress of science for everyone.”

"Sure thing, mom."

"We're getting a divorce."

"I totally agree, mom."

“Don’t try to reason with me, John. I said we’re getting a divorce.”

Uncle John shook his head. “When is it going to be?” he asked.

“Tomorrow.”

Uncle John smiled, dropped his load of firewood into the wood box behind the kitchen stove, and started to spread the huge bandana handkerchief that they used as a tablecloth.

Aunt Sarah finished cooking the bacon and onions and put the coffee pot back when it started to boil.

After dinner, Uncle John read the seed catalog, and Aunt Sarah went back to her Bennett.

The next afternoon, Judge Thompson, who lived in the largest and finest house in the small county seat, was surprised to see from his chair in the big bay window an old-fashioned carriage pulled by a retired farm horse stop in front of his cast-iron hitching post. In the carriage were Aunt Sarah and Uncle John.

Judge Thompson was on the porch, ready to greet his guests.

“We’ve come to get a divorce,” said Aunt Sarah, looking straight at him; then she added, with the calm of someone who knows what they’re talking about, “What’s it going to cost?”

The judge gestured for them to take a seat in the wicker chairs on the porch and then said:

“But you need a reason——”

“Everyone knows it. It's a mismatch of personalities.”

And the judge, smiling, entertained Aunt Sarah because he knew her and the community she lived in. “It's going to cost you just ten dollars,” he said.

"Fill out the paper," Aunt Sarah replied.

One hour later, Uncle John and Aunt Sarah left the judge's house together, forever apart.

Moses, their horse, glanced at them from the side with his good eye as they walked up to the carriage.

Uncle John paused, but Aunt Sarah confidently got into the car.

Uncle John followed her and grabbed the reins.

Moses knew the way home with an instinctive understanding, and he took that path at his own pace, with a sense of prophetic dignity.

At the door of the old family home, Uncle John helped Aunt Sarah down from her seat quietly. Then he put Moses in his stall. When he went back to the house, he found Aunt Sarah smiling at him through her gold-rimmed glasses from her spot at the table, which was filled with a dinner that only she could make.

Aunt Sarah was overjoyed. She was finally living with a man she wasn't married to; the stain on her reputation for intellectual advancement was gone; no longer did a dark shadow tarnish the clear, simple quality of her life full of progressive ideas; and no longer could her followers, when they weren't busy rolling the planets through the universe, look down at her sternly from across the stars and say:

“Aunt Sarah is almost, but not quite, an intellectual.”

“Why are you so tired?” his wife asked, splashing her arms angrily in the soapy water as she finished rinsing for the day. “You only have to dig dirt all day and take breaks when your boss isn’t watching.”

“Come on, I’m a hard-working guy,” said Kallaher. “And, what’s more, I can talk about it whenever I want without any comments from you. I’m tired. When’s dinner?”

“Supper is whenever I can get my hands dry and take a good breath.” Mrs. Kallaher started aggressively preparing his supper.

Kallaher stretched his short legs out in front of him and leaned back in his chair. “It was a tough day,” he said softly. “As if it wasn’t bad enough that I was working my ass off with the shovel, a fool drove his horse too close to the ditch, and the stupid animal fell in on top of me.”

"That seems likely, doesn't it? And you being here to share the story!"

“Believe it or not, it happened.” Kallaher folded his hands over where he didn’t wear a belt and sighed. “But I kicked him out again and went back to my work without taking a break or anything.”

Mrs. Kallaher might have tried again to express her disbelief, but just then, old Mother Coogan, the neighbor next door, pushed her red, excited face through the kitchen door.

“Mary Kallaher, is your guy home?”

"Why can't he be?"

Mrs. Coogan walked in and stood there, one hand holding a newspaper and the other dramatically pointing at Kallaher. “It might be true, but he doesn’t look like it,” she said.

Before they could ask her anything, she started reading from the paper: “Mike Kallaher, a ditch digger working on the new Twelfth Street sewer, is a small guy but very strong. A horse, driven too close to the ditch today, fell in. ‘Begorra,’ said Mike, ‘can’t a man work in peace?’ He put down his shovel, spat on his hands, and lifted the horse back onto the street. The foreman thought he had been hurt when the horse fell in, but he wasn’t, and he didn’t mind at all that he had to throw it back out again. He went back to digging.”

“Let me see that paper.” Kallaher stood up and took it from her hand. He gradually read through the story—which the reporter who wrote it had thought was really clever. “Yeah,” he said eventually, “that’s me, for sure.”

Mrs. Coogan regarded him with respect. “I never thought much of you before, Mike Kallaher, but you’re the only guy I know who could lift a horse.” She turned to his wife. “It’s no surprise you’re such a quiet woman, Mary, but you should be proud of a man like that, for sure.”

“Are you bringing out dinner now?” asked Kallaher in a loud voice to the silent Mrs. Kallaher. “Hurry up, or I’ll give you what you deserve.”

Never before had he actually made a threat like that. His wife was suddenly filled with awe. She gasped and quickly moved about quietly as she prepared dinner. She shook and dropped a dish.

“You poor clumsy fool!” her husband shouted, standing at a height of five-foot-two. “Are you really so weak that you can’t hold a pot anymore?”

“Excuse me, Michael,” she whispered. “Excuse me, dude. I was really excited.”

Mrs. Coogan watched with approval as Kallaher was bullying his wife and headed down the street to inform the neighborhood.

In Mike Kallaher’s kitchen—now suddenly his after fifteen years of being his wife’s—a poor, timid, unhappy-looking Irishwoman was following orders. She flinched when he shouted at her, which he did every two minutes just to watch her react, apologized to him, brought him his pipe, and stood quietly by as he intentionally dumped the ashes on the freshly cleaned floor. A man who could toss a horse out of a ditch wouldn't hold back from anything.

As the new king sat in his chair, looking disdainfully away from his servant, who was nervously watching him, there was a knock at the door. Mike felt his chest getting tired from being puffed up so much, and he exhaled with a sigh.

A smooth young man was let in. Once he confirmed that Mike Kallaher actually lived there, he asked Mike how he was doing.

“Good,” was the aggressive reply.

“No injuries from your little adventure this afternoon?”

“Injured, are you? Not at all—not at all.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I’m the assistant manager of the Burke Construction Company. We heard that one of our horses fell on you today, so I came down to see if you were hurt. We thought we could cover a few hundred dollars in medical bills.” The young man smiled pleasantly. “But since you’re not hurt and are so willing to admit it, we won’t have that pleasure. Goodbye.” He got up and left.

Kallaher had forgotten to puff out his chest again. He sat slumped in his chair. His wife was no longer unsure.

“Horse heaver, is it?” She stepped closer, threatening. “Horse heaver? You poor guy! There goes your chance to be disabled for life and die wealthy.”

She grabbed him by the front hair and slapped him like a mother would.

“Horse heaver, is that it? Here, take that!”

And Kallaher accepted it.

“You didn’t get her picture?” the city editor mocked. “Come on, Johnson, step it up. You’re not in Chicago or St. Louis anymore. This is New York.”

Johnson was eating his bread, working hard for it, but he wanted to keep eating. So he didn’t say anything and drifted into the local room, which was empty during the slow afternoon hours.

He was lucky to be working at all. During the couple of weeks he had been wearing out shoe leather chasing pictures for the biggest metropolitan morning newspaper, he had been told about his good fortune a hundred times. He, a total stranger in New York, had landed himself a job.

The job should have only been appealing to the newest rookie, but Johnson, an excellent reporter, jumped at it. He knew that some of the best journalists in New York, top-notch reporters, were making their mark along Park Row.

The afternoon newspapers were buzzing with headlines, black text and red screaming that one hundred sixty-eight thousand dollars had vanished from the vault of the most secure bank on Wall Street and that the cashier was missing. To be put on this bank story, to have the opportunity to prove what he was truly capable of, Johnson would have given a finger from his right hand.

He sat on a corner of a typewriter desk, swinging one leg, while he silently fumed at the arrogant city editor. Whether he was getting paid or not, he couldn't get excited about taking a photo of a socialite for a pointless story. He was too seasoned for that kind of triviality.

The loud sound of the door swinging open between the managing editor’s room and the city editor’s office woke him up. He heard the managing editor talking.

“Do you have any information on that bank cashier?”

“Not yet, sir,” replied the city editor, “but everyone on the team is out gathering information for the story.”

Johnson felt embarrassed, as if he had been publicly insulted. How would the traditionalists in Chicago or Cincinnati respond to such an accusation against a man who had campaigned all over the country and learned the ins and outs of the newspaper business as a soldier learns about war—in the heat of battle? He remembered his victory in California, despite the “Native Sons.” But defeating the unique confidence of New Yorkers would require even greater determination.

“Where can I find the owner of this newspaper?”

Johnson woke up suddenly to respond to the unimportant little man who had wandered into the local room.

“He’s not in the building right now,” he said patiently.

Owners of newspapers don’t meet with visitors casually. When oddballs manage to get through the front doors now and then, it’s up to some staff member to act as a barrier.

The visitor raised a shaking hand to his forehead, shook his head unsurely, and started to mumble a long, winding story. Among the random words, one sentence suddenly formed that made the reporter's nerves tingle.

Johnson glanced anxiously toward the city editor's office.

“You want to see the owner of the paper?” he asked gently, the sudden pounding of his heart evident in his voice. “Come with me.”

He grabbed the visitor's arm and rushed him out of the small room into the hallway, and then into an elevator.

“This way,” he urged, when they reached the street level. He guided the man into the busy thoroughfare, skillfully steering clear of dangerous spots, like a battleship escorting a treasure ship.

In the quiet local office, time felt like it was standing still. The city editor occupied himself in his small office, scowling at his assignment book, reviewing clippings from the afternoon papers, and answering phone calls. He was once interrupted by a woman who placed two tickets for a church fair on his desk and requested a paragraph about the event to be published.

“Johnson!” shouted the city editor arrogantly. His voice just echoed in the empty local room. He got up from his chair in irritation and looked through the door of his office, but there was no Johnson on whom to unleash his anger.

As evening approached, reporters and editors trickled in. No one had any breaking news about the bank story. The cashier was still missing, and there was no sign of him.

The local newsroom came alive with nervous energy, marked by the chaotic sounds of clacking typewriters and loud calls for copyboys. More than once, as the night dragged on, the city editor stepped out of his office to glance at the corner where Johnson usually sat. Each time he found an empty chair, it only added to his frustration.

It was almost eleven o’clock when the ringing telephone pulled his attention away from the proof in front of him. He yanked the receiver off the hook.

“Johnson, huh? I wanted you half a dozen times this afternoon and evening, but now you don’t need to come in at all. You’re done.”

He slammed the phone down with a sense of satisfaction in having a solid reason to fire someone incompetent.

The phone rang again. This time, the city editor paid attention.

“You’ve got the cashier locked up in your room!” he shouted. “Okay! Okay!”

Shaking with excitement, he turned away from the phone.

“Brail! Jack! Fredericks!”

He shouted the names into the local room one after another.

Like soldiers responding to a bugle call, men jumped up from their desks, whether they were working or just hanging around.

“You, Jack, get on the phone and take a story from Johnson! He’s got the biggest scoop ever in the city of New York.”

The rewrite guy got comfortable at the wire.

At the other end of it, Johnson, in his room at the budget hotel where he lived, struggled to stay calm in this moment of triumph. He started to dictate.

Near him, clearly in sight, sat his willing prisoner. Not once since they left the newspaper office together had the cashier been out of Johnson’s sight. Helpless and hopeless, but with a conscience no longer weighed down, the unfortunate man listened just as he had while the reporter, without revealing his source, skillfully verified the wandering confession by phone.

Clear and uninterrupted, the stream of dictation flowed over the wire. The story was written the way a newspaper story should be, and when it was done, it was finished.

"That's it," Johnson said with a sigh, feeling proud. "I'll keep him here until two o'clock to make this a total breeze. Then I'll call the police."

In the newspaper office, the rewrite guy had barely finished typing the last line of the article before someone grabbed the sheet of paper from his typewriter and hurried it along with previous drafts to the composing room, just in time for the first edition.

“There’s never been a scoop like it,” shouted the excited city editor. “I don’t know how he pulled it off.”

“It’s a fantastic piece of journalism,” agreed the managing editor. “No one in the country could have done better. Who is Johnson?”

“A new guy, but I’ve already taught him the ropes. He didn’t wait for any orders—just went straight out and got that cashier.” The city editor’s voice was filled with excitement. “That’s the kind of journalists we produce here in good old New York.”

The only other passenger packed his tobacco into a sad-looking pipe.

"What do you do?" he asked.

“Soap and Christmas candles,” I said, holding out my cigar for him to light.

"Are you married?"

"Yes, what about you?"

“Um-m-m-m.” He stretched his legs, propped up his elbows, and looked anxious.

“When I was working on this area around this time last year,” he started, “I met a lovely, wifely young woman, and we got married before I left town. Tarascon wasn’t part of my usual route back then, but now I have to go home once a month."

“You see, I grew up in a family of sisters—each one older than me and all of them single. I could never bring myself to tell them about Edyth. They still don’t know. We live in Cranford, on the Vandalia. My wife thinks I don’t have any family.”

"What's up?"

He blushed. “There—it—we—I’m going to be a dad.” Then he blushed again.

I laughed, understanding. “You really can’t stand not letting your sisters know?” I asked.

He nodded and swallowed.

“Tarascon,” called the conductor. “Tarascon.”

I was on the warm porch of the Croxton House, in Croxton, about two weeks later, when I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“Boy or girl?” were my first words, with a smile.

“Girl,” the father said proudly. “Sophronia Judith Rose. Named after my sisters.”

He sat down, reached into his pocket for his pipe, and smiled nervously.

“They knew it when I got home,” he said. “I’d left Edyth’s letter in my room. I think they had been suspicious all along. Well, they never mentioned anything at dinner, but when I went upstairs, I saw a piece of baby ribbon sticking out of my sample case. The girls had filled it with stuff from their hope boxes. They were baby things.”

“I tried to play it cool, but I—I couldn’t pull it off, and I told them everything just five minutes after I came downstairs.

“We all took the train to Tarascon the next day. Edyth was excited—she said she’d suspected I had sisters. She hadn’t, though, of course.”

“So I had to name the baby for them. It weighed eleven pounds, too."

“My, I need to catch that 9:32 train to Tarascon!”

He took out his watch and shyly turned the dial to me. Beneath the glass was a small piece of narrow baby blue ribbon.

“Goodbye,” he said. “I might not see you again. This is my last trip. The company is giving me a job in the city, where I can be with my family.”

With the door of her room locked, Viola Perrin opened the letter she had taken from her husband’s desk. It wasn’t glued very securely, and she managed to loosen the flap without damaging the envelope.

When she finished reading it, she dropped it on her dressing table and stared with dry, blank eyes into the mirror. Her world had fallen apart. She didn’t break down into tears. She was one of those women who couldn’t cry. What had happened to her left her feeling tortured and restless, without tears.

Suddenly, the reality of the situation hit her hard. St. John was cheating on her. He was involved with another woman while still being the same polite, attentive husband he had always been. She stood up and clenched her fists tightly. She bit her lower lip hard. For the first time in her life, she felt the urge to scream.

In an instant, she was filled with anger and wounded pride. She got up quickly and put on her clothes to go outside. She rushed. She needed to leave. She had no place in this room, in this house, in the home of a man who didn’t love her.

Outside, she walked to the streetcar. She had no plan. She didn’t intend to go to his office. She was just trying to get away from his house.

She walked into a department store and casually glanced at some items without knowing what they were. It was a sale day, and the store was packed with people. She snapped back to reality when a loud cry echoed to her right and the crowd shifted in that direction.

A woman fainted, one of the saleswomen. She was tall, slender, and not unattractive. She had been assisting Viola just moments before and then suddenly collapsed behind the counter without a sound. A scream came from a cashier who saw her fall. They picked up the woman and carried her, weak and pitiful, to the elevator, while a policeman held back the crowd.

She left the store and wandered aimlessly around the streets again. The sidewalks were crowded, mostly with women. It was getting warm, and the women all looked exhausted and wilted. Lines of them disappeared into certain doors, and Viola, looking in, saw that these doors led to inexpensive restaurants. It was lunchtime, and these women were taking their brief break.

The display in the window of one of these places caught her eye. It featured meats at different stages of preparation and an odd mix of vegetables. Some flies had managed to get inside the glass and were buzzing around the food. She turned away in disgust.

She thought about her own lunch. When she was downtown, St. John always took her to lunch at one of the hotels. The white tablecloths, the soft lights, the quiet waiters, the music, the silverware all came to her mind in sharp contrast to the cheap display she had just left. She shuddered.

In the palm room of the Brinton, surrounded by cool, shaded comfort and an ice drink in front of her, the thought of her tragedy came back to her. She had been avoiding it all day, pushing it aside, staying away from it. But it was always there, reminding her that her world, the life she had lived, was broken.

What now? She has to leave. It would be better to slip away quietly, without explaining anything, just to go. Of course, St. John would get it, as would Myrtle Weiss, but their guilt would keep them silent.

Disappear? And then what? How would she survive? What could she do? She wasn't good enough to teach. She didn't know anything about office work. Sure, she could work as a clerk in a store.

Suddenly, a vision of what that life would mean to her flashed before her. She recalled the tall, skinny woman who had collapsed behind the counter without saying anything. The images of tired workers, rushing in their worn clothes to grab their cheap lunches, came to her mind. She shivered.

For seven years, she had lived in luxury. Nothing was out of reach for her. She had the finest clothes, the best services, the most exquisite food, and immediate attention in every way. Her home was one of the most beautiful houses in the most exclusive and fashionable neighborhood of the city.

Another thought occurred to her. Nobody knew that she had discovered the letter.

The clock in the palm room said it was one-thirty. St. John, she knew, was away.

She got up quickly and left the room. At the office, Miss Johnson, the secretary, had just come back from the lunch spot across the street. She was applying powder to her not-so-attractive nose. Mrs. Perin smiled at her as she walked into her husband’s room. She felt a vague envy towards this plain woman.

The table was untouched, just like she had left it.

She sealed the letter carefully and set it back on top of the small stack of mail on the desk.

“And you live here—all by yourself?” she said.

“It looks like it, doesn’t it?” Archer replied with a slightly embarrassed grin. “I have someone come in once a week to clean. I handle the rest—when I get around to it. I guess it looks pretty bad—to you.”

She ran her finger thoughtfully along the table and held it up. It was covered in dust. She laughed. “Men can’t clean house,” she said.

She searched through things until she found a rag that could work as a duster.

“Now, please don’t bother, Miss——” he started.

“I’m married,” she said seriously. “Mrs. Kincaid.”

“Well, Mrs. Kincaid, please don’t worry about that. Honestly, I’m afraid I actually enjoy dirt.”

“Nobody likes dirt,” was her blunt response. “Not if they can be clean.”

He sat and watched her. He couldn’t help laughing. With quick hands, she seemed to find every hiding spot for dust. And he noticed that her cheeks, which had been pale when she came in, were becoming radiant.

Pretty soon she focused on the bed. “Well, what a mess this is!” she exclaimed. “Who taught you how to make a bed?”

“You just watch me,” she told him. “Like this—and then like this—then you smooth it out—got it?”

“It definitely looks better,” he admitted. “But please don’t snoop around in the kitchen. At least spare me that embarrassment.”

She didn’t listen to his plea. “I knew it!” she exclaimed. “Not a single dish washed!”

“I was going to wash them this afternoon,” Archer said modestly.

“Huh! Don’t you know it’s double the work after you let them sit? Where’s the dishcloth?”

“Oh, come on, seriously, I can’t let you——”

She ignored him. “What beautiful dishes!” she said, as the hot water started to flow.

“Five and dime store,” Archer laughed.

“Really? They look a lot nicer than mine. You know, I think this is a lovely little spot.”

“Washing dishes is the worst part of it,” said the young man.

“Listen,” she said to him. “Whenever the dishes have egg on them, don’t turn on the hot water first. Just watch me…”

She even insisted on reorganizing his small dish closet. She wiped down the top of the stove. Archer tried unsuccessfully to stop her. She was singing now as she worked. She adjusted the pictures on the wall. She claimed that she couldn’t be happy until she had cleaned the entire place from top to bottom.

After it was all done, they sat down facing each other. There was a pink flush of satisfaction on her cheeks.

“And I never knew who lived up here,” she said. “I have to say, you’re pretty quiet. These apartment buildings are just like a bunch of cigar boxes. You know, our place is right below you.”

“It’s really nice of you,” Arthur started.

“Listen,” she interrupted. “I’ve had a great time. I guess I should be leaving now. It’s five o’clock, right?”

He agreed.

At the door she paused and said, “I’ve often seen you at the street entrance and wondered if you’d ever talk to me. You don’t think—just because I came in here——”

“I think about nothing,” he said.

“I knew you were that kind of guy,” she whispered, and rushed downstairs.

Kincaid arrived at 6:10.

“Dinner ready?” he asked.

She threw down the magazine she was reading. “I guess you won’t starve! It’s all about cooking, cooking all the time, anyway. I’m getting fed up with it.”

Kincaid said nothing. His fingers were resting on the dining table. When he moved them, there were small patches of varnish visible through the dust.

She walked into the kitchen and tiredly put on a torn apron. The sink was full of dirty dishes. He noticed them and was foolish enough to say something about it.

