CHAPTER XIV I suppose there was never a project that went forward on swifter wings than did this one. Born of the stranger's sermon preached that night in the little neglected church itself, planes. Sometimes I am sad over the thought that he knew nothing about it. Nobody, so far as I am aware, ever took time to tell him that he was the prime mover in the entire scheme. The numerous plans for making money made progress with the rest. Prospered indeed to a degree that filled the young workers with amazement, I might almost say with awe. They grew into the feeling that Miss Benedict was right and that God himself smiled on their scheme and gave it the power of his approval. As the days went by, the leading spirit in the enterprise grew almost too busy to write her daily hurried postals to her mother. These same postals were gradually filled with items that astonished and somewhat bewildered the mother and daughter who watched so eagerly for them. Would Mama be so kind as to call on Mr. Parkhurst, the one who was chief man at the carpet factory up there by Papa's old mill, you know? Would she, on the next bright day, take the blue car-line and ride up there and talk with him? The ride would do her good, and it would be such a help to the girls. They would need only a little carpeting, it was true. But if Mr. Parkhurst would be so kind as to sell to them at wholesale factory prices, it would make a great difference with their purses. And she was sure he would be pleased to do it if Mama would ask him, because you know Mama, he felt very grateful to Papa for help years ago. This was the substance of one postal. One would think that Claire had bought the little old church and was fitting it up for her future home, commented Dora a trifle annoyed. The truth was, her sister seemed almost unpardonably satisfied and happy away from them. Another day would bring further petitions. Would it be too much for Mama to look at wallpapers, something very neat and plain, not at all expensive, but suited to a small church, and make an estimate of the expense in round numbers? Then would follow a line of figures indicating length and breadth and height. What a child she is, would the mother say, sighing and then smiling, the smiles came last and oftenest in speaking of Claire. She was always very much like your father, and it grows on her. Well, we must see about the wallpaper, perhaps this afternoon will be a good time to give to it. And the commissions were executed promptly and with pains taking care, and Claire would see that both mother and Dora were becoming interested in the old church at south plains, and were absorbing a good many of their otherwise leisure and sad hours in traveling hither and thither in search of shades and grades that would be likely to give her satisfaction. Samples were sent to her and astonishingly low figures accompanied some of them, figures which were communicated with shining eyes to the deeply interested girls, and they sent messages of thanks to the mother and daughter far away. Meantime, the endsteads were not forgotten. There was a special committee meeting one evening in Miss Benedict's room. A letter had come from the foreign member of our firm. Miss Benedict had explained, laughing, meaning her mother, and the contents were to be discussed and voted upon. In the midst of the interest came a message from Mrs. Foster. Would Miss Benedict be kind enough to come to the parlor for a few minutes to see Mr. and Miss Anstead? I must go, girls, Claire said, rising quickly. This is the third attempt Miss Anstead has made to call on me since their kindness to me, and I have either been out or engaged in giving lessons. You will have to excuse me for a little while. I will return as soon as I can. Meantime, I am going to see if I can't secure help in that direction for our enterprise. You won't, said Mary Burton emphatically. They say Alice Anstead is a good singer, but she has been heard to say that she would as soon think of singing in a barn as in our church, and at the one time she heard our organ she thought it was some mice squealing in the ceiling. Wait until we get it tuned and the petals oiled, said Ruth Jennings. I don't believe it will be such a bad sounding instrument. At least it is my opinion that Miss Alice Anstead will find herself able to endure in that line what Miss Benedict is.  Isn't it queer that she has never sung for us? This last was after Claire had left them, but as she was about to close the door, Ruth Jennings had made a remark which had drawn her back. Get Louis Anstead to pledge us the money which he spends in wines each year, and that will do us good and him too. Does he use wines freely? Claire said, turning back. Yes indeed he does, altogether too freely for his good if the village boys can be believed. I heard that he came home intoxicated only night before last. Why, that is nothing new, added Netty Burdick. He often comes home in that condition. Dick Fuller says it is a common experience, and he would know what he is talking about, for he has to be at the depot when the last train comes in. Besides, he makes his money in that way. Why shouldn't he patronize himself? What do you mean? Claire asked, her voice troubled. Why, his money is all invested in one of the distilleries. He has a fortune in his own right, Miss Benedict, left him by his grandmother, and he invested it in Westlake's distillery. He is one of the owners, though his name does not appear in the firm. The Anstead pride would not like that. But I know this is true, for my uncle transacted the business for him. Claire started again making no comment, but this time she moved more slowly. There were reasons why the news gave her a special thrust. The collars greeted her with evident pleasure, and expressed their disappointment at having failed to see her in their other attempts, and gave her messages from their