She spun around to face him in an instant.

“If you don’t want to see them dirty, wash them yourself,” she said. “I’m tired of doing housework, anyway.”

Warrington had no reason to be angry.

He wasn't actually engaged to Virginia; they were just caught up in a wild summer fling. Deep down, he realized that’s all it was. But he was still furious because she had let a “hulking jerk” who had just arrived at the Inn take over everything and make him look like a fool in front of everyone.

“Ah ha!” shouted the quiet voice, “so it’s Pride, not Heart.” And that made him even angrier than before.

So he left the ballroom, stepped out onto the dim veranda, and paced back and forth, muttering things he probably shouldn't have. Eventually, he stopped at the far end in the shadows, lit a cigarette, snapped his case shut angrily, and said, "damn."

A soft voice just behind him said, “Shocking!” and he turned to face a small figure in a large chair pushed up against the wall.

“I say again, that’s shocking,” said the voice—a really nice voice. And it giggled—a very bubbly, cheerful little giggle.

He calmed down.

“Mysterious lady of the shadows,” he said (he was really good at that kind of thing), “does my righteous anger amuse you?”

He came closer. He thought he knew every girl at the hotel. This one was different and really pretty. Very pretty. He realized that focusing only on Virginia had been a mistake.

“It’s not a night for anger, whether justified or not. Look!” and she stretched out her arms to the big moon hanging low over the golf course beyond.

He looked for a chair. This was great. And when he had pulled one up, really close:

“Where do you come from, all silver in the moonlight, to scold me for my sins, moon girl?”

Without a doubt, he was surpassing himself.

She laughed gently and leaned closer to him, looking whimsical in the soft glow of light. “I am Romance,” she whispered, “and this is my night. The night, the moon, and I are working together to create magic.”

He held a slender hand. The pace was revealing. His voice was slightly raspy.

"Your charms are really powerful, moon maid," he said, "it's magic, right? It—this doesn't happen like this—really."

Their eyes met—held on.

“You—you take my breath away,” he stammered. “Do your eyes really mean what your heart is saying? Don’t—don’t look at me like that unless you actually mean it.”

She didn’t respond with words. She was also breathing quickly.

He let go of her hand and jumped up—partially turning away. Then he settled on the arm of her chair. Quickly, he cupped her face in his hands. The rhythm of her heartbeat mesmerized him. "I—I—love me," he stuttered.

Her lips moved. A sob deeper than words. They kissed for a long time.

There were footsteps on the porch. She pulled away. She recognized her mom's voice and Miss Neilson's. Her mind was racing. Should she ask him to leave or finish things now—just end it all right now?

“You darling—you darling. I—I love you,” he was saying.

She leaned towards him. “Kiss me. Kiss me—hurry.”

The voices were really close now.

“Mom,” she called, “I’m right here.” She laughed. “But I know you know I wouldn’t run away. Mom, this is Mr.—uh—Brown, and we’ve been talking about—doctors. Mr. Brown has an uncle who is in exactly my situation. Totally paralyzed.”

She said it calmly. The world spun. His mind was blank. She was being taken away by the nurse. A wheelchair—Oh God!

"Good night," she called.

A disabled person. He had kissed her. Awful! He headed for the bar.

In her room, while the nurse was getting her ready for bed, the mother said, “You look so different, dear. And how—how beautiful.”

She threw her arms wide in a rush of triumph. “Mom,” she half sobbed, “all my life until now I’ve been just—just a thing. A cripple. Now—now—I am a woman.”

“Oh, God!” she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. “Life is great—great. For now—I have a Memory.”

Fog wrapped the city in a heavy, damp white veil.

It stuck to the windows of the Palace Hotel and blocked out the light from the bedroom where a man was seriously writing a letter. It felt like it was trying to get in, as if it wanted to erase the words he was putting on the paper.

Palace Hotel,
Wednesday morning.

"Dear Ms. Arliss,"

“It feels odd to call you that when I'm about to ask you to be my wife. But what can I do since I've only seen you once?”

"You definitely remember, right, that day when you and I met and got stuck because of the train wreck in the San Joaquin Valley? You said I could visit you when I got back to San Francisco after my trip to the Orient. But you could never have imagined what your invitation meant to the lonely coffee merchant whose work kept him away from everything else. Long ago, in the toxic lands of South America, he had closed his heart to women’s smiles and ignored the sound of their voices."

“Nor can I ever hope to make you understand what it meant during the long journey that followed the wreck. The memory of you with your cheerfulness, your fearless smile in all the difficulties of that wreck, has brought new life to me.

“For eight months, I’ve dreamed of you day and night. During that time, I’ve never once lost the image of the scorching desert, the wrecked train, the groaning, crying people—and you, a girl with gentle eyes, a sympathetic smile for the unluckiest soul, and a quick wit to ease suffering that would make any nurse proud. I’ve imagined you in my home—waiting for me with your bright smile.”

“And so, since I can’t just come to you as a friend, I figured it would be better to write and explain first. I wanted to come once you knew that I love you—I love you. I enjoy writing those words, I want you to be my wife.”

“I stopped on my way from the station to buy all the flowers I could find to send with this note. I chose spring blossoms because they remind me of you.”

“I am waiting with crazy impatience for your answer. Please don’t take my love lightly. It comes from the unrealized passions and unfulfilled dreams of a lifetime. Oh, my dear, please send your answer back to me quickly. Say I can come to you—now.”

It was three o’clock in the afternoon when the fog finally lifted. It disappeared under the bright rays of the spring sun. At the windows of the Palace Hotel, tiny rays of sunlight angled their way through the glass as if cheerfully asking to come in. They streamed into John Marble's room and lit up his face as he, with shaky fingers, opened a note that a messenger had brought. A single sunbeam fell on the paper, smudging the lines, so he moved it to read:

600 Pacific Avenue,
Wednesday afternoon.

“Mr. John Marble,”

"Dear Sir,"

“We placed your flowers on her coffin today. She was like the spring blooms that she adored. They carry your letter to her hidden deep within their petals. She transformed my life into a paradise for five wonderful months. I’m trying to accept God’s will.

Forbes had paid off the guard and stood on the station platform at the bottom of the stairs, looking tired and defeated. He was there to meet a girl, and he wasn’t looking forward to it.

“Come on, man,” he had protested, when Keith Chandler, his partner, called to New York by a telegram, had assigned Forbes to meet the four o’clock train, and by the way, his sister-in-law. “I wouldn’t know the girl.”

“I’ve never seen her myself,” his friend reminded him. “She was in Japan when Agnes and I got married, studying decorative art. She said she’d come home for the wedding if we postponed it for three months.” Chandler allowed himself a smile of nostalgic disdain.

“If Mrs. Chandler would join me,” said Forbes, brightening. He genuinely liked his partner’s wife, partly because her commitment to her husband made it unnecessary for him to put up the defenses he usually relied on when around women under sixty. Chandler’s response crushed his hopes.

“If Agnes could leave the baby, it wouldn’t be necessary to bother you. But the little one is not feeling well. Nothing serious, but you couldn’t convince Agnes to leave the house until the child is better. And you won’t have any trouble spotting Diantha in the crowd. She looks just like Agnes,” Chandler finished with satisfaction. “There won’t be two of her kind on any one train, my boy.”

Forbes, looking sharp in his gray business suit, frowningly scanned the crowd rushing by, with the mass of men carrying suitcases up front and the women following at a more relaxed pace. Wow, what a crowd of women! Forbes imagined himself approaching the wrong girl and getting rejected for his trouble.

Then all of a sudden, a figure stood out—a girl, strikingly tall, who held herself as if she took pride in every inch. She walked along the station platform in a way that suggested she could dance all night and go horseback riding in the morning. Yes, she resembled Mrs. Chandler, but she was taller, more beautiful, more stunning, in a word. Hat in hand, he walked up to her.

"Miss Byrd, I think."

The girl stopped, looking directly at him. He didn’t have time for explanations. A well-shaped, perfectly gloved hand rested lightly on each of his shoulders. He felt a confusing mix of a tall figure leaning toward him, a scent that couldn’t quite be called perfume, and gray eyes with hints of violet. Then her lips met his.

“Miss Byrd, seriously!” She was laughing in his face. “You are my first and only brother, young man, and I’m telling you, I will make you live up to that role.” One hand slipped from his shoulder and through his arm. He found himself walking beside her, following the porter who carried her bags, and listening absentmindedly to a stream of words that thankfully didn’t need a response.

The situation was a terrible nightmare. Mistaking him for Chandler, someone she had never met, this unaware girl had kissed him in front of a hundred witnesses. Worst of all, explaining the mistake felt like an unimaginable cruelty. Once she found out, she could never face him again. It was crucial to keep her unaware of her mistake until he dropped her off at Chandler's place.

Not until they were sitting in a taxi did she ask a direct question. This was a good thing, as Forbes wouldn't have been able to give an intelligent answer.

“How's the baby, Keith?”

“The baby—oh, yes, the little one has been a bit unwell.” As he repeated what Chandler had told him earlier in the day, Forbes blushed to his ears.

“Hey there, sweetie!” the girl said softly. “How many teeth does she have?”

“Teeth! Oh—I think I have the usual amount, I believe.”

“I feel really clueless, Keith. I should be embarrassed to admit it, but I honestly have no idea what the typical number is for a six-month-old child.”

Vainly she waited for clarity. Forbes' response was a pained smile. His desperate hope that she would change the topic was granted way too soon.

“How's Reggie doing?”

“I’m sorry.” Forbes’ jaw dropped. His first name was Reginald.

“Mr. Forbes. I like to call him Reggie. Do you admire him as much as Agnes does? Then I guess I’ll have to hide my bias to keep the peace in the family.”

“Prejudice? You have a bias against him?”

“Of course. What a perfect package.”

“Oh, no.” Forbes said sincerely. “He’s not that at all. Just an average nice guy.”

“Are you saying you think I’ll like him?”

The innocent question hit him hard. “No,” Forbes said after a long pause. “You won’t like him.” Deep down, he knew he was downplaying it. She would look at him with disgust. Every moment this lie dragged on, even though it was meant to protect her feelings, only fueled her justified anger. The pain in his voice as he spoke surprised him.

“He must be a one-of-a-kind person,” the girl thought. “Agnes swears he’s perfect. You calm me by admitting he’s human, and yet you’re sure I won’t like him. Or is that just because I’m being unreasonable?”

“Seriously, Miss Byrd——”

He thought she was going to kiss him again when she leaned toward him so quickly. His heart stopped, even though he wasn't feeling shy at all. Instead, she just tapped rhythmically against his arm with her little clenched fist.

“I won’t be Miss Byrd to my only brother, I won’t! Say Diantha.”

“Diantha.”

"You say it like it's Keren-Happuch. Give it another shot."

He stumbled over the three melodic syllables. He was thinking less about her name and more about her eyes. There were golden, playful lights dancing like specks in the blue, and her lowered lashes created dark shadows. She turned her head, and the curve of her neck was captivating.

“Wait, he’s stopping,” Diantha shouted. “Are we there?”

Incredible as it seemed, they were at Chandler’s door. “Wait,” Forbes said to the driver, his voice rough. He took Diantha’s arm to help her up the steps, and she looked at him in surprise.

"Are you coming in?"

“Not right now.” Forbes forced a smile. They might never see each other again, and if they did, her kindness would have turned into unyielding hostility. He reached out his hand. “Goodbye,” he whispered.

Goodbye. His pleasant uncertainty about whether her ideals of sisterly love would inspire her to something warmer than a handshake turned into disappointment. The door swung open and she was gone. Forbes returned to the cab feeling down, a little bit lifted by Mrs. Chandler’s note the next day.

“Dear Mr. Forbes,"

“Can’t you join us for dinner on Friday? We all had a great laugh about Diantha’s ridiculous mistake.

Forbes' uncertainty about how much Mrs. Chandler knew of her sister's trust was revealed three weeks later when he proposed to Diantha. He had waited three weeks, not because he wanted to, but because he couldn't get that elusive young woman to listen to him sooner.

She looked beyond him, her expressive eyes dark and sad like the sea on a cloudy day. “I can’t say yes,” she whispered sadly, “without admitting the truth. And if I admit the truth, you’ll want me to say no.”

“Diantha!” he hesitated. Even though he was used to women being dramatic in their speech, her words sent a chill through him.

She fixed her sad gaze on him. “I knew it was you all along.”

"I don’t get it."

“That day at the train. Agnes had sent me a photo of you and Keith from a fishing trip, and I recognized you right away. I had a bit of a bias against you at first because Agnes talked so highly of you, and then when I saw you looking so bored and self-important—oh, I know it was arrogant, unladylike, and totally awful, but I just had a gut feeling about how you must’ve gone through life keeping women at a distance, and I decided to give you something to think about.”

The confession wrapped up with a half sob. A tear hung onto her curved lashes for a moment before dropping to her cheek. Forbes leaned in closer, saying something that was neither fully an assurance of forgiveness nor really a plea, but a mix of both. If he was hoping for more reflection, he didn’t ask in vain.

“Here’s a sad case of long-term depression,” the doctor continued as we walked among the residents. “That white-haired woman has been here for twenty-six years. She’s completely manageable except for one fixation. Every Sunday, she writes this letter:

"Sunday."

“Dear John:”

“I’m sorry we fought when you were heading out West. It was totally my fault. I hope you can forgive me and write back.”

“Every Monday she asks for a letter, and, even though she receives none, she glows with hope and says, ‘It will come tomorrow.’ By the end of the week, she feels down. On Sunday, she writes her letter again. That has been her life for twenty-six years. Her youthful face comes from her lack of mental engagement. She aimlessly does whatever is suggested to her. The years go by, and her feelings shift between quiet sadness and intense hope.”

“This is the men's ward. That tall guy has been here for twenty years. His history report says it’s due to alcoholism. He went to Alaska, found gold, and came back to marry the girl he left behind. He found her insane and started drinking, lost his fortune, and then his sanity, becoming a ward of the State, always talking about his girl and things that happened a long time ago.

“He is the ‘John’ that ‘Esther’ is writing her letter to.

“They meet daily."

“They'll never meet.”

The sacred door of the Judge’s chambers swung open and he saw the light, beautiful figure of a woman trembling before him; both brave and afraid.

“Oh, Judge,” she gasped, but she turned and, closing the door tightly, leaned against it to keep it shut. And with that, she called out to him:

“Judge, Judge, can’t I tell you the truth? Can’t I? My lawyer says I shouldn’t. He says lying under oath is the only way. And I—I have lied under oath, Judge. So has my husband. And I’ll swear to it all in court when we’re under oath. But here where it’s just you and me, unsworn, with no one to hear, can’t I tell you the truth?

“I have to. I can't stand the lies. Yes, I know they’re just legal forms. My lawyer has explained that, and that we need to respect the law and follow its rules. And we will, Your Honor; we have, and I'll go through with it, if—I mean it would help me if I could know that you weren’t fooled by the lies; if I could know that you understood the truth.

“And the truth is so much more real and beautiful than the lies. Ours is. I loved him, Judge. I love him now. And he loved me. It wasn’t his fault that he fell in love with her. And she didn’t mean to hurt me like this. She was my friend. I brought them together. I was happy when I brought them together, her, my old friend, and him, my love; and when I saw that they connected, I felt glad. I never thought about their love. It didn’t cross my mind until I noticed that they were avoiding each other. I couldn’t get them to meet anymore. That started my thoughts—it was terrible what I thought.

“I thought—Judge, I knew that they had agreed not to see each other anymore because they realized they loved each other. He admitted it when I finally asked him. So did she, later, when I insisted that the three of us meet to share what was in our hearts.

“That was when I refused to accept it. I wouldn’t keep a man who loved another woman. I couldn’t, could I? So, I said I would leave to get the divorce and let them be together and, eventually—marry.

“It was all supposed to be clear, honorable, and good, Judge. We didn’t realize then the legal requirements. We didn’t know we shouldn’t have a straightforward agreement like that. And I—I didn’t know that I had to make false claims against him, and that he had to write me letters to prove he had turned down supporting me; fake letters; and rude ones. He? Rude? Judge, he——

“But I’m not complaining. My husband and I copied the letters the lawyer wrote for us to sign and date and show to you. We’ve done our part. I’ve lived here, in this awful place, among these other—people. I’ve been here the required amount of time for ‘residence.’ I’ve endured the looks we get from men—and women. We’ve followed the law, yes, and I will come to your court and swear—I will swear falsely, Judge, to everything you ask. I have to, don’t I? I can’t keep living this way, loving a man who doesn’t love me. And I can’t keep two lovers apart, can I? When love is so beautiful, so right, so good. Don’t I know? And it has to be pure.”

“So I will do my duty, just like my lawyer does his, and like you do yours. Oh, I get it; I know how dedicated you all are, especially you, Judge. My lawyer has told me time and time again that you know it’s all lies. Every time I thought about coming to you and telling you the truth, he said you understood. He told me not to come; he doesn’t know I’m here now. But I had to come. I think I might not have been able to go through with this if I hadn’t told you the truth myself: how the three of us have perfectly agreed, he and I and she; how we are each paying a third of the costs. They were so generous about it, offering to cover everything. And I want you to know that we are all completely okay with the change; all of us; I, too; completely.”

“And, Judge, he, my husband, he couldn’t, he just couldn’t have written letters like that. Oh, I’ll swear to them; I’ll swear to anything, I’ll do almost anything, if—if only you, Judge——”

The judge stood up.

“If,” he completed for her, “if only I can understand. Well, I will.”

And he walked to the door, opened it wide, and as she walked by, he bowed to the woman with the same respect that, until that day, he had only shown to the Law.

The departure of the 10th London Reservists for France prompted a demonstration in the city unlike anything seen since the Canadian contingent crossed the Channel. The need for these new troops had a dark meaning. It signaled that the long-anticipated “general advance” from Calais to Belfort was about to begin. At the dock, where the shabby transport ships were taking in group after group of young men from England, hundreds of women and girls gathered to say a bittersweet goodbye to their guys, whose strong bodies were about to be consumed by the relentless demands of war.

Lieutenant Topham, the Wing Commander of the aerial division in the 10th, stood alone at the far end of the quay. He had just finished overseeing the loading of his aircraft. He watched the troops board, fully absorbed in the dramatic scenes unfolding before him like moments from a movie, as wives, mothers, sweethearts, and sisters kissed their loved ones goodbye. He moved closer to the sloping gangway where these hasty, tender farewells played out, quick embraces at the foot of the ramp so fast that the line of marching soldiers hardly slowed down. Each woman, for a moment, poured her heart into an embrace—then, in the next moment, let go of her son, brother, or partner to fate—or to destruction.

Topham was really affected by what he saw. But it was a self-centered feeling. There was no one to say goodbye to him. For the first time in his carefree life, he felt the absence. He had no mother, no sister, no girlfriend. Even his male friends weren't there; they had left ahead of him.

As he got closer to the ship he was about to board for France, heading for the wild flight he had been assigned to bomb the newly set up German Zeppelin base near “Hill 60,” he was overcome by a feeling of impending death and a deep longing. He wished for someone to say goodbye to him, someone who valued his life above everything else, a woman who cared.

In his distracted journey, he nearly bumped into a girl. She was standing near the line of people, and as Topham looked at her in silent apology, he noticed a spark in her searching eyes that excited him. He also noticed her beauty and a black band of mourning on her sleeve. Her gaze captivated Topham with a powerful allure. The bugle blared its sharp call, “All hands on.” With a sudden urge, Topham moved closer to the girl.

“Are you sending someone away?” he asked.

She shook her head and touched the band on her arm.

“My father—a month ago—at Ypres,” she said.

“I’m going—over there,” Topham said eagerly, “and I’m all alone. I have this feeling that I—might never come back. I wonder if you— Will you kiss me goodbye? I promise I’ll never kiss another woman—that I’ll be faithful—until the end,” he concluded with a touch of wistful whimsy.

Her smile was like a gentle flame. Without saying anything, she stepped closer to him and, as he took off his cap and leaned down, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled his short hair down, and kissed him on the lips.

There was no time for talking. Topham had to rush for the moving gangplank. The bugle had played its final call for stragglers like him. The girl who had given him his sweet goodbye was lost in the crowd.

Halfway across the Channel, Topham realized he couldn't even remember the girl's features, the color of her eyes or hair. All that was left to him was a vague feeling of sweet, longing femininity, an abstract idea.

At the transfer hospital, a week later, Topham’s broken, helpless body was laid down for a few moments on a cot. His fall from a great height after a desperate fight with a German Taube left him victorious and celebrated as a hero, but with the threat of death looming over him. Numbness mercifully dulled the pain that had gripped him, and he lay still. It wasn’t until he felt a hand softer than that of the rushed surgeon who had given a quick “first aid” check that he opened his eyes. A female nurse, the only one he had seen so close to the front lines, was leaning over him. He could only see vaguely; a haze was clouding his vision from the explosion of his engine. However, her touch seemed to spark a surge of energy within him. When she moved away, he sank into a semi-conscious state, feeling cold, as if death were weighing down on him. She returned to his side, and he moaned. The harsh grip was tightening. Like a child, he felt afraid. In the world, it was just him, this woman, and the impending death.

“I’m leaving,” he mumbled quickly as the nurse leaned in. “Will you give me a kiss goodbye? I promise—I’ll be faithful—until the end.” His smile was a sad attempt at humor. He felt her warm lips on his—and then darkness.

Topham came to—except for the memory of a feverish journey in a motor ambulance and a boat—in a clean white bed in a large, airy room. Once his senses cleared, he realized he was in England. Nurses in white uniforms moved around the room filled with other beds housing huddled or stretched-out figures. At his first movement, one of the nurses came to his bedside. Her sharp eyes, beneath her meaningful cap, showed both competence and genuine kindness. A few quick adjustments, a spoonful of medicine, a pat on the pillow, and she was gone.

Topham woke up again in the dark early hours when a person's energy is at its lowest; he woke with that familiar feeling of gloom, like a cold hand gripping his heart—squeezing his very soul. It was Death, once more, reaching for him. Only his mind felt clear. He rang the bell at his bedside with a great effort. A nurse came in, her face blurry in the dim light, and leaned over him with a concerned expression.

“What is it?” she asked, and her voice sounded like an angel from Heaven.

“I—I am almost gone,” gasped Topham. “My heart is stopping. I—I am not afraid—but—it is so lonely. I have no one. Could you—kiss me—good-bye?”

He was stopped by a quick motion. She had lifted his head and he swallowed a gulp of something that sent a rush of warmth through him. In an instant, his feeling shifted from that of a sinking, suffocating soul to that of a man whose life is flooding back into him. The nurse was smiling into his eyes.

“You were about to say,” she said softly, “that you will stay loyal until the end.”

Topham opened his eyes wider. That face—the full lips—the bright, intense eyes! They belonged to the girl at the dock—the nurse at the transfer hospital—no, the nurse who had leaned over him when he first woke up here—yes, all three. A deep blush spread across his pale face.

“You said you would be loyal until the end,” she said playfully. He searched for a response.

“In my mind,” he admitted, “I didn’t know you. But in my heart, I must have known you all along.”

Then she kissed him again.

It was a Monday morning in August when Miss Backbay climbed the brownstone steps to the boarding house run by Mrs. Edward Southend on Massachusetts Avenue, Boston. Miss Backbay was short, sturdy, and sixty, and her face was red and frowning.

“I want to talk to Mrs. Southend,” she said sharply to the woman who opened the door. The woman, a quiet-looking middle-aged person, looked at the card and said, “I’m Mrs. Southend, Miss Backbay; please come this way.”

In the living room, Miss Backbay and Mrs. Southend stared into each other’s eyes for a few moments, silently challenging one another; then Miss Backbay leaned forward in her chair and said, “I’ve come, Mrs. Southend, to discuss this—this situation between your son and my niece, Miss Arletta Backbay. As you know, I raised her, and I love her like she’s my own daughter. She’s the last of the Backbays—the Backbays of Backbay. Our family lived on Beacon Hill when Boston Common was still a farming area. The Backbays are direct—direct descendants of William I, King of England—William the Conqueror.”

Miss Backbay took a deep breath.

Mrs. Southend didn't say anything.

“I have dedicated years of my life,” Miss Backbay continued, “to educating my niece. Nothing has been spared to prepare her for the high social position to which, by her ancestry alone, she is entitled. I'm sharing this bit of family history so you will understand—so you will see this situation from my perspective. I have been extremely careful in choosing her teachers, her friends, and her staff. Your son came to us highly recommended by his pastor and his previous employer. I have no complaints about him as—as a chauffeur, but as a suitor for my niece's hand, he—he is unacceptable. Absolutely! The idea is ridiculous. I—I have done what I could to end this situation. I have let him go. But my niece has defied me. She assures me that she loves him and—and will marry him regardless of everything. She is stubborn, headstrong, and—and completely enchanted. She has lost all sense of pride—pride in her heritage. Now I have come to you to plead for your help with your son. Convince him to leave the city—he must leave the city, even if just for a year. I—I will pay——”

“Excuse me, just a second, Miss Backbay.” Mrs. Southend left the room, and a few minutes later she came back holding a large book, her fingers tucked between the pages.

“As I listened to you, Miss Backbay, it struck me quite strongly that it's a shame—a real shame—that you couldn't choose your ancestors like you choose your servants—from the better class of respectable working people. But of course, you couldn't. You could, however, try to rise above them—forget about them—at least some of them. Listen to this biography of your most famous ancestor. It’s from page 659 of the ‘Encyclopædia Britannica’: ‘William I, King of England—William the Conqueror, born 1027 or 1028. He was the illegitimate son of Robert the Devil, Duke of Normandy, and Arletta, the daughter of a tanner.’”

Mrs. Southend closed the book with a slam.

“Not much to brag about, is it? We all have ancestors, Miss Backbay, but the less said about some of them, the better. Now, if my son wants to step out of his class and hang out with Robert the Devil and Arletta—well, that’s his—his choice. You’ll excuse me now, Miss Backbay. I have my husband’s dinner to get ready.”

They were two women, one young and vibrant, the other gracefully aged and beautiful.

“But, Auntie, it’s so much fun.”

The vintage rose.

"Hold on."

In an instant, she was back. Two worn yellow letters rested on the young girl's lap.

"Check them out."

Wondering, the girl complied. The first read:

“Dear:

“I’m leaving you for John. It’s obvious you care for him. I love you. Right now, it feels like life without you is impossible. But I can’t doubt it anymore. If you truly cared, there wouldn’t be any doubt. John is my friend. I’d rather see you with him than anyone else, since you can’t be mine. God bless you.”

"Will."

The alternative:

"Favorite:"

“I’m leaving you for a better man. There can never be another love for me. But it’s for the best—it’s the right thing to do—and I am, yes, I am glad that it’s him you’ll love instead of me. You can’t help but be happy with him. With me—but that’s a dream I have to learn to forget.

"As always,"

“John.”

The war was over, and he was back in his hometown that had been reclaimed from the Vandals. He was walking quickly through a dimly lit area. A woman touched his arm and approached him with slurred speech.

“Where are you headed, sir? With me, right?”

He chuckled.

“No, not with you, old friend. I’m going to find my sweetheart.”

He looked down at her. They were near a streetlamp. She screamed. He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her closer to the light. His fingers dug into her flesh, and his eyes shone.

“Joan!” he exclaimed.

“Lawyers always get theirs.” The hardware dealer on the north side said this with some bitterness and complete seriousness. The check for one hundred seventy-five dollars, just pulled from its stub, had “Ben T. Allen, Atty.” written in the middle and “Peter Shaw Hardware Co.” at the bottom.

Peter, with the help and guidance of his lawyer, had been fighting against paying a five-dollar-a-year merchant’s tax that the so-called city of Clayton Center insisted on collecting. The case had now been in the supreme court for two years. This check was just a partial payment.

The check had prompted the comment, but the resentment behind it was stirred up by another situation, where Peter had been pursuing his feelings for Betty Lane, a court stenographer. Attorney Allen appeared against him this time rather than for him, and in both instances, Peter seemed to be coming out on the losing end.

But that, of course, depends on perspective. At that moment, Attorney Allen stood by the front window of his office, his thick hair a mess like a black sheep’s fleece after a restless night, his mood drowning in sadness. Betty Lane had just walked through the courthouse yard on her way to work. Nature had made Betty very attractive, but her job had made her independent.

The lawyer was deeply frustrated. Practicing law in Clayton Center was no longer profitable. Even though Allen was skilled at wrapping three-ply bandages around the eyes of the Lady with the Scales, the Lady with the Pencil next to the Judge was not so oblivious. The people of Clayton Center had developed a weak, timid habit of settling even their constitutional rights outside of court. Besides Betty’s seven dollars a day, Allen's income looked as starved as a camel in an elephant parade.

The young lawyer was feeling so down about his slim chances of marrying that night he went out with some friends and got drunk. On his way back at 1 A.M., singing “It Was at Aunt Dinah’s Quilting Party—I was seeing Nellie home,” he fell off the wooden sidewalk and proved that a drunken man can indeed hurt himself by falling.

The breaking of one leg was the most fortunate accident a distressed lawyer could have. It gave him two legs to stand on in court.

He quickly filed a lawsuit against the city for ten thousand dollars in damages due to the broken sidewalk. His three friends confidently testified that there were not just one hole in the walkway, but two, and not just two loose boards, but six.

Moreover, it wasn't just a simple fracture of the limb. Allen had a liver specialist confirm that the jolt had permanently damaged his liver; a spine specialist testified that the impact had injured the fourteenth vertebra; a nerve specialist claimed that the shock of the fall and the mental distress of watching his law practice fall apart would likely lead to a complete breakdown.

The jury awarded him four thousand dollars in damages—twice what he expected. And the city attorney, feeling a sense of brotherhood for broken legal principles, recommended that the city pay up instead of appealing.

One bright morning, fully recovered and dressed in a stylish spring suit, Ben T. Allen went to the courthouse to get a court order for the city treasurer for his four thousand dollars in damages.

There was a click of a typewriter in a waiting room. Betty Lane, the court stenographer, was up early working on some notes.

Ben T. Allen walked in, casually placed his hat on a stack of notebooks, sat on the edge of her desk, locked his hands around his knees, and smiled with a sense of ownership.

“Good morning, Mr. Allen.” Betty looked up and nodded. “Let me congratulate you.”

"Why?"

“Why, haven’t you seen the Supreme Court’s decision in this morning’s paper? You won your case. Peter Shaw doesn’t have to pay his annual five-dollar merchant tax.”

“Great!” exclaimed Allen. “No, I hadn’t seen it.”

“Yes,” nodded Betty, with a slightly opaque smile, “the judge who made the ruling agreed with your argument that since the election notices for the town’s incorporation thirty-eight years ago were posted for only nineteen days instead of the required twenty, the incorporation was invalid. So, the town doesn’t actually exist. Its officials have no authority to collect taxes, to sue or be sued, or to receive or pay out money.”

“Good heavens!” Allen felt himself slowly collapsing on the table, feeling sick in every part of his body that the doctors had mentioned.

“Sometimes,” smiled Betty, as she looked out of the window toward the hardware store—“sometimes a lawyer gets what’s coming to him.”

“Has the prisoner gotten a lawyer?”

“No, your honor,” replied District Attorney Masters.

Judge Horton peered over the rims of his steel-framed glasses, first at the disheveled prisoner, and then around the courtroom.

“The court will provide a lawyer for your defense. Do you have any preference?” he asked the prisoner.

The prisoner hadn’t. He couldn’t tell one man from another in the courtroom. A slight hint of a smile appeared on District Attorney Master’s face. He exchanged sly winks with several of his fellow attorneys and even smiled knowingly at the judge when he suggested that the court appoint Mr. Preston as the defense attorney. A giggle rippled through the courtroom at this, and young John Preston flushed bright red to the roots of his blond hair as he got up and walked forward to talk with his client.

“Honestly, are you a lawyer?” asked the prisoner, his voice loud enough to be heard. It took almost two minutes to regain order.

In spite of his embarrassment, young Preston thanked the court and requested a day’s delay to familiarize himself with his client’s case. This was granted, and after the session was adjourned, the District Attorney took young Preston aside, placed his hand patronizingly on his shoulder, and said:

“Wow, Johnnie, give the poor guy a fair chance! The only thing he can do is plead guilty and ask for some mercy.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Preston somewhat stiffly, “but I at least want to know a bit about my client’s case.”

“Now, now, Johnnie, you need to learn to take things in the right way. Every young lawyer has to handle their first case, and they should expect some light-hearted teasing about it. Trust me, not every law school graduate starts off with a murder case right away. Be sensible about this, kid. I’m giving you this advice for your father’s sake. We were partners, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” replied Preston.

“Oh, don’t be stubborn, Johnnie! Come on, the prisoner has confessed!”

“A lot of innocent people have admitted things under pressure,” and young Preston nodded a bit too formally and turned away.

“He’ll get the chair if you take this to court,” snapped the District Attorney.

“He’ll either get the chair or he’ll be free, sir,” was all young Preston said, and he rushed over to the jail, where he was alone in the cell with his client, the prisoner.

It wasn't much of a story the prisoner told. He said his name was Farral, that he was just a regular hobo, and that he had gotten into a fight with a freight brakeman who wouldn't let them hop on the train. Both of them grabbed lumps of coal to defend themselves, and in the chaos, the poor brakeman's skull was crushed. He managed to shoot and kill the other hobo, but he died before they could get him to the hospital.

Young Preston said nothing for five minutes. Farral got anxious. Finally, he said:

“Hey, kid, I’m not blaming you at all. You have to have your first case sometime, and they assigned it to me. The only option now is to plead guilty to self-defense——”

“Never will,” said young Preston. “There isn’t a juror in the county who would agree to justifiable homicide.”

“But I admitted it, kid; I admitted it. What are you going to do about it now?”

“Just what did you say? Tell me the exact words.”

“I said to the captain, ‘Don’t grill me. I killed him!’”

“What made you say that?”

“They’d put it on me anyway. I thought it would help me.”

“What was the name of the guy with you?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before.”

“His name was Ichabod Jones,” said Preston seriously, “and don't you ever forget it. Remember, you’ve known this guy for a long time and he went by the name ‘Black Ike.’”

Preston spoke with the man for another half hour, questioning him repeatedly before he finally left.

When the case was brought up, the prosecution presented enough witnesses to prove that the brakeman had been killed and then submitted the confession.

“We'll leave it at that, your honor,” said District Attorney Masters, with a bit of flair.

Young Preston quickly put his client on the stand and had him share his account of the fight, stating that it wasn't him, but the other guy, who killed the brakeman.

“What was the other guy's name?” asked Preston.

“Ichabod Jones,” replied the prisoner; “at least, that’s what he told me.”

“How did you always talk to him?”

"I always called him Ike."

“You can tell the court exactly what you said in this supposed confession.”

“I didn’t confess to anything. I told the captain, ‘Don’t rough me up. Ike killed him.’”

And no matter what the prosecuting attorney could prove otherwise, Ike did.

The Poet passed it to the Girl with a somewhat puzzled smile. They were strangers. He had noticed her walking along a path in the park, and the sadness on her face made him stop. She read the poem, then looked at him for a few seconds, feeling a mix of amusement and annoyance, before breaking into a full smile. He could see acceptance in her eyes.

“Pretty rude, isn’t it?” he asked. “But the weight of loneliness is really heavy on my soul.”

They strolled to the gates and got on a streetcar, which whirled them, along with twenty other people who were just as lonely but didn’t realize it, toward the mountain. She didn’t say anything until they were winding along a path up the mountainside. Then she opened up the verse and said thoughtfully:

“A day of bliss! A year ago, I thought every day would be bliss.” And the sweet smile faded with the rush of memories.

“My dear lady,” he said, “memories don’t belong in a day of fun. Oh, let me show you how to live, live, live, even if just for an hour! Let’s sing the song of nature that is happiness—dance the dance of the winds that is joy—think the thought of butterflies that is nothing! Oh, there is happiness everywhere, everywhere—even for you and me!”

They arrived at a small hill where a group of bushes provided an inviting shade.

“Let’s sit for a bit,” she said, pouring water on a rocket.

For a few minutes, they sat in silence. The peaceful moment hadn’t started yet. They heard voices behind them, and a woman’s laugh surprised both the air and the Poet. The voices got closer, and the Girl clutched the grass at her sides. The couple walked by cheerfully without noticing them and sat down in the long grass at the base of the hill.

The Poet and the Girl were statues. Their faces were turned away. From the tall grass came the sound of kisses.

The sun disappeared. The air was hot and thick, and everywhere there was a silence that felt like something was about to happen. A bird chirped anxiously, and a grumpy breeze rustled the leaves. The loving couple in the tall grass got up.

"Hey," said the man, checking his watch, "if we're going to catch that show, we need to hurry."

And they rushed away.

The Girl got up, walked a few steps, then stood looking at the distant horizon of the past. Then she came back.

"That was my husband," she said.

The Poet jumped to his feet as if released by a spring. His face was gray like the sky.

“God help us both!” he shouted. “The woman was my wife.”

Every time he tried to propose to her, something always interrupted them.

There was a moonlit night on the beach when a sudden storm sent them running for cover. They ended up in her mother’s drawing room, and guests were announced. He had almost gotten to the big question while they were dancing when a couple bumped into them, causing her to fall, and for weeks she was out of reach with a broken ankle. He could have asked the important question in writing, but that just didn’t feel right to him.

Lately, she felt like Evangeline since he always left New York the day before she got there, and twice she had to go home because of illness when he was supposed to meet her at a resort. The Evangeline feeling was especially strong tonight because he had unexpectedly missed his Miami appointment to take her and her mother home, and at the last minute, they decided to travel by sea.

Then suddenly off Norfolk, she came face to face with him on the deck. She was eagerly responsive to his pale, shaky excitement at seeing her, and they both forgot to offer explanations.

It was late, but they walked back and forth on the deck for an hour, and every moment during that hour she expected him to say something, even though one passenger was uncomfortably close to them.

His love had become more humble, because where he had once been in control and impulsive, he now seemed afraid and looked at her with both adoration and despair, as if she were an unreachable paradise. She struggled between feeling shy and wanting to encourage him. Time passed quickly, and he hadn’t even tried to find a private place. She sent away the maid who had come with her mother’s message and waited a moment longer for the words she sensed were about to spill from his lips beneath those love-filled, agonized eyes. He accepted her proud good-night without protest, even though he held on to her hand as if he would never let it go.

“This has to be good-bye,” he said. “The ship will arrive before you wake up, and I need to rush for the train.”

No news on future meeting.

Almost all the passengers had disembarked, and her mom and the maid were way ahead in the crowd when she remembered a silver cup she had left in the cabin. Her path back was blocked first by a laughing and crying Cuban family reuniting, and then by a group of guys excitedly talking about the quick capture of a murderer who claimed self-defense in a political dispute but had fled. It seemed like the guy was important, and it sounded intriguing, but her mom would freak out if she stopped.

The emotional Cuban family was once again in her way. The cup slipped from her hand and rolled down the deck. She picked it up and turned to see him framed in a doorway opened by the restless passenger from the night before.

Then her sun set in eternal darkness. He was handcuffed.

Rhyolite Rose always had her intriguingly unladylike sense of humor. Standing in the doorway of the Bodega, where she nightly played her worn piano and sang inappropriate songs with a voice like a seraph, she listened, thoroughly entertained, to the junk dealer’s tall tales.

"Place your bets, guys; six, eight, field, or come—bet on your favorite. Here comes the lucky guy! He rolled a nine, Long Liz, the lucky girl."

Rhyolite was thriving, and everyone there was obsessed with making money. It was Saturday night. Outside on Golden Street, crowds moved back and forth. There were miners, promoters, engineers, cooks, con artists, schemers, and risk-takers; good women, bad women, and boarding-house owners. Adventurers all; each one sure that tomorrow would bring them wealth.

The Bodega was packed with a cheerful crowd that lined up four deep at the bar. Around the craps table was a buzzing group, attracted by the dealer’s rhythmic speech, a catchy chant recounting the fortunes of Big Dick from Boston, Little Joe, Miss Phoebe, and many other colorful characters whose luck was tied to the roll of the dice.

Mining booms galore Rose had witnessed. For five years she had tracked them since she first arrived in the Klondike as a young girl with a beautiful face, a gentle voice, and an intense love for Scotch whiskey. Each year since then had stripped some innocence from her face and cast deeper shadows in her eyes; each year saw her becoming sadder until evening arrived, and then she became quite cheerful; for by night, Rose’s sorrow, whatever it was, was drowned in a square bottle.

The pale-faced drug dealer droned on: “Every now and then I make a little cash,” he was saying. “Miss Ada, your mom wants you——”

He hesitated and stopped. A shot rang out on the street outside, and almost immediately, the saloon cleared out.

Following the crowd and still smiling, Rhyolite Rose moved along. She picked up bits of frantic conversation that “Sidewinder,” the camp’s troublemaker, had shot and killed a stranger while aiming at someone he couldn’t stand.

Not dead, but badly hurt, the man lay on the boardwalk. Rose forced her way to his side. As she looked down at him, her face went pale, the red of her cheeks standing out in stark contrast.

“He's a friend of mine,” she told the men around her. “Take him to my cabin and call for the doctor.”

Rose rushed into the bar, grabbed a decanter of whiskey, and soaked her handkerchief with it. As she ran, she wiped off the makeup from her face. She passed the small group and, reaching her cabin, got ready for the man's arrival. Once that was done, she rummaged through a trunk and pulled out a wrinkled dress. She quickly put it on.

The unconscious man was placed on the bed, and a few minutes later, the doctor arrived. He stared at Rose in shock. She was dressed in the uniform of a novice from a nursing sisterhood.

“What the—” he started. She cut him off, and beneath her casual attitude, the man saw genuine misery.

“It’s Sister Rose now,” the woman said. “I left my sins behind with my old life. Got it?”

The doctor nodded. Gently, he took care of the injured man.

“There’s nothing we can do,” he said after a while. “He’s dying.”

"Works for me, Doc," said Rose.

He left, and the woman sat quietly by the bed, her face serious, her body tense, waiting. After a little while, the man opened his eyes, and she saw that he recognized her. She leaned over and lifted him into her arms. His head rested on her slender chest.

“Little Sister, is it true?” he whispered. “I dream so much. Every night, I dream that I’ve found you. I’ve searched for you for so long, Little Sister; everywhere; all around the world.” His voice trailed off.