mother to the effect that she was to consider their house one of her homes. Fanatic though she was, it was plainly to be seen that they had resolved to tolerate the fanaticism for the sake of the pleasure of her society. There were other collars, and in a few minutes the conversation, which had been general, dropped into little side channels. Alice Anstead occupying a seat near Miss Benedict turned to her and spoke low. I have wanted to see you. What you said to me that day has made me more dissatisfied than ever, and that was unnecessary. I was uncomfortable enough before. I did not understand you. What is there that you want me to do? How do you know I want you to do anything? Claire could not resist the temptation to ask the question and to laugh a little. Her questioner's tone was so nervous, so almost rebellious, and at the same time so pettish. Oh, I know well enough. You expressed surprise, and well, almost bewilderment, that I did not find absorbing work in the channel about which I know nothing. Suppose I am a Christian. What then? What do you want me to do? But, my dear Miss Anstead, I am not the one of whom that inquiry should be made. If you belong to the Lord Jesus, surely He has work for you and is able to point it out and to fill your heart with satisfaction while you do His bidding. There was a gesture almost of impatience. I tell you I don't understand such talk. It sounds like can't to me and nothing else. That is, it does when other people say it, but you seem different. You live differently some way and interest yourself about different matters from those which absorb the people whom I have heard talk that way. Now I ask you a straightforward question. What do you want me to do? What do you see that I could do if I were what you mean by being a Christian? Claire's face brightened. Oh, that is such a different question, she said. I am really very glad of an opportunity to answer it. I know a dozen things that you could do. For instance, you could throw yourself into the life of this neglected, almost deserted church and help to make it what it should be. You could give your time and your money and your voice to making it arise and shine. How? What on earth is there that I could do, even if I wanted to do anything in that direction which I don't? I know it, but that doesn't hinder me from seeing what you could do. Why, if you want me to be very specific, if you have no better plan than we are working on to propose, you could join us with all your heart and work with us and worship with us on Sabbaths and help us in our preparations for a concert. And sing in that stuffy room to the accompaniment of that horrid little organ and for the benefit of such an audience as South Plains would furnish. Thank you, I don't mean to do it. What else? Of what special use is it for me to suggest ways, since you receive them with such determined refusals? That I may have the pleasure of seeing how far your enthusiasm reaches. I would call it fanaticism if I dared Miss Benedict, but that would be rude. Tell me what next? Claire considered Miss Anstead mean time watching her closely. When at last she spoke, her tone dropped lower and was graver. I wish with all my soul that you would interest yourself in bud. In bud? It was impossible not to give a start of surprise, not to say dismay. Now Miss Benedict, that passes comprehension. What on earth is there that I could do for a great ignorant, blundering clod like bud? He has plenty to eat, and is decently closed without any assistance from me. What more can you imagine he wants? He wants God, said Claire solemnly, and the knowledge of him in the face of Jesus Christ.  I never heard a person talk so in my life, bud is not more than half-witted. I doubt whether he knows that there is such a being as God. What can you fancy it possible for me to do for him? Do you think then that he has no soul? Why, I did not say that. I suppose he has, of course. He is not an animal, though I must say he approaches very nearly to the level of one.  How dreadful all these things are! Of course he will, but how can I help it? Do you suppose he is ready? I don't suppose he ever thought of such a thing in his life. He hasn't mined enough probably to comprehend. Do you really think so? Don't you believe the boy to whom you can say, close the blinds on the north side to shut out the wind, who'd understand if you said, but God is as surely in the world as the wind is, though you cannot see either.  And what he wants you to do is all printed in a book that you can learn to read. Do you think Bud could not comprehend as much as that? I never heard of such an idea in my life, said Miss Anstead. I don't know how to teach such things. And she turned away and talked with a caller about a traveling opera company who were to sing in the city on the following evening. Mr. Anstead had changed his seat, meantime, and was waiting for his opportunity. He turned to Claire the moment his sister withdrew. I came to ask a favor of you this evening, two of them in fact, but the first is on such strange ground for me that I have been studying all day how to put it. And have you decided? No, left it in despair, only praying that the fates would be favorable to me and grant me opportunity and words. Here is the opportunity, but where are the words? I have always found it comfortable to be as simple and direct as possible with all communications. Suppose you see how fully you can put the thought before me in a single sentence. The gentleman laughed. That would be one way to make an interview brief if such were my desire. I cannot say, however, that that phase of the subject troubles me any. Well, I will take your advice and put a large portion of my thought into a short sentence. I wish you could and would do something for Harry Matthews. It was not in the least what she had expected. She supposed his words were to