When he spoke again, it was with difficulty. “The other woman... she didn’t matter. When you left, I lost it.” He pushed himself up with a sudden surge of energy, his face twisted. “It was the uncertainty, the uncertainty! You were so young,” he murmured. “I’ve searched for you,” he said again, tiredly, “everywhere across the whole world.”

“Forget it.” Rose said calmly. In some subtle, unidentifiable way, she had transformed back into a lady. “Oh, my dearest, yes, I forgive you. God has taken care of me, darling. There’s a typhoid outbreak here. The sisters sent me.”

The man sighed deeply. “My little girl, safe and sound.”

She put him down, and he dozed for a bit. Just before dawn, he woke up.

“Sing, Little Sister,” he said.

“I am far from home
I often feel weary——”

Rose sang a song from her childhood. Her voice had survived the effects of cigarette smoke, whiskey, and exhaustion. It rose clear and strong,

“Like a child to its mother,
A little——”

“Little Sister!” She leaned in to listen to him.

“I've searched for you everywhere; up and down——” he was dead.

Tearless, Rose sat by the bed for a long time. She suddenly came back to herself with a jolt.

In the dead man’s hands, she placed a crucifix; and, kneeling, with brief moments of forgetfulness, she recited the prayer for the dead.

Then, as if driven by some unseen force, with wide eyes, she got up from her knees and rushed to the kitchen. She grabbed a bottle of Scotch whiskey from a shelf. With shaking fingers, she poured herself a big drink.

“Sometimes I make a little money,” said Rhyolite Rose.

The dim lights of the old pawn shop flickered wildly as the street door opened, letting in a blast of icy wind. The man who came in with the wind struggled to close the door, walked up to the low desk, took off his light coat, shook the sleet off, and laid it on the counter.

"As much as you can," he said sharply. "It's my last!"

The broker glanced at the garment without much care and tossed fifty cents onto the counter.

“Come once more, my friend! It’s not enough for the elegant coat.”

Pathos didn't resonate much with the old dealer, but this time it did. A tone in the voice perfectly matched the mystery of something buried deep in the subconscious. He questioned the other person with a quick look, paused, and placed another coin next to the first. The man nodded.

"It's not much, but it will work."

He grabbed a pencil from the desk and, with great effort, wrote a few lines on a piece of wrapping paper. Standing up straight, he locked eyes with the old face that was turned, in a not unkind way, towards him.

“We've known each other quite a while. You know I'm neither a drunk nor a slacker. I know you're a tough guy—you have to be in this business, tough but fair. I'm leaving for good; it's for the sake of the girl and the little guy. She won’t go home until I leave her. Send the money and the address to where it needs to go; it will pay for her way home—they'll take her without me; they’ve said so. Will you do it?”

The old man turned away from him and stayed silent.

"Yes!" he finally said.

They waited and then shook hands for no particular reason, just like guys do.

“What have you been up to lately?” a voice interrupted, clear, sharp, and almost aggressively authoritative. It came from a third man standing nearby, who had gone unnoticed. The coatless stranger stared at him, his expression hardening. He saw a short, chunky figure, nearly enveloped in a fur coat that was now thrown open, a heavy chain draped across a prominent belly, a massive diamond above, a noticeable curved nose, and a sweeping black mustache. An elbow resting on the counter supported a jeweled hand, which held a thick black cigar with an ash half an inch long.

The eyes of the two men met, Celt and Hebrew. A moment of tense silence passed between them. What was it? Messages from eternity travel many paths. The Irishman's resentment faded, and his lips formed a slow, sarcastic grin.

“Me? Sure, I've been searching for Christ! Do you mind telling me if you saw Him on your way here?”

“No,” said the other plainly. “He doesn’t live in New York! You talked about leaving for good. Where—without a coat—through the bridge route?”

“Is it your business?” The Irish blood boiled.

"Maybe," replied the Hebrew, calmly flicking the ash. And then:

“Wouldn’t you prefer to delay it and get a job instead?”

The red faded from the face in front of him, the pale lips parted in silence, and one hand gripped the counter.

“If you want, come to my place, The Star Pool and Billiard Palace, four blocks up from the Bridge, and I’ll pay you twelve and a half a week to start. One of my guys ran off with forty dollars' worth of billiard balls yesterday—I’m looking for him now. You can take his job. A guy who will pawn his coat on a night like this for his wife and kid, and doesn’t get drunk, won’t steal billiard balls. It’s a business deal.”

He pulled out a thick bundle of cash from his pocket and took off a five-dollar bill.

“Keep this in mind,” he finished, deliberately avoiding the other person’s eyes. “It’ll ease things up at home until tomorrow. Here, take your coat with you.”

From the doorway, the Irishman came rushing back, grabbed the garment, reached out his hand, but then suddenly pulled it back.

“Not now, sir,” he stammered awkwardly. “I just can’t say it! I’ll say it every day I work for you.”

“Great! You’re good to go! Now hurry up, kid!”

The woman in the room lay on the floor, her thin shawl wrapping around her and the crying baby in her arms. There wasn't a single piece of furniture left, not even her small charcoal burner—it had been the last thing to be taken. The steady, fast footsteps in the hallway sent a message that made her look up and focus her eager gaze on the door. The man who walked in was carrying a load of packages. As she stared at them, her arms tightened around the frail figure she held.

“Mary!” said the newcomer gently. “You have been telling me I’d find the Christ Child if I tried hard—I remember you said He always came to the poor and sick first; to the honest and true! You knew, Mary, my girl! Sure, it’s in the holy name of you—the faith. Well, I found Him tonight!”

He stood there quietly, his lips twitching and his face tight with an emotion that embarrassed him.

A silent scream escaped from the woman. She pushed herself up to her knees and leaned toward him, her eyes glowing with the light that always shines on land and sea where angels go by.

"Mike! Where are you?"

The packages dropped from Mike’s arms to the floor, and his upturned face went pale with the amazement of a distant vision, accompanied by a revelation he had never imagined in his tough, restricted life. And then, with a sparkle in his Irish eyes:

“In the heart of a Jew,” he whispered.

Van Gilder, though he was easily worth a million in his own right, took pride in being able to write M. D. after his name. He did have a practice, but it mainly consisted of treating sick animals, often for his own benefit. This occupied most of his time and focus. “It was so interesting.” This hobby was referred to as research, and since he was well-off, he could dedicate himself to it whenever he wanted.

And so one day, on his way to the labs, he happened to see the exact specimen he "needed" for that day's research. It was a really pitiful creature next to an even more miserable person begging on the corner. This was a stroke of luck. Van Gilder was usually lucky.

He parked his electric car by the curb and walked over to the two people.

“Mister, would you be kind enough——”

“Yes, of course, I can help you. Here’s ten dollars for your dog.”

“Ten bucks? For Patches? Oh, no way.”

“Well, then, make it twenty-five. You need the money, and the dog will be out of your way.”

“Patches? Sell him for twenty-five? Just to get him out of the way?” The poor, frail soul looked stunned. “Why, sir, not for a thousand could you take that dog.”

It was now Van Gilder’s turn to be confused. No, more than that; he was intrigued. Here was a man miserable, broke, caught in poverty, yet he claimed that not for a thousand dollars would he give up a completely useless dog. Could he really mean that? Could a dog mean so much to anyone? Or was he just exaggerating? The question stuck with Van Gilder. A thousand dollars. What would he do if he was actually offered a thousand dollars? This was research along a new line, but Van Gilder was set on finding out. A trip to the bank, and he came back with ten one-hundred-dollar bills.

“You're saying you wouldn't sell that dog for a thousand dollars?”

“Not for a thousand dollars—would I, Patches?”

“Are you sure? Here’s a thousand dollars. Can I take the dog?”

The sad, worn face stared at the ten crisp hundred-dollar bills as if in a trance, but the owner never hesitated for a second.

“No, not for a thousand. Patches and I have been through a lot together; we’ve been friends for years. He’s as loyal to me today as ever, and we won’t part until death separates us. I couldn’t sell my best friend, could I, Patches? Everyone else has left me, but you have never complained, have you, old buddy? No, my friend, I’m pretty down, but I’ll never go that low. I appreciate the offer, but I can’t accept.”

Van Gilder, a confused and reflective man, got into his car and drove away. But not to the labs. Like Saul on the road to Damascus, a new understanding had come to him.

He was an old man, with white hair and a long beard. One sleeve of his coat was empty. He had lived in the village for many years—since five years after the great war, people said. He had done well for himself; when the new war of 1914 started, he was the biggest landowner for miles around.

It wasn't far from the French border, this village where Hans Schmidt was the leader. It didn’t have a train station, but a railway line came to it and ended in long platforms in open fields. In recent years, trains had pulled up beside those platforms, unloading soldiers of the Fatherland who were there for training exercises. Now, in the first week of August, the platforms were truly being put to use. For three days, trains arrived in an endless line, unloading their living cargo of men in a misty, gray-green uniform that blended into the grass and shrubs from a distance of a hundred yards, with even the spikes of their helmets covered with cloth.

Westward moved the soldiers like a swarm of locusts. But they left something behind, a crucial part of themselves, their collective intellect. Sentries were posted around Hans Schmidt's house. Mechanics worked quietly and quickly, as if they had known what to do all along, laying wires into his modest living room and connecting it by telephone and telegraph to Berlin, with the ever-moving forces heading west. In Hans Schmidt's bed slept a corps commander; the whole house was taken over by the staff. He was given a cot in the kitchen. His house was chosen as headquarters.

From the living room, the general directed the movements of forty thousand soldiers, each acting like a piece in a chess game, as part of the invasion strategy of the Great Headquarters Staff. These movements were extremely important; each corps had to coordinate perfectly with the others. Any confusion here could jeopardize the entire plan.

The noble general was very busy. But on the second day, he finally noticed Hans Schmidt, who had stepped back, one arm raised in salute, as the general walked past him.

“Ah!” said the general. “You’ve lost an arm! An old soldier, right?”

“Yes, my general. I lost my arm at Gravelotte.”

“So! I was in that business, too. I got my company that day when Steinmetz lost half his corps. Ach! This time we'll finish them even faster! Von Kluck is halfway through Belgium; the Crown Prince is hammering at Verdun! We'll be in Paris within the month!”

Hans Schmidt listened attentively, as was appropriate. The general went to his desk. Hans Schmidt, in his garden, gazed at the western sky. A plane flew low nearby, with a blunt, snub-nosed design. He recognized it as a Taube, even though no monoplanes had flown over Gravelotte. It turned and headed east, disappearing from view. Still, he looked into the west. High in the air, something gleamed gold in the sunlight, shining upward from behind a cloud. Hans Schmidt walked slowly into the kitchen.

There was a hot, smokeless fire of hard coal burning to roast two suckling pigs for the dinner of the general and the high-ranking officers. He sent out a maid whose job was to watch the pigs. Hans Schmidt took a bag from his pocket, dumped it into the fire, and added a bunch of kindling wood. Then he went back into the garden. He thoughtfully watched the chimney, from which a thick column of oily black smoke suddenly rose. It went straight up, higher and higher.

“In Berlin, you’d get fined for that,” said a young staff officer, walking up beside him.

"The maids are careless," replied the patriot.

The officer stared at the smoke. Hans Schmidt looked to the west. Again, he noticed the sunlight reflecting off metal. A monoplane was coming from the west, flying like a hawk. It took form. A mile away, a gun fired; then another, and another. Above and below the monoplane, three fluffy white smoke puffs lingered from where shells had exploded. A volley followed. Other officers emerged from the house to look up. The monoplane continued its approach.

“A French flyer!” shouted one.

It was above. It stopped in its flight and circled. A small black object dove down. The side wall of Hans Schmidt’s house disappeared. Moments later, there was no house—only a pile of smoking debris. Among the melted wires was what used to be a man, in a general's uniform, dragging himself while screaming until he died.

“The smoke!” shouted an officer. “It was a signal! Headquarters has been betrayed!”

“Fools!” shouted Hans Schmidt as they turned on him. “The arm I left at Gravelotte carried a French chassepôt! Long live France! Long live Alsace—never again Elsass! Long live the rep——”

A gun went off right in his face. But as he lay there, his wide-open eyes were fixed on the west, watching a monoplane flying back to France.

“Prisoner to the bar,” called the Court Clerk.

The prisoner stepped up, closely followed by a dog that had become known as Exhibit A because it was a key piece of evidence during the trial. In one hand, the man held what might have once been a hat. His other hand dangled at his side so the dog could occasionally reach up and give it a loving lick—whenever the man needed some sympathy and support.

In response to the questions asked, the prisoner stated that he was John Brent, twenty-seven years old, and his mother's name was Mary.

“And what’s your father’s name?” the clerk asked, assuming Brent had missed this detail.

“Never had any.”

The judge looked up, shared a sympathetic glance with the prisoner, then looked down again.

The famous Von Betz, who had triggered Brent’s arrest and trial, mocked him.

Some women in attendance, drawn by the high social and professional status of the great Von Betz, appeared shocked.

They might have been shocked.

Exhibit A approached and gave his master’s hand a few encouraging licks, wagging his tail happily in response to the prisoner’s friendly smile.

“The jury,” said the judge, “has found you guilty of assault, with intent to kill, against Dr. Enrich Von Betz. You have had a fair trial. The evidence appears to support the verdict. Do you have anything to say about why the sentence should not be given?”

“I want to say something, Your Honor, because I have a feeling you’ll get it. I have a sense you might have done the same thing I did. I never had a father, and it feels like the world blames me for that. But it wasn’t my fault, and I’ve never blamed my mom either. She was a good person. I've had a pretty rough time—only my mom, the dog, and God have given me a fair shot. Sometimes God seems to forget, I guess.”

The judge leaned in, intrigued. The dog licked the prisoner’s hand and wagged his tail. Feeling encouraged by this, Brent went on:

“There hasn’t been a day since my mother passed away that someone hasn’t come along and made me feel down. Every time I tried to get a fresh start, someone would remind me that I didn’t have a father, and I’d fall back again."

“I started to think I must be a pretty bad person until Yip, the dog, came into my life three years ago. I guess he saw something in me that others didn’t. He didn’t ask if I had a father. He’s stayed by my side, he’s gone hungry for me, and I’ve gone hungry for him. Just look at how he gazes at me, judge. A dog doesn’t look at a person like that unless he sees some good in all the bad.”

“I dragged Yip out from under a trolley car and went under myself. They took me to the hospital and sent Yip to the pound. I was there for a long time, and on the day I left, I did this thing I’m getting charged for.

“I was walking past a building on the property when I heard a dog yelp. It was Yip. I’m not sure how I got in, but I did. I can’t remember exactly what happened once I was inside. I think I almost killed the doctor.”

“But judge,” and his voice became heavy with anger, “when I walked in, I saw Yip lying on his back. They had straps pulling his legs one way and his head another way, so he couldn’t move. All he could do was cry—cry like a baby that understands he’s being hurt but doesn’t know why.

“And the doctor, judge, was standing over Yip, and the knife in his hand was all bloody.”

"Go ahead," said the judge.

“I don’t have anything else to say, except that I want you to send Yip along when you send me away. If you don’t, judge, and the doctor gets Yip and kills him, I’ll kill the doctor when I get out, because I have just as much right to kill the doctor as he does to kill Yip. That’s all I have to say, judge.”

“I know how you feel, Brent,” said the judge in a raspy voice. “I have a dog at home—a dog like Yip. And—and—but duty forces me to sentence you to ten years of hard labor, and I’m giving the same sentence to the dog Yip——”

“Thanks, judge, thanks for sending Yip along. You know, judge, you have a heart, you have feelings, just like Yip and your dog do. You——”

“But considering the circumstances that triggered the assault,” interrupted the judge, “I’ll suspend your sentence as long as you behave well.”

“But Yip,” pleaded the man without a father.

“I’ll put Yip’s sentence on hold, too,” smiled the judge.

The Little White Mare shifted restlessly in the cramped stall, adjusting her weight from one three-legged stance to another. There wasn't enough space to lie down, and the warm smell of ankle-deep manure couldn't escape through the small opening where, occasionally, a flickering beam from the arc light at the corner would shine in.

The day's work had been tough, and dinner was not enough; in her dreams, she tasted a carrot, juicy, crunchy, tender, yet firm, a carrot like the one the little boy used to give her—the little boy who lived on the long street with the rough pavement and lots of car tracks. That was back when Estevan and she used to carry fruits and veggies in the old cart, stopping often and happily in front of many houses, sometimes three or four times in a block. Through her associative memory (the only type of memory psychologists allow her kind), she recognized that street whenever she crossed it in her travels—the Street of the Carrots.

But lately, they were loading other things into the cart—heavy, clanking items, odd, lumpy sacks that Estevan quickly gathered a few at a time during strange hours and in quiet spots. During nighttime trips to dark alleys and courtyards, the loads were handed off to other Mexicans, who counted out small, jingling coins into Estevan’s waiting hand. These days, there were no carrots, no resting under the shade of spreading cottonwoods and chinaberries. With Estevan, there had never been anything to associate with but work and hardships. That’s life—far too little dirty water from a grimy bucket; rough food, with an occasional meager pile of the cheapest grain; an uncomfortable harness; a filthy stall; work—endless work; a child and a carrot being the only memory of any kindness!

El Paso, she understood, not like you do—its mountain views, its rows of solid homes and nice bungalows, but as her half-starved, shaky old frame saw it: hard, paved streets that hurt her feet; terrible, unpaved ones where she stumbled in the ruts and mud or choked on dust; the mountain winds of winter; the fierce summer gusts that picked up surrounding Mexico and blew it to the Mesa, only to return days later and furiously attack Mt. Franklin; the brutal summer heat when, for an entire afternoon, Estevan napped in the cool adobe while she stood in the relentless glare, tired and helpless, envious of the tiny, fluttering shadow cast by the red rag flying over the grocery store, which meant, though she neither knew nor cared, that fresh meat was for sale that day. And heat, glare, red rag, terrible streets of Chihuahuita, their memory was linked to—flies, millions, billions, black, busy, buzzing, biting flies.

Now, even while she was sleeping, she could hear them.

Disturbed from their many naps, the flies buzzed loudly. Estevan's heavy slap landed on her shoulder, and in the starry darkness, he rushed her out of the stall and into the harness. They passed dark rows of adobe houses and one-story shops—jog—jog; jolt—jolt over rough tracks where the noisy engines run; a muffled “’Spero” brought the Little White Mare to a quick stop in the black shadow of a freight car.

Men were waiting there for Estevan, and there were signs and whispers. What was her business! She lowered her head to sniff a pile of sacks; one was torn. Cautiously, she smelled it and then licked it. Heavenly! It was a substance rough like salt that magically turned on your tongue into smooth, slippery, indescribable sweetness! It was sugar, a whole carload, sent from dangerous Mexico to the safety of these United States. In the deep shadow, the thieves expertly moved the sacks from the car to Estevan, who loaded them into his cart.

Something's not right! The men whispered to each other, crouched down, jumped from cart to car, and vanished into the darkness. Meanwhile, the Little White Mare busily nuzzled the ripped burlap, into whose folds the tasty feed was slipping away.

Dazzling light—big men—men different from Estevan—everywhere—in the cart—around her head.

“Vamoosed! To hell with it!” was the verdict.

“And look who’s here,” shouted the biggest guy, shining his flashlight on the heavy cart. “Wow, this is a load for a Packard truck! They really have this old bag of bones secured! There must be a ton or two on that wagon. Alright, guys, move most of this to the patrol, lock up the car, and bring this stuff in as evidence.”

The Little White Mare stood relaxed, happy, warm, and sleepy, while the big man at her head rubbed the back of her ear in a pleasing and unusual way.

The patrol spun away.

“All right, Bourke,” they said, “you can take care of the body.”

“Watch out for the cop, man. It’s four blocks to the graveyard.”

Bourke jumped into the driver’s seat, clicked his tongue comfortably, and, always compliant, the Little White Mare turned from the freight yard onto the dusty road.

A strange creature, this man with the big, soft hands—no sharp, jerking reins, the whip, forgotten; maybe he slept; when Estevan slept he awoke with, always, a crueler lash.

For all animals, Bourke had a gentle kindness, and seeing the scarred, tired horse slowly trotting between the shafts bothered him, just like the old mare's nervous flinch when he jostled the whip-handle in the broken socket. The thought became unsettlingly appealing that she might, out of her own instinct, turn her tormentor in to the authorities.

“Now’s your chance to get back at him, old girl,” he muttered; then louder, “take me to him—home—right home!”

Reins resting on her back, a full belly and a relaxed mind, that unusual memory told the Little White Mare that it was time to return home, to the dusty stall, with the empty trough and the sleeping flies.

Jog, jog, past the sleeping dobermans, past the shops, into the familiar alley—home, finally!

Bourke was gone; from the house beyond the stable partition came Estevan’s voice, high, whining, pleading.

A sharp whistle outside; other voices; the sound of the patrol rushing into town; silence; sleep.

The Little White Mare got her revenge.

“Lieutenant Townley,” Captain Von Dee said sharply, “as a spy, you will be executed in two hours. As per my custom, you will have a choice. You can choose to be shot in the typical way, or you can go through the Black Door that you see behind me. Please state your choice when the time comes.”

Von Dee—“Von Dee the whimsical,” they called him in the trenches—turned to his reports while Lieutenant Townley was taken back to his cell. A wave of hopelessness washed over him. So this was it? All his hopes and plans about marrying Cecile were about to be lost. It was hard to grasp that in just an hour, he would be separated by an unbridgeable gap from the woman he loved more than anything and trusted like no man had ever trusted a woman before.