preface a flattering invitation or something of that character, an apparently earnest sentence concerning a merry young fellow in whom she was already somewhat interested, filled her with surprise, and kept her silent. Is that brief and abrupt enough? He asked, and then, without waiting for answer, continued, I mean it, strange as it may seem, and I so rarely do unselfish things that I can imagine it seems strange enough. I haven't a single thought in the matter. Harry is a good fellow, a little fast, the old ladies say, and shake their heads, but they don't know what they mean by that. The boy is a favorite of mine, and he is one who has a good deal of force of character without any willpower if that is not a contradiction. I fancy you know what I mean. I am going to speak more plainly now, a way back in some former generation. No, I am going to tell the naked truth. Do you know anything of his family, Miss Benedict? Not anything. Well, his father was a good man and a drunkard. You think that is another contradiction of terms. Perhaps it is, as you would mean it, but not as I do. He was a good, warm-hearted, whole-souled man, and he drank himself into his grave, shipwrecked his property, and left his widow and the boy dependence on wealthy relatives or on themselves. Harry is trying to be a man and works hard, and especially tempted in the line at which I have hinted. I feel afraid for him, and the only person in this little wretch of a village whom I think might help him is yourself. Will you try? Mr. Anstead, why don't you help him? It was his turn to be taken aback. He had not expected this answer. He had looked for an instant and interested affirmative, and he had expected to tell her more of Harry Matthew's and of his peculiar associations and temptations. I, he said, and then he laughed. Miss Benedict, you are most remarkable as regards your talent for asking strange questions. It is evident that you are a stranger in South Plains, and I don't know what the Gossips have been about, that they have not posted you better. You should know that I am really the last person in the neighborhood who is expected to help anybody. Least of all, can I help Harry Matthew's? The most helpful thing that I can think of for the boy is to keep him away from me. My influence over him is altogether bad and growing worse. What he needs is to be drawn away from present associations entirely, and indeed from his present associates, of which I am often one. I fancy that this organization of yours in which he is already interested might be managed in a way to help him, and it occurred to me to enlighten you in regard to him and ask for your helping hand. Mr. Anstead, I hope you will pardon the rudeness, but your words sound to me almost like those of an insane person. You recognize your influence over a young man to be evil, realize it to the extent that you make an effort to have him withdrawn from it, and yet if I understand you, make no attempt to change the character of the influence which you have over him. That cannot possibly be your meaning. I think it is about that. Don't you understand what is a mere entertainment to me? A passing luxury which I can afford and which does me no harm is the very brink of a precipice to poor Harry, owing to his unfortunate inherited tendencies. I would like to see him saved, but there is nothing in particular that I can do. Oh, she said in genuine distress, I wonder if it is possible for a soul to be so blind. You can do everything, Mr. Anstead, and moreover, how can you think you have a right to say that you are not personally in danger from the same source? Men as assured in position and as strong in mental power as you have fallen by the hundreds. Surely you know that there is no safety from such a foe, save in having none of him. Do you think so? In that we would differ. I am not fanatical in this matter. I recognize Harry's danger, but I recognize equally that I am built in a different mold and have different antecedents. And have no responsibilities connected with him? Oh, yes, I have, he said in not most good humor. I assumed responsibility when I came here to ask you to help him. It was the best thing I could think of to do for the boy. You think I am playing a part, but upon honor I am not. I know his mother is anxious. She wondered afterward whether it were not an unwise question to ask, but said, Is not your mother anxious, Mr. Anstead? Not in the least, he answered smilingly. CHAPTER 15 Starting for Home It had been a stormy evening, and the little company of busy people who had gathered in the church for a rehearsal were obliged to plod home through an incipient snowstorm. But they were in happy mood, for the most successful rehearsal of the enterprise had been held, and certain developments had delighted their hearts. To begin with, just as they had completed a difficult chorus, the door leading into the outside world had opened with a decisive bang, and there had been an energetic stamping of feet in the little entry, and there appeared Alice and Louis Anstead. There was still on Alice's face that curious mixture of superiority and discontent, which Claire had always seen in her. Here we are, she said, in a tone that expressed a sort of surprise with herself at the idea. It would be difficult to tell why. Now what do you want of me? Claire went forward to meet them, her face bright with welcome. Have you really come to help us? She asked. I suppose so. I don't know why else we should have appeared here in the storm. It is snowing. I don't mind the storm, though. Only why did I come? I don't know. If you do, I wish you would tell me. Well, I do. I know exactly. You came to take the alto in this quartet we are arranging. My girls were just assuring me that there was not an alto voice in our midst that could sustain the other parts. What do you say now, girls? There was a good deal of