“Shot ... or the Black Door....” Von Dee’s words echoed in his mind. What terrible fate—which legend claimed was worse than death—awaited those who went through the Black Door? He knew that not a single prisoner had dared to cross it. Each one chose death at the hands of the firing squad instead.

A half hour passed. Then, suddenly, a piece of paper fluttered into his hands. He opened it and read:

“Choose the Black Door. I know.” It was signed Cecile.

Now the time for the execution couldn't come soon enough. Cecile remembered! Cecile saved him. Maybe behind the Black Door he would just be injured or disabled and could return to Cecile. As the guards brought him into Von Dee's quarters, his heart pounded with joy. In the dim light of the room, he could see Von Dee and an unfamiliar person talking. In just a moment, he would tell Captain Von Dee that he, Lieutenant Townley, chose to go through the Black Door.

He waited. It seemed like nobody noticed he was there. He could hear bits of conversation: "I've always said," Von Dee was saying, "that no matter how brave a man is, he'll choose a familiar way to die over an uncertain one...."

There was a pause, and then the other voice said: “And you're the only one who knows what’s behind the Black Door?”

“No,” Von Dee replied to his brother. “A woman knows.” Then he added with a chuckle, “She was one of my exes!”

Lieutenant Townley heard, shuddered, turned pale, then stiffened. Von Dee stood in front of him, speaking. “Well, Lieutenant,” he said, “do you choose the Black Door?”

“I do not!” the prisoner replied. Von Dee nodded to the guards who took Lieutenant Townley away. A moment later, the sound of the firing squad echoed from the drill grounds.

“What did I tell you!” shouted Von Dee at his brother. “Lieutenant Townley, one of the bravest, couldn’t face the unknown. He took the usual route.” For a few moments, he silently puffed on his cigar, then suddenly asked, “Birwitz, do you know what’s behind the Black Door?”

The younger Von Dee shook his head.

“Freedom,” said Captain Von Dee. “And I’ve never met a man bold enough to seize it!”

Toward midnight in the smoking room of the trans-Atlantic liner Howard, the author was sharing his thoughts on realism and romance. During one of his pauses, someone else in the group chimed in:

“Realism,” said the interrupter, “is just a term that people who can only see the ordinary and dull aspects of life use to justify their inability to recognize the romances that unfold around us every day. The last time I heard someone preach the doctrine of realism was at the home of a wealthy New Yorker who claimed that he had never experienced even a hint of the unusual or romantic in his life. He had never fallen in love and had no adventures. Three days later, on a morning, he was found sitting in a chair on the porch of his summer home, dead from a stab wound to the heart. Three hundred thousand dollars in cash, which he had received from selling a block of bonds, was missing from his office safe, where he had placed it the previous late afternoon because his bank was closed. The only clue found about the murderer was a blood-stained stiletto, which was discovered between the Old and the New Testaments in a big family Bible on a high shelf in the library of the murdered man’s summer home. The mystery of the murder was never solved.”

“The plot of a really intriguing story,” Howard commented, continuing with his monologue. A short while later, the gathering ended. On his way to his stateroom, Winton, who had been part of the group, stopped by the wireless room and sent a message.

Three days later at the New York pier, the man who had interrupted Howard was arrested for a murder committed four years earlier. “I was once part of the police,” Winton explained to Howard; “that knife was never found until he revealed where to look for it that night in the smoking room.”

Six months of married life hadn’t dulled the two big events in each weekday of Delia Hetherington’s calm life—the morning goodbye and the evening return of her husband. His departure was filled with lingering kisses, advice, and encouragement; his return was a celebration. Didn’t he take risks with fate at every goodbye and go out to face the day, a fearless hero, amid busy traffic and rushing streetcars, under hanging safes and falling tiles, next to dangerous holes and open manholes? Yet he always seemed to have a lucky charm, coming back to her at night with exciting stories of his sales and witty comebacks to his boss.

Delia hummed a sad, childlike tune as she set the little round dining table for two. Like most brides, she arranged the places side by side instead of across from each other. A light curiosity crossed her mind, and she carefully put a saucer on the table to see how a third place would look. She quickly took it away, blushing, even though she was all alone in the four-room apartment where she and Fred, supported by monthly payments, had created their home. She continued her singing, sweet and simple like a bird’s song. One could imagine that Mrs. Cock Robin sang a similar tune while waiting for her partner to come home.

A soft knock at the back door pulled Delia away from happily admiring the shiny forks next to the two plates on the dining room table. She quickly went into the kitchen, wisely recalling Fred’s insistence that she should never unlock the screen door for a stranger before figuring out their intentions. No well-dressed young man trying to pay his way through college by selling subscriptions for “The Woman’s Life and Fashion Bazaar” could find the right words to persuade her to let him in; no weathered gypsy with shiny tins to trade for old shoes knew the magic phrase that would make Delia lift the latch with caution.

But the guy who was standing on the narrow porch, panting like a marathon runner, was none of these.

“The steps,” he panted, pressing one hand against his chest, “are too much for me.”

To climb the four flights of stairs to the Hetherington apartment at the top of the building was a challenge for a strong man. The person who knocked at the screen door was thin and appeared unwell.

With quick empathy, Delia unlatched the door and pushed it open.

“Come in and sit for a minute,” she said softly.

The guy stumbled through the doorway and collapsed into the chair she offered him. The screen door slammed shut.

He shivered as if a blast of cold air had hit him.

“Close the inner door—fast,” he gasped; and Delia, caught up in her concern, did it without thinking.

“It’s a shame to bother you,” he said anxiously, “but I’m not doing well.”

Delia handed him a glass of water. He took small sips between breaths.

“Don’t turn on the gas,” he yelled urgently.

Delia had struck a match, as night was quickly setting in. She blew out the little flame and looked at him, half scared.

“Just let me rest for a minute,” he said. “I’m not a threat. I couldn’t hurt a baby even if I tried.”

He barely held back a whimper as he looked around the room with curiosity.

“You're all by yourself, huh? I'm glad you weren't scared to let me in. Some women would have just left me out there.”

“What would I be afraid of?” she asked casually, feeling uneasy all the same.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied irritably. “It’s just that most people seem to be scared of a sick person. They don’t want him nearby. They won’t give him a chance.”

"That can't be true," said Delia. "Everyone naturally feels sorry for someone who's sick."

“No, they don’t,” he said sharply. “Do you know what would happen if I passed out in the street? Do you think anyone would help me? Not a chance. I could lie there like a dog while the crowd walked by. The guys would laugh; the women would say, ‘That’s disgusting.’ I know. It’s happened to me.”

He coughed a bit and finished the glass of water.

A faint sound outside caught his attention. He hurried to the window and looked out. He appeared starved and disheveled, but the slightly tidy appearance of his clothes suggested the routine of a hardworking person.

He suddenly turned to Delia.

“I need to tell you,” he whispered quickly. “They’re coming up here. You’ve got some compassion for a guy and you’re not scared.”

She looked at him and started to understand.

“I’m a thief,” he said straightforwardly, and swallowed hard after saying it. “I took a few dollars, and now the police are after me.”

“A thief!” she exclaimed, looking at him. “I don't have any money.”

“I get it, I get it,” he muttered in a frantic rush. “I don’t want to steal from you. I just want to escape. I had no choice.”

"Coerced!"

“We were starving. I’m married, just like you. Wouldn’t your husband do anything for you?”

He suddenly stopped and listened. Loud knocking echoed from somewhere below.

“All I want you to do is let me out the front door; and don’t say anything. Just say you didn’t see me.”

Already he had walked through the dining room, with Delia trailing behind him into the narrow, short, dark hall.

“If someone knocks, don’t answer,” he whispered. “Don’t turn on any lights.”

He cautiously opened the front door.

“They’ll think no one’s around.” He turned and looked at her. “It’ll give me a chance—just a chance is all I need. You’ll never regret it.”

He quietly closed the door behind him.

Delia stood there, breathless.

Voices were asking and answering questions on the porch below, but she couldn't make out the words. It felt like she was the one guilty of some crime.

Suddenly, the phone on the wall next to her rang loudly and unexpectedly.

She didn’t move. Heavy footsteps were coming up the stairs to the back porch.

Again, the phone rang out against the silence in the small apartment.

She didn't dare to move and stayed pressed against the wall. In the darkness, she could see the doorway to the brighter kitchen like a black frame.

The phone rang again, long and persistently.

Heavy knocking shook the back door, but Delia didn’t respond. There was a moment of silence, and then a voice shouted out with the quickness of excitement:

“No one’s home, Jim. He couldn’t get in here.”

This was what she had been waiting to hear.

The sound of footsteps coming down faded away.

Delia rushed to the phone and waited eagerly. But the phone didn't ring again.

“Any sign of him, Jim?” asked the desk sergeant, as the big patrol officer walked into the police station.

“Nope. Can anyone ID the body?”

“He had cards on him that had his name and address. The poor guy never saw it coming. He didn’t get the chance to hand over his cash; some coward snuck up from behind and whacked him with a heavy pipe. We called his home, but couldn’t get anyone on the line.”

Jack Burroughs' dog broke away from him and suddenly dashed down the first opening. The usual sharp whistle didn't have any effect. "Jim" was off. Jack quickly followed and was relieved to see a big Irishman patting "Jim's" head; "Jim" was clearly delighted, jumping up and down and rubbing against the man.

That marked the beginning of the unusual friendship between Jack Burroughs, a lawyer and sports enthusiast, and Dennis O’Sullivan.

Dennis lived in the last house on “Grasshopper Hill.” It looked a bit less run-down and a bit more independent than the other homes in the row that faced a small bluff above the railroad tracks, and its garden was vibrant and flourishing. Dennis himself was big, sturdy, with a somewhat red face, but he had the sparkling blue eyes and friendly charm of a true son of Ireland.

Later, Dennis brought rare bulbs and vintage flowers to Jack Burroughs' nearly palatial suburban home; Jack enlisted Dennis to help him make his garden beautiful.

As the war dragged on fearfully, they, oddly enough, never even talked about it, until one day in June when Jack suddenly said: “Dennis, I wrote to a cousin in England to see if it’s possible for me to get a commission in the English army.”

Dennis looked up from the border he was working on and said:

“For why would I like to know?”

“Well, Dennis, you see, my great-grandfather was an Irish patriot and came over here during Emmet’s rebellion; but now Ireland needs me, and I’m going.”

“From which part of the old country was your grandfather?”

“Oh, from near Lough Neagh.”

“Are you meaning County Antrim, Mister Burroughs?”

“Of course, Dennis.”

“Then I’m your guy, and I'll go with you.”

Jack was pretty surprised, but after thinking it over, he chose to take the risk.

“Dennis, will you sign the pledge if I take you with me?”

Dennis’ blue eyes sparkled, and with a funny smile, he took off his cap from his bright red hair and said, “Sure thing, your honor.”

Both gardens bloomed brightly in the June sunshine; both men talked and worked and planned in secret for their quick departure. At last, the letter arrived.

Jack, as cheerful as ever, went to Dennis first. “Come out to the house tonight, Dennis, and we’ll make our final plans.”

"You can count on me, and I will be grateful to you for the rest of my life."

With this letter held high, Jack, with “Jim” following closely behind him, happily waved it to a sweet girl he spotted on a nearby porch.

“Can I come in, Eleanor?” he called.

The blue eyes greeted him warmly. He sat on the lower step, leaned against the post, and looked up at the girl.

“Eleanor, I'm heading off to war!”

The smile vanished from her sweet lips, her slender, strong hands tightened into fists, but the girl’s voice was calm as she replied:

"I barely understand, Jack."

Then he eagerly explained how his cousins in England, sharing the same Irish blood, were fighting—some even dying—on the battlefields in France, and a call had come to him, and he had to go.

He stood tall and straight, his gray eyes sparkling—those eyes she loved so much—his head held high. Ah! The girl felt he would lead his men even to their deaths. He gave his warm, cheerful smile; surely she would understand.

“Sit down, Jack, sweetheart. Yes, I get it,” she smiled into those eager eyes; “but you don’t really understand. No, wait, please—you are an American, Jack, always and forever; and soon, all too soon, your country might need men like you. You can’t abandon your country now! You can’t, can’t, Jack, sweetheart!”

And Jack got it.

How do I tell Dennis, how do I break the news to him; what am I supposed to say?

As he later saw the big guy walking slowly up the path, Dennis tipped his cap to Jack.

“Will you let me have my pipe, Mr. Burroughs? I feel so low that I can't talk without it.”

Jack grinned.

“I’m feeling a little down myself, Dennis.”

“Well, I might as well get it out like a man, Mr. Burroughs. I went to talk to my Nora and she said, ‘Dennis O’Sullivan, have you lost the little bit of sense you have? You’re not leaving your own country. Didn’t you become an American citizen five years ago?’ And, sure enough, Mr. Burroughs, it was true what she said!”

Leonard Raymond was naturally inclined to be a naturalist. If he hadn't needed to make a living, he would definitely have been an Audubon or a Gray. He spent his free time observing the behaviors of the living things around town: English sparrows, pigeons, stray cats, homeless dogs, and so on. Old man Peterkin, whose wife ran the boarding house where Raymond had his meals, and who did nothing but collect the board payments, gain weight, and serve as the church deacon, told him that the crows in the cupola of the Eutaw Place synagogue had been nesting there for eleven years. Raymond wasn't sure whether to see that as an interesting fact about crows or as proof that Mr. Peterkin wasn’t telling the truth. However, neither Mr. Peterkin nor the crows are relevant to this story.

In the backyard of the Linden Avenue house where he lived with his married sister, Raymond grew flowers, and on Sundays and holidays, he would often go to the countryside to observe the wildflowers and birds.

One summer evening, he sat in the backyard surrounded by flowers. He felt hot and lonely, with the temperature nearing ninety degrees, the family away on vacation, and no time off in sight for himself. Tomorrow, he thought, he would go back to his job as a bank teller and hand out more money than he would ever earn in his lifetime; the day after that, he would do the same thing—

His gloomy thoughts were interrupted by what looked like a ball of fire on top of the tall wooden fence. In a flash, it vanished, and he saw a long black cat slide down the fence and land in the yard. The cat approached a garbage can in the corner of the yard, sniffed around it, noticed that the lid was on, and then, turning its shiny eyes toward Raymond, jumped up the fence and disappeared.

The same thing happened the next evening. On the third evening, when the cat showed up, Raymond approached slowly and tried to be friendly. The cat hesitated, but as the man’s hand got close, it bolted up and over the fence.

The next evening, when Raymond walked uptown from the bank, as he got close to Richmond market, he thought about the cat and stopped at a stall to buy a small piece of meat.

The meat was placed on the ground near the fence where the cat usually showed up. Its eye sparkled. Raymond wondered why both eyes didn’t sparkle when the cat seemed to drop straight onto the meat. Raymond stayed completely still and heard the meat crunching between the cat's jaws. The animal was licking its lips when he approached—it met him halfway, and as Raymond petted its fur, the cat purred. Sitting on a bench, the cat jumped into his lap, curled up, and got comfortable for a nap. That’s when he noticed a small chain around the cat’s neck with a tag on it.

When he walked into the house, the cat followed him, and by the gaslight, he saw an address on the tag that read Madison Avenue. He also noticed that the cat had only one eye, so he named him Cyclops. He couldn't understand why someone who cared enough for the cat to give him a chain and tag would leave him to scavenge for food in alleys and backyards like any common stray.

Cyclops stuck with Raymond like a twin brother. Every evening when Raymond got back from work, he would stop at Richmond market and buy meat for Cyclops. One day, the guy at the stall asked him if he was a family man.

One Sunday morning, Raymond walked across Eutaw Place and headed to the Madison Avenue address. The house was shut up for the summer, but the police officer on duty told him who lived there.

Summer was almost over when Raymond saw in the newspaper that the people from the Madison Avenue house had come back to town. Raymond was an honest man—if he weren't, he wouldn't have been trusted to handle the bank's money. So on Saturday evening, with Cyclops tucked under his arm, he sadly walked up Madison Avenue to return the cat to its rightful owner. Boys on the street made comments about the man and the cat, and Cyclops’ large eye turned green with anger as he glared at them.

A woman of color, fitting the Mammy stereotype, answered his ring. She looked and gasped. Before Raymond could explain, she stuck her head into the hallway and shouted in loud tones:

“Come here, Miss ’Liza! Thank the Lord if that isn’t your cat!”

In a moment, the prettiest girl Raymond had ever seen appeared. She had blue eyes and a bunch of golden hair. Although he was relatively young and definitely in the eligible category, Raymond wasn't really a ladies' man. Feeling quite embarrassed, he shared the story of the cat.

While she held Cyclops close to her, the girl explained that she had left him with a friend to look after during the summer, and he had escaped. She had thought he was gone for good.

“That cat knows what he's doing,” snickered the Mammy, who was standing back in the hall. “That cat can see further than you can even if he only has one eye.”

Raymond left without a cat. On his way home, he was trying to figure out how to visit the beautiful Miss ’Liza. On Sunday afternoon, he went out to the countryside, surrounded by the woods, flowers, and birds, and his heart was filled with poetry while his mind was busy with thoughts of the girl.

That evening, old Cyclops was back on the fence! His big eye had a gleam of mischief. He slid down the fence and headed straight for Raymond, who decided he needed to take the cat back to his owner right away.

While Cyclops walked around the living room with his tail up, rubbing against every piece of furniture, Raymond chatted with Miss ’Liza.

Every evening, Cyclops returned to Raymond, and every evening he promptly took him home. So, time passed from autumn into early winter.

One evening, sitting in front of the small wooden fire in her living room, Raymond said to Miss ’Liza, “I think there's only one way to keep our cat in one spot!”

Then Miss ’Liza blushed and said she only saw one way too!

Then he kissed her!

And the old Cyclops rubbed against both of them and purred loudly.

Captain Billy MacDonald was one of those serious Highland Scotsmen; deep-sea guys; giving off a strong vibe of the ocean. He was past middle age and few words, but there was an indescribable sparkle in his gray eyes that hinted at a sense of humor. When the weather looked like it was about to change, Captain Billy would usually head to his cabin, telling the mate to “call me if it picks up,” and when the first gust of a squall filled the sails of the Lizzie MacDonald—named after his daughter, who was second only to her in his affections—tilting the boat toward her leeward scuppers, Captain Billy would quickly leave his game of solitaire and jump on deck. A single look at the sky was enough for him to make a decision. For him, decision and action were the same thing; and when he shouted the order, “All hands shorten sail,” every single man sprang to the rigging, because “Solitaire” Bill, as he was known among seafarers from Glasgow to the Horn, was a true ruler when at sea.

For twenty years, the ship Lizzie MacDonald had been transporting goods back and forth across the Atlantic and was one of the few ships of her kind still competing against modern steamships. She was anchored in the roads at Kingston, Jamaica, after unloading a cargo of dried fish from Boston, and was all set to head to Liverpool with sugar and molasses. The war situation had increased freight rates, and the Lizzie had been making her owners more money than ever before.

It was 102 degrees in the shade, and at ten o’clock in the morning, “Solitaire Bill” sat in his cabin at a wobbly table, seemingly unaware of everything except the game of solitaire. Most people didn’t know that the captain could plot a course or think about other topics more effectively when he was focused on the game than at any other time. So when the Yankee mate came aboard in a small boat, he cleared his throat apologetically before interrupting the skipper.

“Well,” said Captain Billy, looking up as he placed the ten of diamonds on the queen of spades, “what’s the good word?”

“Nothing happening,” answered the mate, a lean, weathered guy with the distinct nasal twang of someone from New England. “The cook’s the only one in the bunch with any guts. Just as I expected. The crew were scared of the German submarines, so they headed north on the cargo ship that left for New York this morning.”

“So there’s no way to get a crew,” the captain thought. “It’s a shame we’re going to be delayed now that freight rates are so high, but I guess there’s nothing we can do. We can’t set sail without a crew, that’s for sure.”

“There isn’t a sailor without a ship in Kingston,” said the mate. “If we were using steam, we could take on a dozen or so of these guys, but they wouldn’t work on a square-rigger. They wouldn’t know the main topgallant sail halyards from the bobstay,” and the mate went on deck, leaving “Solitaire” Bill to continue with his favorite pastime.

That afternoon, when a light breeze came through the city from the mountain behind, "Solitaire" Bill had the cook drop him off. He planned to cable his agents that he would be delayed indefinitely due to not having a crew. He walked mechanically through the sun-baked streets past the small white houses with Black people lounging in the doorways, heading to the Custom House, where he found a cablegram waiting for him.

As he looked over the typewritten page, a smile appeared on his tired face. It was just as he had hoped, even though he had always made it a point not to interfere in his daughter’s life. He had worked hard to give her an education that neither he nor her late mother had received, and even though he had only seen her twice a year, he knew she loved Douglas MacGillis and was happy with her choice. He read the cable again: “Douglas and I are getting married on March 30th. He leaves for the front in early April. Expect you in Liverpool before the 30th.”

Since the death of his wife fifteen years ago, his daughter Lizzie had been the main focus of “Solitaire” Bill’s care and love. She was set to marry a Scotsman—a gentleman who was heading to the front lines to "do his part" for king and country. Since the war began, Captain Billy often wished he were younger. He would have eagerly put on the khaki to fight for Britain in the trenches. He had the unyielding spirit of a Highlander. But despite being as vigorous and sharp-minded as many men half his age, he was past the age limit for active service, so he dedicated himself to the equally patriotic task of bringing supplies to Britain to keep its commerce running smoothly.