satisfaction in her tones. It amused her to think of Ruth's discontented brumble but a moment before. If Alice Anstead did not feel so much above us, she would be a glorious addition to this piece. Miss Benedict, her voice is splendid. I don't like her, but I would tolerate her presence if we could get her to take the alto in this. Then Mary Burton. Well, she won't, and you needn't think of such a thing. It was at that moment that the door had opened and she came. Claire went at once to the organ, and the rehearsal of the quartet began. I do not know but the girls themselves would have been almost frightened had they been sufficiently skilled in music to know what a rare teacher they had. Claire Benedict's voice was a special talent got given as surely as her soul. Time was when it had been one of her temptations hard to resist. Such brilliant and flattering futures had opened before her if she would but consent to give private rehearsals. There is an intoxication about extravagant praise, and Claire had for weeks been intoxicated to the degree that she could not tell where the line was drawn and when the world stepped in and claimed her as its special prize. It was then that the keen, clear-seeing, wise and tender father had used his fatherly influence and showed her the net which Satan had wearily spread. She had supposed herself secure after that, but when the great financial crash came upon them and when the father was gone where he could advise and shield no more, there had come to her the temptation of her life. It would have been so easy to have supported her mother and sister in a style somewhat like that to which they had been accustomed, and to do this she need not descend in any sense to that which was in itself wrong or unladylike. Those who would have bought her voice were willing that she should be as exclusive as she pleased. But for the clear-sightedness of her father in those days when the other temptations had been met she would surely have yielded to the pressure. She came off victorious but wounded. When she had with determined face turned from all these flattering offers and entered the only door which opened to her conscience, this one at South Plains, she had told herself that three hundred dollars a year did not hire her voice. So much of herself she would keep to herself. She would do no singing either in public or private, not a note. In order to teach even vocal music it was not necessary to exhibit her powers of song. That sermon however had swept this theory away along with many others. It is true it had been almost exclusively about the church, but you will remember that it had dealt with the conscience, and the conscience awakened on one point is far more likely to see plainly in other directions. When next the subject of song presented itself to her mind, Claire Benedict was somewhat astonished to discover that she had not given her voice when she gave herself. She had not known it at the time, but there had evidently been a mental reservation else she would not shrink so from using her powers in this direction in this her new sphere of life. Some earnest heart-searching had to be done. Was she vain of her voice? She wondered that she was so unwilling to use it in the desolate little sanctuary at South Plains that she could not even bring herself to do other than peep the praises of God in the school chapel. It was a revelation of self that brought much humiliation with it. It was even humiliating to discover that it took a long and almost fierce struggle to overcome the shrinking which possessed her. It was not all pride. There was a relief in remembering that. There was a sense in which her voice seemed to belong to her happy and varied past, something which her father had loved, even exalted in, and which had been largely kept for him. But this thought of her father helped her. There was never a thought connected with him that did not help in strengthen. He would not have approved. No, she did not put it that way. She hated those past tenses as connected with him. He did not approve of her hiding her talent in a napkin. Her happiness should not be labeled past. Was she not in God's world? Was she not the child of a king? Was not heaven before her and an eternity there with her father who had just preceded the family by a few days? Did she grudge him that?  From this heart searching there had come another victory, and if Claire Benedict did not say in so many solemn words, take my voice and let me sing, always only for my king, she nevertheless consecrated it to his service and grew joyful over the thought that she had this talent to give. In making her selections for the coming concert she had with rare good taste kept in mind the character of the audience which would probably gather to listen and the capacities of her helpers. She chose simple, tender melodies, narrative poems such as Appeal to the Heart with one or two wonderful solos and this quartet which was new and difficult but full of power. They sang it presently for the first time. Claire and Alice Anstead, Harry Matthews, and a friend of his who had been drawn in for the occasion. It was the first time that even her girls had heard Claire's voice in its power. They said not a word when it was ended but they looked at one another in a startled way and presently Ruth Jennings apologized in undertone for its power over her. I'm sure I don't know what was the matter with me. I never cried before at the sound of music. I have read of people doing it and I thought it rather absurd but I could not help it. Girls I wonder what the Ansteads think. What Alice Anstead thought might have been expressed in part in her first astonished comment. The idea of your singing in South Plains. However, she said more than that in the course of the evening, said things which gave Claire much more pleasure. For instance, how horribly out of order