“If I had a crew,” he murmured, as he shuffled the worn deck of cards in the quiet of his cabin while waiting for dinner, “I could get to Liverpool, if the weather’s good, in time for the wedding. If I could do that—well, that’s all I ask——”

Suddenly, Captain “Solitaire” Bill erupted into a fit of laughter. “By the Powers, I’ll give it a shot,” he exclaimed, as he sprang up the stairs with youthful cheer.

“Supper’s ready,” called the cook from the door of the kitchen.

“Get dinner ready for the whole crew,” the captain ordered, “and will you come ashore with me, Mr. Smith?” he said to the first mate. “I want you to gather a crew of those workers while I head to the Custom House and take care of things. We’ll set sail as soon as you have them.”

The mate looked incredulously. “The guys can’t even figure out the compass and——”

“Forget about that,” ordered “Solitaire” Bill, “you get them on board and leave the rest to me.”

“Well, I might as well explain now; it’s too good to keep a moment longer,” chuckled “Solitaire” Bill, as he instructed the taxi driver waiting in front of the church to take him to the Liverpool House.

“We're really curious to know what you and Mr. Smith are laughing about,” said Lieut. Douglas MacGillis and his wife at the same time. The mate, Mr. Smith, seemed clearly uneasy in what he called his “moonlight clothes,” but he laughed uncontrollably as he reflected on the past.

“I’ve always been obsessed with solitaire,” said Captain Billy, “and after I got your message, I was in a tough spot and turned to a game with myself for comfort. I wanted to make it to this wedding more than anything else, but I couldn’t get here without a crew to operate the ship, and sailors were as rare as hens’ teeth in Kingston. But the cards inspired me. I hired a crew of guys who didn’t know the first thing about sailing on a square-rigged ship—but they all knew how to play cards. I attached a playing card to each of the main ropes and sails, and those guys were like cats in the rigging.”

“When I yelled, ‘Pull up your ace of spades,’ they were after that mizzen-royal in a flash. Mr. Smith, the cook, and I took turns at the wheel. ‘Double reef your deuce of diamonds,’ and they secured the foresail perfectly. All’s well that ends well. I’ve never had a smarter group of sailors. I know the guys all called me ‘Solitaire’ Bill behind my back, but from now on, every crew member and the cook will call me ‘Solitaire,’ or they won’t sign on with the best brig sailing the Atlantic.”

Jim Doyle—sent to Sing Sing last year—is innocent. I committed the crime he was sent away for. I was broke and out of work, and Mary, my wife, was sick with consumption and needed food, warm clothes, and medicine. I held up a guy who had more than he needed and didn’t get it any more honestly than I did when I knocked him over the head and took it from his belt. Then Jim came up with a plan to take the blame and serve my time as long as Mary lived, so she wouldn’t know and I could be with her and take care of her. She died today. There’s one hundred and fifty dollars under the mattress along with proof that I’m the guilty one. Bury my wife properly and give the rest to Jim to help him get back on his feet once you let him out. Get a kind-hearted pastor to say a prayer for me and then bury me in Potter’s Field. I’m going the gas route. Jim’s not related to me—just a friend. He figured no one would care if he was in prison or not. He once loved a girl, but she turned out bad and ruined Jim’s life. Tell him “God bless him.”

P. S.—I’m sorry I killed that guy, but I just needed the money for Mary. Maybe I can make amends with him where I’m going.

Knee deep in the mud, the French “Alpines,” the “Blue Devils,” as the Germans referred to them, were observing the enemy’s positions being shelled. Massive columns of black smoke rose above the white line of trenches beneath the thicket of spruce, and with each deafening explosion, chunks of dirt, sandbags, and armor plates shot high into the air.

In anticipation of the charge, the “Blue Devils” leaned on their rifles, some laughing and joking, while others, serious and somber, reread the last letters from their loved ones.

Corporal Dupin sat down, staring at the photo of his wife and baby. When everything went downhill, Dupin was living quietly in Canada, and he had come as an honorable man to join the army, leaving his young family on the safer side of the ocean. The morning mail had just brought him news that his wife and baby had sailed on the Lusitania to be closer to him…. How his heart raced!

... Surely he would come through this struggle okay, even if he carried himself bravely as always, and maybe he’d be lucky enough to get a day off and see his wife and baby somewhere, maybe in Belfast or in Nancy. He could already picture that reunion. He felt happy. How enthusiastically he went to his duty today!...

He heard the lieutent's voice.

“Here, guys!” was the short command. “You’ve always done your part. Today you have to do it even more, because Germany has committed a new crime. One of her submarines has sunk the Lusitania. There are innocent lives to avenge.”

The Lusitania! Welcome her! Dupin eagerly snatched the paper from the officer’s hands. He read and reread the list of survivors. Just two seconds later, there was no more doubt, and he realized that everything he loved in the world had been lost.

Oh, kill! Kill the murderers and take revenge!... Kill and torture!... How long will the shelling go on? When will the signal for the attack come?...

Ah! the welcome star-like rocket! The French guns extended their shots and shelled the upper line of trenches... A loud shout and a frenzied rush... The “Blue Devils” were in action.

Ta, ta, ta, ta.... The German machine guns. Sh! Cirr! Shrapnel exploded with a quick flash and little yellow clouds.... Dead men dropped.

But the rest continued running and bouncing until they reached the German positions. The “75s” shells had wrecked the barbed wire, and the main trench was a disaster, scattered with bodies.... Bullets zipped by, grenades went off, and wounded men screamed.

From a dark opening, a bullet narrowly missed Corporal Dupin as he charged forward, bayonet aimed, after a fleeing man. He let that target go, tossed a bomb into the hideout, and as soon as it detonated, he rushed inside.

Covered in blood, a German officer lay down. He threatened Dupin with his empty pistol, but when he realized it was all over for him, he tossed the gun away with a wild laugh and looked at Dupin defiantly and arrogantly. The cold, blue eyes of the German didn’t misinterpret Dupin’s feelings. To the corporal's dark, darting eyes, they exchanged hatred for hatred. Dupin believed the submarine's commander must have looked just like this man. Yes, he would pay a heavy price for the cold-blooded murderer’s sins. The time for revenge had come.

Dupin hadn’t struck yet. He enjoyed thinking about his enemy’s suffering... He considered torturing the man... The guy must pay.

From losing blood, the German officer suddenly fainted, and Dupin found himself kneeling over the enemy, treating his wounds, stopping his bleeding, caring for him like a brother...

Again, shrapnel exploded. The German artillery was already bombarding the captured trenches. Prepared for another battle, Dupin, before leaving the injured officer, wrapped him in a blanket and left him his own water bottle. One last time, he looked at him with a sad but proud smile and said:

“No, we aren’t the same race. We can’t do the same things.”

And those were his last words, as a bullet pierced his heart, and, still smiling, but this time very gently, Dupin went to meet his loved ones.

The story above was accompanied by this letter:

Dear Editor:

Just imagine the artillery bombardment of the trenches and a young French officer trying to maintain the morale (which is impressive, I must say) of his soldiers, teaching them to disregard death, or rather, to demonstrate that he is not inferior to them in that regard.

Imagine that same officer reading your Vive La France issue of Life and translating it for his men, then glancing at your contest offer and finding it quite amusing to fill his fountain pen and jot down a very short story on the first scraps of paper he can find.

The author doesn't have the confidence to say that his story is particularly interesting. He also knows that as a Frenchman, he doesn't speak or write English very well; however, he is sharing it with you mainly because of its originality and to show you that French soldiers value the friendship of America.

At any rate, it’s an authentic story from the trenches and a keepsake of the war.

Into the judge’s empty office walked the defense attorney, followed by his client. The defense attorney had a combative hairstyle and glasses. His demeanor was more straightforward and serious than his speech, which was full of trickery. His client was overweight, with the unattractive bulk often seen in local politicians—pig-like and overly cheerful. They had come to get away from the staring crowd. The attorney was recovering from his four-hour speech to the jury. Sweat dripped from his spiky hair, and he wiped his wrists with a limp handkerchief.

“Honest John” looked at his lawyer with a blank kind of admiration. “Tom, that was an awesome speech.” Then, as if this might be too modest praise for a politician to give his employee, he added: “Best one you’ve ever given.”

Tom Jenison said nothing. When he was tired, there was a certain honesty in his eyes, as if he pretended to be clever for the sake of business.

“How long will they be out?” asked Honest John, thinking about the twelve people who were debating in a nearby room about sending him to prison for stealing public funds.

“How should I know?” Jenison said sulkily.

The politician sat silently, his thick hands resting on his pants over his dress shirt. He was contemplating how little public support might matter to the twelve men who were now deciding his fate. He sighed shakily.

"You're not worried, right?"

“Nope, I guess not. I’m fine.”

The politician lost his composure. He flushed, sighed, and swatted at flies. His jaw loosened and dropped. His hands shook.

“Tom,” he started, “what are the odds?”

“I don't know. Afraid?”

“I’m a bit nervous. That’s it.”

Jenison had loved the fight for its own sake. Spectators thought he defended Honest John just to collect his big paycheck, but that wasn't his only reason. He hadn’t realized before that his client wasn’t as brave as he was. He believed in the "presumption of innocence" and stood against the prosecutors and the court. But if his client was a coward, his fight suddenly felt unworthy.

Honest John's puffy eyes filled with tears. "You've been a great friend to me, Tom."

“Oh, stop that.”

“Yes, you have. I really appreciate it.”

Jenison, looking at him, couldn’t believe he ever thought this man was a friend or worth trying to save. The miserable face made him feel sick.

“You’re the only guy who understands how I feel.” His client was trying to explain his breakdown. “I can’t deal with the guilt. I know you’d keep fighting as long as I kept paying you”—his lawyer flinched—“but I can’t handle another trial. I’m ready for them.”

"Ready? How?"

“I've got it right here.” Honest John tapped his chest, then pulled out a slim pill box.

Contempt returned to Jenison’s eyes. “Why are you telling me? Go tell someone who actually cares.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Tom.”

“Oh, yes, you do. You’d never take that stuff. You don’t have the guts. You’re just dragging this out for sympathy.”

The politician walked over to an ice-water stand and dropped two tablets into a glass of water. He said with shaky confidence, “Alright—here goes.”

“You might as well drink it,” said the lawyer. “God knows you’re guilty. You’ll pay for it eventually.”

The glass moved halfway to Honest John’s lips and then went back to the stand. “I think—I’ll wait.”

“I figured as much. You’ll be waiting until you’re in jail, and then you’ll regret not taking your medicine.” Jenison said it like it was his professional advice for his client to drink the potion. “It takes a real man to walk away when the game is over. I guess in a way I’m just as dishonest as you, but I have a chance to come out on top because I’m not scared. If I thought that the reputation of helping you would stick to me, I’d be willing to take your poison.”

They heard footsteps shuffling in the courtroom.

“An officer is announcing that they’ve reached a verdict,” said Jenison. He looked his client in the eyes and added, “I hope it’s guilty!”

“Why—I don’t—what’s wrong? I’ll pay you.”

Jenison erupted with anger. “Yes, you’ll pay! To you, it’s all about the money! Do you think I would have fought if I knew you were a coward? I hate myself for ever taking your money!”

His client stared at him in dumb silence.

“And let me tell you something else. You’re the last thief I’ll work for. I’m done keeping your kind out of jail.” A wave of self-disgust hit him. “I’ll never take another dime of a crook’s money for as long as I live, so help me God!”

They heard the jury slowly walking into the courtroom to give their quick verdict. Jenison felt a deep shame gnawing at him. A shaky sigh made him turn around. Honest John had lifted the glass to his lips. His eyes were wide with fear, and he spilled half the drink on his shirt. Before Jenison could get to him, he had gulped it down. Terror froze the attorney for a moment, then he pushed through the doorway into the courtroom.

A tall guy in the jury box smiled as he walked in. That meant “Not guilty.” Without noticing the attorney’s overwhelming excitement, the judge said, “If the defendant will return, the verdict will be delivered.”

Jenison kept his composure and stood tall.

“If it pleases your honor,” he said, “if it pleases your honor”—he could only point through the doorway at Honest John’s body slumped in a chair—“the defendant has given his own verdict.”

Night had fallen on the third day at Vera Cruz, and from navy headquarters, the commanding officer, his orders sharp and clear like a radio transmission, was directing the cleanup of snipers.

“Lawrence,” he said, “you’ll find six machine guns—buried in boxes—in the backyard of No. 17 Avenida Cortes.”

As Lieutenant Lawrence left headquarters with his squad, Ensign McHenry walked in to make his report.

“McHenry, you're up next. This is Gonzales, who knows how to track down Fernando Diaz. Get Diaz tonight.”

McHenry immediately set off with Gonzales, taking in his long list of directions. The Mexican couldn't help but smile at the American's sudden rush, but he easily kept pace with him. They turned into dirty back streets that led to the market area.

At the entrance to a dark alley, Gonzales stepped aside.

“After you, sir.”

When the person in the white uniform stepped into the shadow of an awning, “Gonzales” pulled out his gun and shot point-blank into the officer’s back. After throwing away his weapon, he ran to No. 17 Calle de Zamora and whistled.

“Pava, Pava, come here! I’ve shot an American officer! The marines are searching for our machine guns. I said ‘Avenida Cortes,’ but that traitor, Vicente, will guide the Americans here.”

“Let them come,” said La Pava. She locked the door as he walked in. “What name did you use?”

“Emilio Gonzales.”

“Listen, Fernando. Don’t stay for even a minute. Let me think. What if I just cut your head a little bit, like this?” He flinched at the knife, and she kissed him. “See, it bleeds enough onto this bandage, which will cover your face. Quick! To the Military Hospital! Sleep there, safe among hundreds of our wounded. Go!”

Meanwhile, Vicente, the informer, had tracked Diaz. Hearing the gunshot and discovering McHenry injured, he hurried to headquarters. The news reached Lawrence, who quickly gathered his squad and rushed to Calle de Zamora. Rifle butts broke down the door, and Lawrence, with his gun drawn, led the men inside with their bayonets at the ready.

La Pava, the beautiful Azteca, stood facing the shiny steel, a thin wisp of smoke drifting from her cigarette.

“Good evening, sir?”

“You have six machine guns. Where are they?” Lawrence glanced at his watch. “I’ll give you three minutes to answer.”

La Pava had encountered death before. A skilled sharpshooter, riding ahead of Villa’s army, she had attracted the enemy's fire, stolen plans, food, and money. She had seduced the opposing general and learned his strategy. She was a scout, a spy, a prostitute—a patriot. Now she looked on innocently, with admiration, at the young lieutenant. His men, captivated, unconsciously lowered their rifles.

Sir, she pleaded, “you'll be doing me a great injustice if you shoot, because I don't have any guns. Someone has lied. Search, and you will see.”

The Marines searched the place thoroughly.

When Lawrence asked La Pava to take him into the courtyard, she didn't hesitate, and his flashlight revealed that the ground hadn't been disturbed.

Bending down, he saw the shine of a knife and, in the same instant, snatched it out of her hand.

“You're fast, sir. But one day I will catch up with you—you who wouldn't believe me.”

The sergeant came back and said, “I can’t find anything, sir.” Then, noticing the knife, he added, “Should I put her in handcuffs, sir?”

Lawrence knew her type; she would be flattered by handcuffs and would see him as weak.

“No, sergeant. The lady will walk with me.”

Through the streets to prison, wafting a powerful scent of perfumed powder, she walked alongside Lawrence, using her eyes with that dazzling effect known only to women from tropical places.

He would confront her with Vicente, Lawrence thought, but as the walls of Ulloa Castle came into view, the “Place of Executions” sparked another idea.

“Halt!” He organized a firing squad and blindfolded the prisoner. Remembering Vicente’s story about the guns, he declared, as if he really believed it, “With my own eyes, during the battle, I saw your gun boxes taken from the arsenal. Where are they now?”

La Pava didn't respond. She crossed her arms and held her head high.

“Ready!... Aim!...” Lawrence lifted the muzzle of the sergeant’s gun; the men, following his lead, aimed high.

“Squad—”

It was too much even for La Pava. She fell to her knees.

“Wait, sir! I’ll share everything, but only on one small condition—that you spare Emilio Gonzales's life. If not—you can kill me. On your word as an officer, save him, and let me see him, and by the Blessed Virgin, I will tell you the truth.”

“Where's this guy?”

"He's at the Military Hospital."

“I’ll do everything I can for Gonzales—I’ll take you to him. Now, where are the guns?”

“They're buried in the patio—right in front of my house.”

She smiled even then.

“Remember,” he warned, taking off the blindfold, “if you’ve lied, you’ll be shot. Sergeant, search for them; update me at the hospital.”

As the men marched Vicente away, the ever-present Vicente, who had been following La Pava, stepped out from the shadow of a doorway. La Pava, who appeared unfazed by anything, sneered at him. Lawrence tightened his grip on his gun, recognized Vicente, and then wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“Sir,” whined the beast, “her lover’s name isn't Gonzales, it's Diaz, the traitor.” La Pava glared at him fiercely. “It was Diaz,” Vicente added with seriousness, “who shot the officer in the back.”

“You gave me your word—” she started, turning to Lawrence.

"To save 'Emilio Gonzales,'" he reminded her.

“It's true, my captain, unfortunately!” Her dark eyelashes fell over a message of love. “But will you set me free?”

“When I see the weapons.”

Furious, she lunged at Vicente, who stepped back. With a haughty demeanor, she confronted him and spoke sharply in an Indian dialect. Despite this, her behavior calmed Lawrence. It seemed like she was in a wild rage. In reality, she was instructing Vicente to take the underground passage from Ulloa Castle to the hospital and warn Diaz. “Do this,” she was saying, “and I won’t have anything more to do with Fernando. You will have me—you alone—for life.”

She finished with what felt like a flood of insults. Vicente played his role—with his heart on fire, he just appeared scornful to Lawrence.

See you later, sir. Vicente, feeling victorious, strolled toward the castle.

“Ugh!” said La Pava, with deep disgust. “He’s just trash. Since I won’t give myself to him, he would ruin his competition.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Will you take me to the hospital?”

“We're going there now.”

“I’m so tired,” she sighed, leaning against him. “I feel dizzy.”

They walked slowly, with Lawrence offering her support by linking his arm with hers. As they got closer to the hospital, they turned into a plaza where a street lamp had been shot down.

In an instant, La Pava swung under his arm, pulled out his pistol, broke free, and aimed it at him.

“Ah! You're not so fast this time. Don’t move! You Americans say you’ll shoot, but you don’t.” She fired twice, quickly, over his head. “But I still have four shots left, and I am a Mexican.”

A rider, leading another horse, spun around and came to a sudden stop. Fernando Diaz flashed a bright smile, grinning warmly, as he took the gun from his mistress and aimed it at Lawrence.

“What do you think, querida? I finished Vicente. Should I take care of this gringo?”

La Pava got on as Diaz spoke.

“Let him live,” she said, “because he is a brave man.”

“Goodbye, sir! The machine guns are secure behind the lines. Take my advice, lieutenant, and never trust a woman——”

Diaz's spurs sank into the ground, and sparks flew from the cobblestones.

“—unless,” La Pava laughed back through the darkness, “unless, sir, she loves you.”

Lizzie was sitting in a corner counting her money. “Thirty-five, Kitty, thirty-five cents.” When Lizzie’s mom was away doing laundry, she confided in her kitten. “Just wait till Mama sees this birthday present, My-i! This is the third one I’m giving her—when I was five, I gave her peanut candy, but she didn’t come home until all the peanuts were gone. The second time, I gave her a blue hair ribbon; blue looks nice with my red hair. Now I’m seven—twice seven—and I won’t have these freckles, and a long skirt will cover my skinny legs, and,” she said, getting up and trying to stand proudly, “my name will be Elizabeth. Then I’ll give Mama an album! Bye for now, Kitty.”

Out the door she bounced, and down the alley toward the market. She lost focus on the market when she got to the end of the alley, because there was a cart filled with clocks, vases, jewelry, everything to make a birthday wish come true—even an album.

Lizzie joined the crowd that had gathered to hear what the owner of these items had to say. She listened for a moment and then jumped for joy—the man, who looked like he was mostly stomach and voice, was actually inviting them to get a twenty-five dollar watch for just five cents.

“Alright, everyone,” said the voice from the stomach, “everything on this counter is just five cents—every piece of chewing gum comes with a prize. You wanna give it a shot, sir? Now, folks, watch him unveil one of these cool prizes from the paper wrapped around that gum. Gold-handled umbrella? Here you go. Who’s gonna win the next one? Nothing fake about it. That’s right, take a chance”—to a man moving to the front. “Diamond stud? You’re lucky—only a few diamond studs left. Next! Anyone else? Don’t stop just because you won an umbrella. That’s the spirit. What’ve you got now? Gold bracelet? It has five rubies and four emeralds in it, ladies and gentlemen.”

Lizzie started to realize that she wasn't dreaming—three prizes were gone already!

“Lady, don’t you want this linen tablecloth? Fifteen bucks retail. Or this album that plays music when you’re looking at your loved ones?”