that little wretch is. Why don't you have it tuned? It would be a little more indurable then or at least a little less intolerable. Our piano tuner is coming out tomorrow and I mean to send him down here. The idea of having nothing but a rickety chair for a music stool. Lewis, what has become of that piano stool we used to have in our library in town? Did you store it with the other things? Well, just bring it out tomorrow. Miss Benedict will get another fall if she depends on this old chair any longer. What is that you are sitting on? A pile of old music books, I declare. The whole thing is disgraceful. Miss Benedict, do you sing Easter bells? I should think it would just fit your voice. It runs so high that I can do nothing with it. But I wouldn't mind taking the alto with you. Lewis, suppose you bring out the music tomorrow and let her look at it. And before the evening was over, it became evident to those girls that Miss Anstead was committed to the concert at least. They were half jealous it is true. They had enjoyed having their prize all to themselves. Still, she had bloomed before them that evening into such an unexpected prize that they were almost odd and a little glad that her glorious voice should have such an appropriate setting as was found in Alice Anstead. And besides, it was a sort of triumph to say. Why, the Ansteads are going to help us at our concert. They have never sung in south plains before. Lewis, too, contributed something besides his fine tenor voice. What makes your stove smoke so, Bud? he questioned. And Bud explained with some stammering that there was something wrong about the pipe. One joint did not fit right into another joint, or, as he expressively stated it, one joint was too small and tether was too large and so they didn't work well. I should say not, said Lewis amused. The wonder is that they work at all with such a double difficulty as that to contend with. Well, Bud, you tell Hawkins to come in tomorrow and see what is the matter with the joints and make the large one small and the small one large or fix it in any other way that suits his genius so that the thing won't smoke and send his bill to me. We will have our throats all raw here before the important day arrives. A music stool and an organ tuner and a new elbow for the stove pipe, commented Ruth Jennings, in a complacent tone, as they walked home in the snow. The Ansteads are good for something in the world after all. About the homegoing there was some talk. Claire, down by the stove adjusting her rubbers, caught the watchful, wistful gaze of Bud and remembered what Ruth had said about her influence over him. How could she exert it so that it would tell on Bud forever? What was there that she could say to him? When was her opportunity? Right at hand, perhaps, she would try. Bud, she said, are you going to see me home through the snowstorm or must you make haste up the hill? It gave her a feeling of pain to see the sudden blaze of light on his dark swarthy face. What a neglected friendless life he must have led that a kind word or two would have such power over him. Me, he said, do you mean it? I'd like to carry your books and things, and I could take the broom and sweep along before you. Might I go? Oh, I haven't got to hurry. My work is all done. She laughed lightly. What a picture it would be for Dora. Could she see her plunging through the freshly fallen snow, but at her side or a step ahead with a broom? I don't need the broom, she said. It has not snowed enough for that, and I am prepared if it has. See my boots. I like the snow. You may carry my books, please, and we will have a nice walk and talk. The girls are already now, I think.  Out in the beautiful snowy world, just as Bud's key clicked in the lock, Louis Anstead came up to Claire. Miss Benedict, let me take you home in the sleigh. I am sorry to have kept you waiting a moment, but my blundering driver had something wrong about the harness, and the horses were fractious. They are composed enough now, and Alice is in the sleigh. Let me assist you out to it, please. If it had been moonlight, he might have seen the mischievous sparkle in Claire's eyes. It was so amusing to be engaged to Bud, while his master held out his hands for her books as a matter of course, and poor Bud stood aside, desolate and miserable. Evidently he expected nothing else but to be laughed. Claire's voice rang out clear, purposely, to reach Bud's ear. Oh no, thank you, Mr. Anstead. I am fond of walking. I don't mind the snow in the least, and I have promised myself the pleasure of a walk through it with Bud. Thank you, as he still urged. My ankle is quite well again, and I have had no exercise today. I really want the walk. We thank you very much for your help this evening, Mr. Anstead. Good night. Are you ready, Bud? And they trudged away, leaving the discomforted gentleman standing beside his pying horses. It is some absurd idea of benefiting Bud that has taken possession of her, explained Alice, as the sleigh flew by the two. She spoke to me about trying to help him.  But the master of the horses said nothing. He was prepared to think, but not to confess, that such as she might help even Bud. That young man, though his tread was certainly heavy enough, seemed to himself to be walking on air. Such a wonderful thing had come to him. Years and years had passed since anybody had spoken to him, save in short, sharp words, to give an order of some sort. Now this one, who said good morning and good evening when she met him, as pleasantly as she spoke to any who had asked him kind questions about himself, who had told him that the stoves were very clean and that it seemed pleasant to have the church warm, was actually letting him walk home with her and carry her books. Poor Bud wished there were more of them and that they were as heavy as lead that he might show how gladly he carried them for her sake. She, meantime, was wondering how she could best speak to help him in any way. Don't you sing at all? she asked, her eyes falling on the pile of music books and seizing upon the question as a way of opening conversation. Me, said Bud, with an embarrassed laugh. Oh, no, I can't sing any more than a calf can. But you like music, don't you? She was still making talk to try to put him at his ease. Bud found voice then for some of the feeling which possessed him. I don't like most folks' music a bit, but I like the kind you make, I do so. He spoke with tremendous energy. There was no mistaking the intensity of his conclusions. Claire laughed a little. They were not getting on very well. Bud's musical tastes had probably not been cultivated. He liked the music that she made because the same voice had spoken kind words to him. Well, in that case, what would he think of the music of the angels? She wondered. Some of the thought she put into words. I'll tell you where you will like the music, Bud, when you get to heaven. Did you ever try to think what that singing would sound like? Me, said Bud again, and this time there was unutterable amazement in his voice. It was clear that the idea of hearing the music of heaven had never dawned on his mind. Claire replied hesitatingly in almost a plaintive tone. The desolation of a soul that had no heaven to look to touched her strangely just then. Bud, you are going there to hear the music, are you not? I reckon not. He spoke the words gravely with a singularly mournful intonation. Heaven ain't for such as me.  Oh, Bud, I am so sorry to hear you speak such dreadful words. I didn't expect it of you. Why, don't you know you are the same as saying that the Lord Jesus Christ has not told the truth? He said he came to earth in order that you might live forever with him in heaven, and he loves you, Bud, and is watching for you to give yourself to him. And now you even say you ought not to have been made. I didn't mean no harm. I was only a say in what I've heard folks say time and time again about me. They don't see what I was made for, and I didn't either. You were made to love God, and to do work for him, and to live with him forever in his beautiful heaven. If you don't go there, it will make his heart sad. Oh, Bud, if I were you, I wouldn't treat him so. End of Chapter 15, Recording by Tricia G. Chapter 16 of Interrupted by Pansy. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 16. Lost Friends I never knew nothing about it. Bud said earnestly, I never heard as anybody cared in particular what became of me, only so that I got out of folks's way and didn't bother. Why, Bud, have you never heard the minister urge you to give yourself to Jesus? But Bud shook his head energetically. No minister never spoke to me, he said. I go to church every once in a while because I get my work all done and don't know what else to do. When the horses are gone and the dog is gone, I'm awful lonesome up there, inclining his head toward the hill, up which the unstead horses were now speeding. And the dog always goes to town to church, along with the horses, and so I went down here for company kind of. But the minister never said nothing to me. I've listened a good bit off and on because I felt lonesome and did not know what else to do. But he never said nothing about me, nor told me a body cared. It was all for them other folks that has homes in good clothes. What a pitiful story was this coming up from the depths of this great lonesome heart surrounded on every hand by nominal Christians. Claire could not keep the tears from her eyes and dared not speak for a moment.  Did you never read any verses in the Bible? She asked at last. You can read, can't you? Oh, yes, I can read. I learned how when I lived with Mr. Stokes back there in the country. Little Jack, he showed me my letters and my easy readings and all, and I could read to him quite a bit. Jack wasn't but eight years old, but he was smart and he was good and he died. The lonely story ended with a sigh. There was evidently a memory of better times enjoyed in the dim past. Claire questioned to get at the utmost of his knowledge. And didn't Jack tell you anything about Jesus in heaven? He did that, ma'am. He talked a good deal about being sent for to go there, and he was, too. I make sure of that, for he went away sudden in the night. The life did, you know, and he had a smile on his face in the morning, just as he looked when he was very glad about anything, and I am about sure that it was just as he said it would be about the angels coming and off, and he used to think they would come for me, too. Your turn will come, bud, he used to say to me. He was a little fellow, you see. This last was in an apologetic tone. He thought the world of bud, and he thought everybody else was like him, and that what was fixed for him would be fixed for bud. I used to like to hear him say it, because he was a little fellow, and he liked me, but I knew that what was for him wasn't for me. Bud, you are mistaken. Little Jack was right about it all. There was no doubt that the angels came for him, and they will come for you if you want to go where Jack is. Jesus Christ, Jack's savior, was the one who told him to tell you about it.  Did you know Jack, ma'am?  