Lizzie gasped—there was only one album. “I want to win the album,” she yelled.

“Come on over with your nickel. Here’s a girl who knows a good deal even if she did lose two teeth.”

Had this comment been made about Lizzie's teeth at another time, she would have shot back a fiery response, but now she could only think about the album.

She traded her five pennies for the gum, and with shaky fingers, she unwrapped the tissue paper and let her stomach and voice read the name from the slip of paper—“Lead pencil,” it was announced.

Poor Lizzie’s heart sank, and her stomach and voice signaled to the crowd that there were a few pencils left, showing them a box with five pencils inside.

At this, Lizzie felt better—she figured that if no one else got those pencils and she was unlucky five more times, she'd still have five cents left to win the album.

She won five more pencils, took one last look at the last five pennies, unrolled the slip of paper, and handed it to her nearest neighbor to read—“lead pencil,” was read.

“Since there aren’t any more pencils, I’ll take the album,” Lizzie announced triumphantly.

“Got more, sissy,” said the stomach and voice, taking a few from his pocket and putting them in the box, handing one to Lizzie.

The crowd jeered and left. Lizzie was too stunned to move, so she sat on a soapbox in the alley, staring at the album. She heard the sharp whistle of excitement and a few minutes later saw the winners come back, returning the prizes they had won. She wondered why they were doing this, and as a new crowd approached, she moved closer to the cart.

She listened again to the same rant and watched the umbrella winner take another shot. She flinched when he shouted “umbrella”—she saw right through the act, and her cheeks flushed with anger.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she shouted, “this is a fake business— that guy won an umbrella and brought it back, and so did the other guy.” By this point, she was out of reach of the angry stomach and voice, who threatened to knock two more teeth down her throat. But Lizzie’s voice was still loud enough for the crowd to hear her yelling, “Everyone else wins cheap lead pencils.” The crowd laughed and walked away.

Lizzie waited for the next group of people, and, coming out from her hiding spot, told them the same information.

After the crowd left, Lizzie's stomach and voice were in turmoil as she tried to break free from his hold, accidentally bumping her lip, causing blood to seep from her sensitive gum.

“Officer, officer, help!” she screamed.

Seeing the people in the neighborhood coming to Lizzie’s rescue, her stomach and voice promised to give her money back if she would stay quiet.

“I’m going to tell them all you knocked my teeth out unless you give me the album,” Lizzie snapped.

“Alright,” the stomach and voice replied meekly, having been restrained by this point, but they were freed when the men accepted Lizzie’s invitation to come up the alley and check out her album.

“Goodbye, mister—thanks a lot for the gum and pencils, too,” and away she ran, the album in her arms.

When she was in the room, she locked the door because she was worried the album would be taken away.

“Kitty, look! An album, and I’m only seven. They’ll just have to call me Elizabeth, freckles and all.”

Hey Lou:

“This is the last letter I’m going to write to you, because tomorrow I’ll start the final phase of my transition. At four o’clock, I’ll officially become a lady. Of course, you and I will know that I’m just a copy, but with an eighteen-carat setting, everyone else will think I’m the real deal.”

“Lou, I’ve been thinking about how many generations it will take to create a true lady. Maybe my daughter will be one, and if not, then her daughter; but I will always be a copy.”

“My grandmother worked hard to give my mother an education, and my mother helped in the shop so I could take dance lessons before I turned six. I can’t let them down, and I can’t ignore my responsibility toward my future children. They reach out to me, asking for something I can't quite understand, so tomorrow I will give them a father of good standing. Yes, Lou, he’s a little guy, not much taller than my shoulder, and he’s chubby, tired, and old; but he has a name that can open the doors to the elite in New York, and I can walk through those doors with him because I will be his wife.

“They say I should be proud of my victory, and I am, because it’s not just my wealth that has captured him, but me; and I am gorgeous, Lou. It’s been three years since you last saw me, and I get more beautiful every day."

“I am tall, beautifully tall; slender at the hips and curvy up top, with all the promise of becoming a fully matured woman. And tomorrow, my virginity will be sacrificed on the altar of holy matrimony, and the transformation will be complete. I will be a lady."

“Oh, Lou, why wasn’t your father a gentleman? He could have been a womanizer, a playboy, a gambler—anything, as long as he was a gentleman. But he's just my father’s childhood friend and still a village carpenter."

“You had to work your way through college, and my dad paid for it with his hard-earned money.”

“And yet I think that despite all my education, there is something fundamentally wrong with me. I’m that mixed-up thing, ‘a lady in the making, an imitation lady.’ What bothers me the most is the idea that maybe I’m just an imitation woman too.”

“My ancestors had red blood running through their veins, and my descendants’ blood will be blue; but in my veins there is nothing but water."

“Hey, Lou; today I locked myself in my room and cleaned the floor of my private bath. I got down on my knees with soap and a brush and scrubbed my heart out, and by the time I was done, my back hurt like crazy, and the floor was still pretty dirty; and I’m the granddaughter of a woman who has cleaned countless floors and could still do it, even though she’s almost eighty.”

“Oh, Lou, Lou, I wish I had the courage to run away with you that last night three years ago. Do you remember—the moon, the gate that creaked, the smell of dew on the grass, the chirping of the insects—a perfect midsummer night, made for love—just like we were made for love?”

“I had to stand on my tiptoes when you kissed me. And your sweet eyes were filled with pain when we said goodbye. You told me I would find you there when I needed you. And, oh! I need you now!

“How many generations of our kids' kids would it take to make a lady, Lou?

“Everything is wrong with the world tonight. My head hurts and I can't think.”

“See! Here on my desk I have a schedule, a bright blue schedule, which tells me that I am only four short hours away from you, and that I still have plenty of time to pack and catch the midnight train.

“If I join you, you’ll never see this letter—and if I don’t, then you must not see it. I’ll burn it.”

“This is my moment, my future is in my own hands. It's all about courage: my ancestors had it, my descendants will have it; but do I?”

The wedding of a steel king’s daughter to a member of one of New York’s oldest families deserves a front-page column in any newspaper. Photos of the happy couple featured prominently in every edition.

The tired housemaid laid one on the floor as she tidied up the messy room her young boss had left behind.

She scooped a small pile of ashes from the fireplace and poured them onto the paper. They completely hid the smiling faces of the bride and groom—not that it mattered, since the ashes were cold.

Marathon Jiggs went to the day clerk.

“Is Mr. George Jones here?” he asked.

“He's registered here, but he's not around right now,” replied the clerk. “Would you like to leave a message?”

“Thank you, I think I will,” said Jiggs, grabbing the hotel stationery. He quickly wrote a note, left it without an envelope at the front desk, and left.

About an hour later, a large, intimidating woman of the superdreadnought type confidently approached the desk, followed by a small, timid-looking man. After collecting the mail that had piled up in the box, she strode towards the elevator, with the timid man, who seemed to be her husband, trailing behind her.

When the couple reached their room, Mrs. George Jones sat down and went through the family mail. As she read, her cheeks flushed bright like a sunset, then faded, leaving her pale with anger. Her unfortunate husband shrank back in a corner.

Rising to her feet at her impressive five-feet-eleven, she shoved a note into Jones's hand. “Read this!” she ordered hoarsely.

With a mix of amazement and fear clearly visible on his tired face, Jones read the following:

“Hey George:

Why don’t you let me know when you get to town? I expected you yesterday. Call me, the same old number, and we’ll have a good time tonight.

“You cad!” shouted Mrs. Jones. “I’m going to start divorce proceedings right away. To think you’ve been living a double life! You can expect a visit from my lawyer!” The door slammed behind her as Jones collapsed in shock into a chair.

As she bounced out the door of the Hotel Marathon, Jiggs approached the desk again. “Did Mr. Jones get my note?” he inquired.

“No, but his wife did,” replied the clerk.

“His wife?” Jiggs gasped. “His wife? Who—can I see the register, please?”

He quickly looked over the guest list until he found Jones’s name. “‘Mr. George K. Jones and wife, Chicago, Illinois,’” he read in disbelief, “and I thought it was George H. Jones from Pittsburgh. What if his wife—I need to see him right away,” and he rushed to the elevator.

As Jones sat in his room, confused by the events of the past hour, a knock pulled him out of his thoughts. “Come in!” he called nervously, anticipating his wife's lawyer. Seeing the friendly but reassuring face of Jiggs was a clear relief.

“My name is Jiggs,” said the caller. “Marathon Jiggs, but everyone at the university calls me ‘Mary.’ I left a note for my friend, George H. Jones, who I thought was staying here. I heard your wife got it by mistake. It's possible she read it and misunderstood things; that's why I'm here to clear it up and set the record straight.”

Jones pulled up a chair. “Have a seat,” he said, “and let’s discuss this. My wife just left to consult a lawyer about getting a divorce. You’ve already done me a favor; now what,” he said, pulling out a checkbook, “would it take to keep you from talking about what you know?”

I can’t speak American properly. In the carpet factory where I worked, the Polish, Jews, and Italians talked however they wanted, and I learned to speak American like them. But maybe I speak well enough to share about Tomaso and me.

Tomaso came from Italy. Because of this, people in this country called him a Wop. I came from Albania. My father never let a Wop come to our house, since most Albanians hate the Wops. But on the first day I saw Tomaso, I stopped hating all the Wops. He came to work in the factory, setting patterns like I did. His eyes were big and soft, like our little dog’s. His voice sounded like the big strings on my father’s harp when he gently pulled his fingers over them. He was like American guys—tall with a nice head. His neck, where the hair came down black and shiny, was like a young girl’s.

When I first saw Tomaso, he was nineteen. But in some ways, I felt like an old woman because the hunger that pulls your waist in tight and the cold that turns your blood cold had come to me too many times. In our household, there were many kids, and my father couldn't make enough money to buy enough food. So I started working in the factory before the law allowed me to. The superintendent made sure I got the job. I said I was older than I actually was.

I always thought about the family back home until I saw Tomaso. Then I started thinking about him—and me. One day, shortly after Tomaso came to the factory, my mother said to me, “Maria, you’re old enough to get married. In the old country, you would already have a husband. Your father will go to Brooklyn and tell your aunts to find you a husband. There are plenty of Albanians in Brooklyn. You will marry someone from your own people.”

I didn’t say anything in response. In my mind, I was thinking I would only marry Tomaso. On Sunday, my dad went to Brooklyn to talk to my aunt about finding a husband for me. We lived in New Jersey, in a run-down place that looked like a pigsty. There was dirt and a bad smell everywhere. I always wanted to live the American way, but how could we get clean with goats and chickens coming into the house like they were people?

Two weeks later, my aunt came from Brooklyn with a guy. He looked like a rat. His hair was thin like lace, and you could see patches of yellow skin, all greasy. He was just as tall as my little brother Stephano, who was fourteen. And he was twenty-five!

“Here’s Dimiter,” my aunt said. “He’s a nice guy. He drives for a team in Brooklyn and makes good money. His dad has a house back in the old country. Every year he sends Dimiter wine and oil.”

My father offered Dimiter his hand to kiss. My mother said he was better than us, Albanese style. I didn’t say a word. At dinner, my father said, “Maria, you are engaged to Dimiter. He will be my son. I’ll give him one hundred dollars and kill the old nanny-goat for the wedding. All the Albanians and some of the Italians and Poles will come and bring gifts.”

In my head, I was thinking, “Where will you get the hundred dollars?” I looked at Dimiter. He flashed a grin with all his crooked teeth. In my mind, I was thinking I wanted to spit in his face. I told my mother, “I'm too young to get married. Just wait a year.”

“A year!” My mother shouted, slamming her hand on the table. “A guy doesn’t want a girl if she’s old. You’re going to marry Dimiter now.”

Something inside me hardened like a rock. I hated my mom. The whole family. Why should I marry that jerk? Why shouldn’t I choose my own guy, the American way?

“When will I get married?” Dimiter asked my father.

My dad said, "We'll talk to the priest on Sunday. The wedding is next Sunday."

Up I jump. Two weeks and I'm married to the jerk? What about Tomaso? Two days ago he walked with me from the factory. At the bridge, we stopped. “You’re my little sweetheart,” Tomaso said, sweetly. His eyes were shiny like dew. I turned as red as a pepper and ran away. But in my mind, I was thinking I loved Tomaso. Of course, I wouldn't tell my father, because the Albanians hate the Wops.

So I remembered Tomaso’s eyes and voice. And I said: “I won’t marry this guy.” My father’s shoulders shot up. My mother got furious like a devil. The rat was sickly yellow. My aunt said: “Maria’s just a young girl. Give her some time to think it over.”

“No thinking it over,” my dad shouted. “I’m giving Dimiter my daughter. The wedding is in two weeks.”

My mom laughed with her tongue out, just like the Albanese way. More than ever, she looked like our old nanny goat. I stood above her and said to her face: "If I’m a little girl, I'll stay home with the other kids and my dad to feed me. If I’m a woman and working for everyone, I’ll find my own guy, American style."

My father tried to hit me, but I ran upstairs and slammed the door shut. My aunt and the rat left. All day, I didn’t eat anything. I didn’t say a word.

Next day, I messed up the patterns. The boss cursed. In the evening, Tomaso walked with me. “Why are you going to cry?” he asked. His voice sounded like all his people were gone. I told him about the rat. He held his head high, and his eyes looked like two flames in the dark. His lips tightened over his teeth, and I saw him make hard fists.

Then he came closer. His arm was next to mine. In my mind, I thought I would like to rest my head on his shoulder and kiss him. But Albanese girls don’t do that until they’re married.

“I hate Albanese! I hate Italians! I hate the old country!” said Tomaso. His voice was sharp. “They make their girls marry any old guy. I like the American way—where a guy and a girl can love each other and then marry, and other people stay out of it.”

“I’ll do it the American way,” I said. Tomaso’s hair brushed against my cheek; I felt warm and happy. Just Tomaso and me. It was just us in the world.

“And I will do it the American way,” Tomaso said in my hair. It was dark, but I saw his face, warm like the sunshine. Before I knew it, Tomaso’s lips were holding mine tight. Sure, it was wrong. Doesn’t the priest tell you that? But how could I help it? Tomaso was so strong—and we loved each other.

“We’ll get married the American way,” Tomaso said, softly. His face felt like fur against mine. “I have two hundred dollars from my last job. My father is not poor, and I’m his only child. Is that how it should be, my sweetheart?”

Sure, there was a big fight at our place the next day when I ran off with a Wop. But Tomaso and I shouldn’t worry! We got married the American way. I quit my job and made our house nice. One month after we got married, my mom and dad came to visit me.

“Thanks, just like Americans!” my mother said. But she didn’t laugh with her tongue out. She wanted to be good. I was her first child. My father offered his hand for me to kiss. “Bless my daughter,” he said. Then he offered his hand for Tomaso to kiss, and it made tears stream down his face. Then he borrowed ten dollars from Tomaso and everything was fine.

Doctor Burroughs, called away from the operating room, welcomed his friend from the doorway: “Sorry, Harry, but you’ll have to carry on without me. I have a case on the table that I can’t step away from. Can you make my apologies?”

“There’s still an hour,” said the visitor. “I’m early and can wait.”

“Then come in with me.” Markham followed into the operating room, which was white-walled, spotless, and smelled of stale ether and antiseptics. On the table lay the covered form of a young girl. Only the upper part of her body was visible, and around her neck were wet, blood-stained bandages. “A strange case,” said the surgeon. “She was brought here from a sweatshop two hours ago. A stovepipe fell and cut an artery in her neck. She’s bleeding to death. They say blood is thicker than water, but hers isn’t, poor girl. If it would just clot, she might make it. Or I could save her with a transfusion, but we can’t find any relatives, and there’s hardly any time left.”

The nurse walked in. “The patient’s brother is here,” she said, “and he wants to see her.”

“Her brother!” The surgeon’s face lit up. “What’s he like?”

“About twenty, Doctor; seems strong and healthy.”

“Go talk to him, Nurse. Let him know the reality. Tell him his sister will die unless he donates some blood to her. Or wait!” He turned to Markham. “Harry, you do it! Persuasion is your thing. Make him feel like he’s a jury. But really lay it on, man! And hurry! Every minute matters!”

The boy was standing firmly in the waiting room, only the paleness of his healthy skin and the worry in his clear eyes suggesting the pressure. Markham explained quickly and clearly.

“Doctor Burroughs says it’s her one chance,” he concluded.

The boy inhaled sharply and turned visibly pale.

“You mean Nell will die if someone doesn’t swap their blood for hers?”

“Unless the blood she has lost is replaced——”

“Well, stop complaining,” interrupted the other gruffly. “I’m here, right?”

When he walked into the operating room, the boy let out a soft cry of pain, leaned over the figure on the table, and pressed his lips to the pale forehead. When he looked up, his eyes were full of tears. He nodded to the surgeon.

Doggedly, almost defiantly, he submitted himself, but when the artery had been severed and the blood was pulsing from his veins to the lifeless body next to him, his expression shifted to one of sheer resignation. He sighed several times, but it felt more like mental pain than physical suffering. The silence grew heavy. To Markham, it felt like hours before the surgeon looked up from his watch and nodded to the nurse. Then:

“You’re a brave kid,” he said happily to the boy. “Your sacrifice has paid off!”

The boy, pale and weak, tried to smile. “Thank God!” he muttered. Then, with a twitching mouth: “Hey, Doc, how soon do I kick the bucket?”

“Why, not for quite a few years, I hope.” The surgeon turned with a frown to Markham. “Didn’t you explain that there was no danger to him?”

“God! I’m sorry I didn’t!” stammered Markham. “I was so eager to get his approval. Are you saying that he thought——”

The surgeon nodded with sympathy and turned to the boy. “You’re not going to die,” he said softly. “You’ll be fine tomorrow. But I’m really sorry you’ve had to go through so much in the last hour. You were braver than any of us realized!”

“Aw, that’s okay,” muttered the boy. “She’s my sister, right?”

More mother’s tears, and the fourth prisoner was released! The judge started to worry about becoming too soft-hearted and took a grim satisfaction when the name Timothy McMenamin, also known as “One Eyed Johnny,” was called. Into the dock shuffled a long-time criminal whose appearance left no chance for any more painful decisions about leniency.

Silence filled the room as the judge looked over the card. Timothy's record spanned everything from highway robbery to safe cracking, showcasing a life full of thrilling activities, and somehow the crowd sensed he had once been a person of significance. But now, Timothy was past his prime and had fallen on hard times. The judge read the current charges aloud, to which Timothy had sullenly pleaded “Guilty.”

“Begging for money on the street and homelessness.”

Then filled with deep sorrow, his “Why—Timothy!” captured the lightheartedness of the crowded courtroom.

The Judge pressed his lips together, deep in thought. Then a playful idea crossed his mind.

“Do you have a lawyer, Timothy?”

Timothy wasn't.

“Mr. Wallace!”

If a room can be said to gasp, that courtroom did.

William R. K. Wallace!

The rubber rattle of a last-minute assignment, usually handed to the newbie, given to the very top lawyer!

His Honor was indeed funny.

Wallace, quietly chatting with a court clerk, looked up, turned his instinctive impatience into a friendly acceptance, and stepped forward. The crowd’s respect for authority: a silence so clear it felt almost audible.

The Judge maintained proper seriousness.

“Mr. Wallace, we have a remarkable knight-errant here. He has stayed in many public institutions. A truly worldly citizen with an unquestionable social status; he has met some of the best wardens in the country. About twenty years ago, he made a small mistake up in Montour County and lived there for six months afterward. Since that's your hometown, Mr. Wallace, wouldn't it be noble and friendly of you to offer your professional services?”

The crowd appreciated the speech and the scene. In all his years at the bar, no one had ever seen William R. K. Wallace thrown off his game. Now, the judge had managed to outsmart him. His response of “Certainly, your Honour,” was purely instinctive. Wallace had no clue about the meaning of a possible plea. So he turned and took a critical professional look at his client.

As he observed the gloomy figure, scruffy, disheveled, and tough, the intimidating look made even more noticeable by the patch over one blind eye—what sudden thought crossed the attorney's mind? Skilled and confident as he was, did he feel the complete pointlessness of it all? It really seemed like Wallace—William R. K. Wallace—experienced a brief moment of real stage fright, that terrible, unnerving instant when the mind searches and finds no thoughts to hold onto. Yes, the judge had won.

Then, back to being himself, he spoke to the Court. Quietly, almost casually, and completely off-topic; but this was Wallace, and no one stopped him.

"I was born in Centre County, Your Honor, not Montour, but so close to the county line that Your Honor’s impression is practically correct. It’s so close, in fact, that right down the driveway, barely a hundred yards away, you could step into Montour County just by crossing the railroad tracks, since they mark the county line at that corner."

Then for a few seconds he indulged in memories of his early days. He continued in a somewhat aimless manner:

“We lived there happily, your Honor, with a good father, a beloved mother, myself as a grown boy, and—and a baby sister.... She arrived late.... Maybe that’s one reason we cherished her so much. She had just turned two and was a little bundle of charm.... She soaked up all the shining morning sunlight from the mountaintops.”

People shifted nervously. This wasn't like Wallace. Sure, he sometimes showed sentiment in front of a jury and often persuaded the strong farmers to let some guilty criminal go, no matter the evidence. But showing off his own childhood and his little sister—well, that just meant he was really struggling.

But now the observant could notice the slightest hint of resonance and intention. And, he also half-turned occasionally toward the man in the dock.