I'd go on my hands and knees all night through the woods to see Little Jack again, but I don't know the way. Bud, did you know that the Bible was God's book? and told all about Jack's home and the way to get to it? Have you a Bible? No, said Bud slowly. I haven't got no book at all. I never had no book. What desolation of poverty was this? Claire took her instant resolution. Bud, I have a Bible which I think Little Jack and Little Jack's savior want me to give to you for your very own. I'll get it for you tonight, and then I want you to promise me that every day you will read one verse in it. It is all marked off into verses. And will you begin tonight? I will so, said Bud, with a note of satisfaction in his voice. I've thought a good many times that it would be nice to have one book, but I didn't much expect to ever. I'll read in it this very night, ma'am. And as he received the treasure wrapped in paper and tucking it carefully under his arm trudged away, Claire, could she have followed him, would have found that every once in a while during that long homeward walk he chuckled and hugged the book closer. Claire went to her room and to her knees, her heart full for Bud, poor dreary homeless Bud. If he could be made to understand that there were home and friends waiting for him. If she had only had time to mark a few of the verses, some of those very plain ones over the meaning of which Bud could not stumble. She was sorry that she had not retained the book for a day and done this work. It was too late now. She could only pray that God would lead him toward the right verse. Tomorrow evening, she would ask him for his Bible, and on the Sabbath, she would employ her leisure moments in marking such verses as he ought to know. As she arose from her knees, a letter lying on her table caught her eye, a home letter from Dora, with perhaps a few lines in it from Mama herself.  Four closely written pages from Dora crossed and recrossed after the fashion of school girls who seemed to be provenant only in the line of note paper. Claire looked at it lovingly and laid it aside to be enjoyed afterward. Here was a scrap from Mama, only a few lines on a half sheet of paper. After these, she dived. Letters from Dora were delightful and could wait. The heart of the girl was homesick for Mama. It was over the last page of Dora's sheet that she lingered the longest.  We have moved. We kept it a secret from you, Mama and I, because we were sure you would think that we could not do such a thing without you. And as we were well aware that the church at South Plains could not spare you to say nothing of the school, we determined to take the burdens of life upon our own shoulders and give you nothing to worry over until we were settled. It is done and we are alive and comfortable, so you may dismiss those troubled wrinkles that I can distinctly see gathering on your forehead. Now for the reason why, the same law which seems of late to have taken possession of us, necessity. The house you so deftly settled us in was sold and three weeks' notice given to renters. We could have held them for a longer time, as Mr. Winfield indignantly told us, and as we very well knew, for you know how Papa held that house for the Jones family when the owner said they must vacate. But what was they use? Mama said she would rather move it once than have any words about it. So I felt, and one day when we went out hunting the proper shade of curtain for the church you own, we hunted rooms also. Where do you think we found them? Within a square of our old home in the Jenkins block, you know. They chanced to be vacant because the former occupants had bought a place on the square and gone to housekeeping on a larger scale. The rent is the same as that which we were paying. I think Mr. Cleveland made his conscience somewhat elastic in arranging itself. For, while the rooms are smaller and less convenient than those we vacated, you know what the neighborhood is. However, he offered them on the same terms we were then paying, and of course we could not demur. I urged the taking of them at once for Mama's sake. For, though I think with you that the farther we are away from the old home, the better, and though I hate every spot within a mile of our house, still I could see that Mama did not share the feeling. There were old friends for whose faces she pined. Good old friends, you know, who love her for herself and not for the entertainments she used to give. And then there was the old church. I could see Mama's face brightened over the thought of being there once more. And though I hate that too, for Mama's sake I was glad that we listened to Dr. Ellis again last Sabbath. We are comfortably situated, though you know better than I can tell you, what a sort of mockery it is of our former way of living. But for Mama I think it will be better in every way, and she is the one to be considered. But I believe in my heart that the dear woman thinks I wanted to come and imagines that that is why she consented to the plan. I hope she does. I never mean to let her know how I grind my teeth over it all. Not fiercely clear, I do try to be submissive, and I know that God knows what is best, and that Papa is happy, and that I must not wish him back. But the bearing it is very bitter all the time.  I wonder if one thing that I have to tell you will surprise you or vex you, or whether you will not care anything about it. I have held my pen for a full minute to try to decide, and I find that I don't know. It is something that has hurt me cruelly, but then I am easily hurt. I don't want to make you feel as I do, but if you care you ought to know, and if you don't care, no harm can come of my telling you. Claire, I used to think in the old days that seemed to have been fifty years ago, that you liked Pierce Douglas rather better than the other young men who used to be so fond of coming to our home. And I thought, in fact, I felt almost certain, that he liked you better than he did anybody else. Well, he has returned, and only yesterday I saw him on Clark Avenue. I was just coming down Ruben Street, and I made all possible haste, because I thought it would be so pleasant to see his familiar face once more and to answer his many questions. Besides, I presume I was silly, but I thought it more than probable that he was in correspondence with you and would have some news of you to give me. I called to him breathlessly as I saw he was about to enter a car, and I thought more than likely he was looking for