“Through that valley, the impressive Blue Diamond Express thundered by, carrying its load of the successful and happy... But there were also other trains, the long, slow freight cars that made their way down the valley, heavily loaded. They, too, had passengers... crammed into the couplings... or hidden in the corner of a boxcar. These belonged to the underbelly of society—the dissatisfied and the dispossessed. The drifter, the outcast... perhaps even the criminal, escaping from city to city.”

He looked sharply and quickly; his client was starting to show signs of interest.

“The Old Grove Crossing, as they called it, was not as well guarded twenty years ago as it is now, Your Honor. And one day this little two-year-old decided to wander off. Maybe the imagination of a child made the wildflowers on a distant hill look brighter, or perhaps a stray butterfly flitted across the tracks—who knows?

“At any rate, the wanderlust took hold of her small feet and she had gotten so close to Montour County that she only needed to cross the far track to completely change jurisdictions. And there she stood, because a big, slow-moving train of empties was blocking that track. Confused? Maybe a bit; but it didn’t really matter.... Nor, your Honor, did the large, thundering Blue Diamond. Why should it? There was no such thing in this world as either evil or fear.... And so she waited, mesmerized only by wonder as the monstrous thing approached her.... I know, your Honor, that in every well-crafted melodrama the hero always shows up at the right moment.... But in real life sometimes—well, we have tried cases in our courts aimed at determining the dollar value of what can never be compensated—a baby life taken too soon.”

He paused for a striking moment.

“And this was my baby sister.

“Oh, yes, they saw her... when she was less than two hundred feet away. Along that straight stretch, the Montour Valley Railroad Company, in its corporate wisdom, sent its Blue Diamond hurtling at seventy miles an hour. The engineer was the best on the line—and he fainted right away. That’s what their top guy did. He had a baby of his own. Instinct made him slam on the brakes... and there was also a child’s bucket of sand on the tracks!... Down, down it came, screaming, crashing, pounding, and swaying side to side; unleashing its chaos of destruction and shooting out a million sparks as the brakes struggled to hold.... Only one small mercy granted—by its terrifying power and speed—instant death!”

Dramatically, Wallace ran his hand across his forehead. The Judge had done the same. He had played on their emotions so effectively that he sensed the perfect length of pause...

“No, your Honor,” he said quietly, “she didn’t die. This little story from real life followed the usual path.... Sometimes God is just as good as the playwright. They told us the bare details. He didn’t; he had an urgent commitment and left, probably going back to his ‘reservations’ on his Blue Diamond.... He wasn’t very appealing, anyway, by all accounts. Any run-of-the-mill playwright could have given us a more polished, better-groomed hero.”

Wallace strolled a bit.

“This object that fell from a box car, sprawled out, got up, and then jumped like a cat was, in fact, a nobody, an outcast, a crook——”

Casually, it seemed, his hand rested on the stooped shoulder of the frail old man.

“Just a one-eyed con artist, making his way——”

He got no further. The courtroom was chaotic, and wild applause erupted, uncontrolled and loud. There was no one to stop it.

His Honor, secretly and dramatically with his handkerchief, finally got control of himself and the situation.

“Mr. Wallace, the Court doesn’t need any argument in this case. We will accept the guarantee of future good behavior that you were about to offer, and if needed, we'll back it ourselves.... Sentence suspended!”

Then as the Court was adjourned and they crowded around the two of them, counsel and client, a large, pushing crowd a dozen deep, the Judge, before leaving, quieted them for a brief closing remark.

“Mr. Wallace, regarding the—uh, the certain refreshments, for which we made a decision related to the costs, we would like to say that that decision is now reversed and the—the refreshments—are on—the Court.”

The weekend was over, and Begbie was back in town, feeling restless and oddly unhappy. Inside him was a strange sense of something missing, but every now and then, he had a hint of another feeling that seemed to be a total gain, flashing across his thoughts like a ray of sunshine trying to break through a gap in the clouds.

He unpacked his suitcase with no energy, checking its contents against the list of weekend essentials he always kept stuck to the inside of the suitcase cover. Everything was there, from his hairbrush to his dinner jacket—and yet he still felt weighed down by the thought of something he’d forgotten. He went over the list again and compared it with what he had, discovering that nothing was missing; then suddenly, he fully realized what the lost item was.

“Ah!” he exclaimed with a deep sigh of relief.

"That's it! I'm going to write to my host right now and ask her to send it back."

Action followed the decision, and, sitting down at his desk, Begbie wrote:

"Dear Mrs. Shelton,"

“After my unforgettable time at Sea Cliff, I've realized that, like any traveler leaving, I've forgotten at least one of my belongings. It may not matter much to anyone else, but even if it's not valuable, I really can't do without it. It's my heart. If by some chance you've come across it and don’t need it, would you mind returning it to me when you have a moment? Or, if you find it worth keeping, could you please let me know? I just want to be sure it's safe with you and not left behind somewhere cold and forgotten. It's the only one I have, and I've never lost it before."

It was the morning of the second day after the mailing of this letter that Begbie found a pretty-colored note lying next to his plate at the breakfast table. It was postmarked Sea Cliff and addressed in the familiar handwriting of his hostess. Anxiously, he tore it open and found the following:

"Dear Mr. Begbie:"

“What careless creatures you men are! I’ve found ten items like the ones you mentioned in my house over the past ten days, and with such a large and varied collection, I can’t quite figure out which one belongs to you. Some of them are badly cracked; some are hopelessly battered—only one is what I’d consider to be in excellent condition. I’m hoping it’s yours, but I’m not sure. In any case, once you get this, could you come down here right away so we can go through them together? I’ll meet you with the car when the 12:15 arrives at Wavecrest Station.”

“Meanwhile, my dear Mr. Begbie, knowing how essential a part of the human mechanism a heart truly is—I send you mine to take the place of the other. You may keep it until your own is returned to you.

“P.S.—Text me if you're going to be on the 12:15.”

Ten minutes later, the following urgent message was sent over the wires:

“Mrs. Shelton, Sea Cliff, L. I.:

“Haven’t had time to let you know about my arrival at 12:15. I'm in a hurry to catch the 9:05.”

"Harrison."

The lamps of the rickshaws barely lit up; the sound of sandals softly tapping as they moved back and forth on the Bund was faint. Yokohama was settling down for the night, and the massive liners in the bay appeared dark and ghostly against the rising moon. The three men sitting on the terrace of the Grand Hotel met here every ninth week. They were captains of three of the liners, all Englishmen. Blackburn, who commanded a ship owned and crewed by Japanese, lit his pipe and looked out over the harbor, brushing his hand across his brow and hair.

“Same old vibe,” he said.

The others agreed.

Bainbridge, a small man with light hair, moved around restlessly.

“A week, and we’ll all be back at opposite corners again,” he said, “none of us any cooler.”

“Not bad at home now,” thought Villiers, a big and quiet man with the gray eyes of a dreamer. He leaned forward, smiling a little.

“Do you know, it’s been three years next month since I’ve seen my wife. What a nightmare! And I don’t see any chance of getting back yet, either. The East isn’t a place for women.”

Bainbridge looked at him uneasily.

“Yes, tough life,” he agreed, “but it’s even tougher for the women, especially in England. Always having to be independent, saving every penny for a guy they only see once every couple of years. I mean, it’s really unfair for them, at the very least.”

“That's true,” said Villiers, “and it's an experience that will definitely have an impact. The strong woman will become even stronger, the weak woman will become weaker, and the bad woman—will fall.”

Blackburn smiled.

“Then we’re three lucky guys,” he said, blowing a ring of smoke and gazing at it with a bit of nostalgia.

Villiers chuckled.

“The strange thing about it is their faith. That’s what gets them through. I think if I told my wife tonight that I had a Japanese girl in Nagasaki, she wouldn't believe me, even though she's sophisticated enough to know that this kind of thing happens around here. She thinks it could happen, but not to her or her family. It’s a pretty powerful perspective.”

“It’s a ridiculous point of view—no offense to you, man,” said Bainbridge. “What if it was true and she had to deal with it—how would she react?”

“It can't be a fact as long as she feels the way she does about it,” Villiers replied; “that's what guarantees she's completely justified in her belief.”

“Oh, come on!” said Bainbridge. “You’re such an idealist.” He took a deep gulp from his tall glass. “I’ll bet you that if all three of us wrote home tonight, confessing our regrets, we’d each get replies in the next mail that say the exact same thing.”

“There's only one way to prove that,” said Villiers, “and that's to write.”

"Done!" Bainbridge said.

“Hold on, guys!” Blackburn emptied the ashes from his pipe. “Do you know you’re about to play a really risky game? I wouldn’t want to be a part of it myself. Good luck to you, though, if you have to. But both of you are assuming too much.”

“You have the stakes, then,” said Villiers confidently. “On our next trip, we’ll meet here as planned, get our mail first thing, and meet up at eight for dinner. If we can’t read our letters out loud, we can at least talk about the attitudes expressed in them, which is what we’re discussing.”

“Alright,” said Blackburn, “but I warn you it’s a foolish situation.”

Nine weeks later, Blackburn was tying his tie in front of the mirror in his cabin and felt a strange excitement about meeting his two friends as planned during their last get-together. They would have gotten their mail from home just like he did, but he felt a rush of satisfaction remembering that he hadn’t jeopardized his own happiness or his wife’s in what he thought was the crazy way his friends were living.

Very promptly, then, and looking calm, he showed up on the terrace and took a seat at the usual table to wait for them to arrive.

Bainbridge showed up and, after greeting Blackburn, sat down and lit a pipe. They talked sporadically. A strange calm seemed to have surrounded the little man, which caught Blackburn’s attention so much that he found it hard to think of anything to say. They sat in silence, with Blackburn mentally assessing his friend. All of Bainbridge's nervousness and cynicism seemed to have vanished, and his eyes, usually so shifty, looked very calm and deep.

“Wonder why Villiers isn't joining us,” said Blackburn finally.

Bainbridge nodded.... “I’ll read you my letter now,” he said, and in a softer voice: “Wow, buddy, I was completely wrong, you know? I never would have believed it was possible for someone to feel this way about a guy like me.”

He set the letter on the table. “That's great,” he said; and Blackburn took it.

“Are you really sure you want me to read this?” he asked.

“Yeah,” replied Bainbridge, “because—because it’s changed so much for me, you know.”

Blackburn read:

“Hey Dude:

“Something in my heart tells me this terrible thing isn’t true. It can’t be. Bad things happen to people, but somehow I can’t believe it’s happened to me and my loved ones. But if it has—and you will start again because your true self still cares for me—won’t you start right now, because I love you and will try to move on. I can’t write more.

"Minnie."

When Blackburn was done, he carefully folded it and handed it to Bainbridge.

“I congratulate you, my friend,” he said seriously, and then added: “Let’s head up to Villiers’ room and wake him up. He might be dozing off.”

They got up and went upstairs to the room Villiers usually stayed in when he was in port. The door was unlocked, and after knocking and getting no response, they walked in. At first, it was so dark they couldn’t see anything. Blackburn, vaguely noticing the bureau, made his way toward it to turn on the gas. But before he got there, his foot hit something soft, and at the same time, a sickening wave of horror washed over him.

“My God! Strike a match,” he said.

Bainbridge did this and, stepping over the lying figure, lit the gas with shaking hands.

Villiers was completely dead. His gun was next to him, and in a small pool of blood near his right temple, a crumpled letter was lying face up.

“Nothing should be touched,” said Blackburn, “until the proper steps have been taken—except——”

Bainbridge bent down and picked up the bloody page.

“Except this,” he said, and, folding it carefully, put it in his wallet.

When, many hours later, Blackburn was on his ship, he locked his cabin door, and Bainbridge, who had come with him for this reason, laid out the sheet and read it slowly.

"Dear Frank:"

“Your rather extraordinary letter has reached me, and I assure you it was quite unnecessary. You surely don’t expect me to have lived all these years alone and to have known men as I do without realizing that I could hardly expect you to live the life of a celibate in the ‘Far East.’ In this strange little game of life, we must take our pleasures as they come, and I have taken mine just as I haven’t stopped you from taking yours. Foolish boy! If you thought I would have a meltdown over your self-imposed confession, you can relax knowing that I just laughed at it. We are all in the same boat, we sinners, so why should one of us criticize another? Cheer up and don’t take life so seriously.

"Sue."

The tent flap lifted and fell. The prisoner could see the faint shape of a man.

“To be shot at sunrise, huh?”

The prisoner stirred suddenly. That voice sounded oddly familiar to him.

The figure moved closer. A knife glinted, and the prisoner's restraints fell away.

"Follow me and keep quiet."

They quietly left the tent, walked by a sleeping guard, and crossed a dark field.

"Now," said the guide, as they stood up in the shade of a hedge, "here's a suggestion, because cousins will always be cousins, even in war."

He stopped, glanced cautiously around, and let out a soft chuckle.

“Six months ago,” he continued, “when I was captured by your side and sentenced to be shot, you rescued me, just as I have rescued you. You showed me our lines and gave me two minutes to escape. After those two minutes, you were supposed to fire, and you——”

He stopped, turned around in an instant, but it was too late. A shot fired, and then another.

The two men tensed up, leaned in towards each other, gasped, and fell to the ground.

Around the corner of the hedge stepped the guard, a smoking gun in his hand.

“Huh!” he grumbled, kicking the fallen figures with his foot. “Relatives shouldn’t be on opposite sides, anyway.”

"New York, Sept 10."

“Dear Marian:

“Isn't it time to stop being silent? Three months have gone by since we fought right before you left for the mountains. I wrote to you twice in the first week. You didn't respond. My pride kept me from reaching out again, fearing another rejection.”

"Often, I've felt so desperate that it was comforting to put myself in unnecessary danger. Many times during the summer, I swam out past the waves even when there was a strong undertow. I've taken solo road trips, driving at seventy miles an hour on narrow mountain roads."

“These reckless adventures were fueled by what must seem to you an inexplicable urge for revenge. I imagined your expression as you read about my death; I reveled in the horror in your eyes as you took in the gruesome details.”

“I came up with news stories like these: ‘Blake’s body washed up on the beach, terribly injured by the rocks’; or, ‘The car plunged into a ravine. Blake, gripping the wheel, was crushed into an unrecognizable heap when the car flipped over.’”

“This desire to punish you for your neglect feels like a savage instinct or a childish fancy, depending on how you see it. But, as embarrassed as I might be and as much as I fight against it, that thought often crosses my mind.”

“Take this morning, for example: getting off the train in Jersey City, I paused to admire the massive locomotive that had recently been added to the morning express. I placed my hand on one large cylinder. ‘What if this thing were to explode while I’m standing here!’ I thought. ‘What if one side of my face and my right arm were blown off! What would she say, my little Princess of Indifference, far away in her mountain hideaway?’”

“I let my imagination run wild. It quickly felt like the terrible thing had actually happened. They lifted me up, aware and in excruciating pain. Just before I faded into a blissful unconsciousness, the horrifying reality hit me—I’d lost my right arm and the right side of my face was horribly burned by the scalding steam.

“Weeks turned into months. The day before the bandages were supposed to come off my face, I escaped from the hospital. I took a night train to Montreal. From Montreal, I headed into the wilderness, anywhere to get away from people, where, slowly and painfully, with my untrained left arm, I built a hut on the side of a mountain. Along with the rough furniture, I set up a typewriter and a framed photo of you. Just these two things to begin my life again.”

“Here I struggled to learn how to type with one hand. At first, I was confused about how to press the shift key. Then, I created a makeshift device to use the shift key with my foot. Eventually, I got pretty good at it and started submitting magazine stories, with some success.”

“Often I dreamed of a footstep outside my cabin, of the rustle of skirts, of a shout, and someone hurrying across the floor. Two hands, unmistakably yours, covered my eyes—my good eye on the good side of my face and my useless eye on the useless side of my face. Then I felt like I was playing a nightmarish game of hide-and-seek, twisting, turning, dodging—always trying to keep the undamaged side of my face toward you, hiding the damaged side from your view.”

“That’s enough of this nonsense. My imagination, fueled by your long silence, has gotten the best of me. Please forgive me. But have mercy and write!”

“I’ve stopped taking risks in the water. I follow the speed limit in my car. But I haven’t given up an equally dangerous adventure—loving you.

"My Own Silly John:"

“Your letter gave me chills. I'm sorry. I've been thoughtless and harsh. Your letter was so vivid, your description of your imagined accident in the train sheds felt so real that I can't stop thinking about it. I love you, love you, love you! I'm leaving here two weeks from tomorrow. I would leave tonight if it weren't for Mom, who isn't well enough to travel yet. That made-up cabin on the mountainside with you blind and alone scared me. Take care, John; take care, you dear, dear thing!

Marian Blackmar:

Paul Smith's, Adirondacks, NY.

“The cabin on the mountain was real. So was the explosion of the train that happened three months ago. I used a fake name at the hospital. Don’t try to find me. There’s nothing left that’s worth finding. I want to be remembered as I was when we said goodbye. Goodbye.”

An October moon lit up the red leaves of a Canadian forest. Shadows from the bare branches stretched across the clearing where John Blake's cabin was nestled against the mountain. The glow from a lamp inside illuminated a typewriter with its special attachment for pressing the shift key.

Before the machine, John sat quietly, lost in thought, his right sleeve hanging empty. He was reflecting on the letter he had written to Marian Blackmar, which he had included with a note to the steward of the Noonday Club, so it could be mailed from New York for the sake of the postmark, along with the telegram that had been sent through the same club.

The autumn wind gently urged the logs in the fireplace. The flickering flames cast a warm glow on the captured image of the beautiful girl in the oval frame.

There was a footstep outside the cabin, the sound of skirts brushing, a cry, and someone rushing across the floor. Two hands, unmistakably hers, were pressed over his eyes, covering both the good eye and the bad eye. Two lips, every now and then breaking against his, wept, laughed, pleaded, pretended to scold, and ultimately convinced John that no life can be marred where love exists.

Midwinter, freezing cold.

Having entered the house, I closed the blinds and turned on the gas logs, settled into an armchair, and dozed off. A weird feeling washed over me; someone else was in the room.

I slowly opened my eyes and found myself staring down the barrel of a gun; my hands shot up.

"Get up!"

I got up.

My other hand quickly pulled out my revolver.

"Take a seat!"

I’m sitting.

“Terrible weather!”

I agree.

“How did you get in?” I asked.

"Basement window. How do you?"

“Obviously, the front door.”

He looked puzzled. “Isn’t Richman coming home tonight?”

“Definitely not; don’t count on him.”

“That’s funny. Where are the servants?” The curtains behind him trembled.

“With the Richmans, Atlantic City,” I said. “Why not call when he’s home?” I asked. A gun, hand, and arm pushed through the curtain.

“Alright; I feel warmer now; I need to get to work.”

“Been here before?” I asked, as the newcomer, tall and strong, blocked the bullet-head in front of me.

“Sure. Remember the break-in at this house five years ago? Well, I was on that case. It was another night like this. I crept up——”

“Biff!” The newcomer landed right on target. “Cord in that drawer,” he said. “Tie him up.”

I complied.

“You’re Mr. Jones, right?—I’m Mr. Richman,” he went on. “My agent told me I’d find you here. He knew I’d be late, so he sent you the key. What’s wrong with our friend?”

Our prisoner had come to, gasping, “Are you Richman?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Burns, Headquarters. Damn you, I’ll catch you, too——”

He kept talking. Richman picked up the phone. It was out of order. I knew it would be.

“Police Station is two blocks down,” he told me. “Go let them know. I’ll handle this loud person.”

“Damn fool! He’s a criminal!” shouted the helpless one.

“He thinks you’re just as bad as he is,” laughed Richman.

"How did you find out about my danger?" I asked.

“I borrowed a key to the basement from the staff. When I went in, I heard voices upstairs, sneaked up, peeked through the curtains, saw your situation, and took care of the guy.”

“I’m forever grateful,” I said warmly.

“Don’t worry about it. Now, go get the police, like a good guy.”

“Of course. Take care,” I said. As I walked into the hall, I picked up a heavy fur coat just as I heard footsteps coming up the front steps. I quickly opened the door and confronted the newcomer, shutting it behind me.

“Excuse me! Is Mr. Richman here?” he asked.

"Are you Jones?" I asked.

“Yep.”

“Richman is waiting for you. Sorry for rushing you. Come in. You have a key.”

My bag was really heavy, packed with Richman’s silver and a few thousand dollars in jewelry, but I moved quickly through the snow.

I remembered Richman saying the police station was two blocks south—which, of course, explains why I went north.

The president of the Canfield Iron Works sat at his desk, looking over departmental reports. The silence of Saturday afternoon had descended over the empty factory. Instead of the sounds of trucks, the clanging of steam hammers, and the piercing of signal whistles, a fly buzzed against the window screen while birds chirped from the eaves.

It was with a shocked feeling that the president looked up and saw, standing at the end of his desk, a tall, poorly dressed office worker. Her eyes were lined with dark circles, and her thin lips were pressed together in the expression of someone holding back tears.

“I came to get five hundred dollars,” the girl said, her voice tense. He looked up at her in shocked silence, and she quickly continued. “We really need it, and you owe it to us. Dad kept telling the boss that the big ladle for the melted iron was cracked and would spill one day, but the boss just laughed. Well, about three months ago, he came up here to the office to tell you about it, and the guy out there told him to just go mind his own business.”