our address. Pierce, I said, you know I have called him Pierce ever since I was a little bit of a girl, and he used to help me down the seminary stairs. He stopped and looked about him, and looked right at me, and made no movement toward me, though I was hastening to him. I am so glad to see you, I said, for even then I did not understand, and then he spoke. Miss Benedict, is it, why I was not aware you were in the city? I thought I had heard of a removal. I trust you are having a pleasant winter, Miss Benedict. We have a good deal of snow for this region, have we not? You will pardon my haste, I had signaled my car before you spoke. And he lifted his hat with one of his graceful bows, and sprang in and was gone. Yes, I pardoned his haste. I was glad to see the car swing around the corner. I was burning and choking. The idea of being met in that way by Pierce Douglas, only six months since he called me little Dora Linda Onora, and begged me not to forget to mention his name ten times a day while he was absent. Claire, I could hardly get home, my limbs trembled so. Mama was out executing one of your commissions, and I was glad, for I was not fit to see her for hours. I have heard today that Pierce has been in town for six weeks, and is to be married in the spring to Emeline Ben Antwerp. Is that any reason why he should have insulted me? I am certainly willing that he shall marry whom he pleases, if he can secure her. Claire, do you remember how Emeline's taste in dress used to amuse him? But she is very rich, you know. At least she is an only daughter, and her father has not failed. How does Pierce know but that in six months it will be Mr. Ben Antwerp's turn? Well, I only hope, dear Claire, that I was utterly and entirely mistaken in your friendship for that man. It seems to me now that I must have been, for with so base a nature, he could not have interested you. O Claire, do you suppose Papa knows of all these little stings that we have to bear? I can hardly see how he can be happy in heaven if he does, for he guarded us all so tenderly. Does that old worn-out church really fill your heart as it seems to, so that you can be happy without Papa? That is wicked, I know, and if you are happy, I am glad you are.  Good night, dear. I am very weary of this day. I am going to try to lose the memory of it in sleep. Claire rose up from reading this sheet, with a pale face out of which the brightness was strangely gone. It seemed a curious thing to her afterward, that she had thought to herself while reading it. I am glad I spoke those words to Bud. I am glad I told him about a home where there is nothing but brightness. We need such homes.  Then she sat down and worked over her class book, arranging her averages for the week. She had not meant to do that work on that evening, but she seized upon it as something that would keep her thoughts employed. She did not want to think. Suddenly, in the midst of the figures, she pushed the book from her, and burying her face in her hands, said to her heart in a determined way, Now, what is the matter? Why do I not want to look this thing in the face? What is wounded, my pride? After a little, she drew a long, relieved breath and sat erect. There was no need in covering this thing away. It would bear looking at. Dora had been both right and wrong. She had liked him better, yes, quite a little better, than the other young men of her acquaintance. She had believed in him. When financial ruin came upon them, and friends gathered around with well-meant, but often blundering words of sympathy, she had comforted herself with thinking how gracefully Pierce Douglas would have said and done these things had he been at home. When the burden of life strained heavily upon her, she had found herself imagining how heartily he would have shouldered some of the weights that another could carry and helped her through. She had not been in correspondence with him. He had asked to write to her, and she had, following her father's gently offered suggestion, assured him that it would be better not. He was not to be absent many months. Yet during these weeks at South Plains, she had often told herself that perhaps Pierce would write a line for friendship's sake. He would know that a letter of sympathy offered at such a time would be very different from ordinary correspondence. Yet when no letter came, she had told herself that of course he would not write. He was too thoroughly a gentleman to do so after she had, though never so gently, refused to receive his letters. Sometimes it was this story, and sometimes she reminded herself that of course he had not her address. He would not like to inquire for it. There had been nothing in their friendship to warrant it. When he reached home and met Dora and her mother again, as he would assuredly, she would be quite likely to get a little message from him. Not a thought had crossed her mind, but that he would hasten to the old friends to offer his earnest sympathy and express his sorrow, for her father had been a friend to him. Now here was the end of it, six weeks in town, and nothing to say to Dora but a comment about the snow. If he had said ice, it would have been more in keeping. Here was a shattered friendship, and no true heart but bleeds over such wounds. Yet, and this was the decision which made her lift her head again. There was wounded pride, certainly, and wounded feeling. But there was a sense in which it did not matter how Pierce Douglas met her sister on the street, or whom he married. She had not known it before. There had been a time when she had imagined it otherwise. But something seemed to have come into her life since her brief residence in this little village, which made her clear-eyed. She knew that she did not want to marry a man like Pierce Douglas. She knew that had he come to her before the revelations of this letter, and asked her to share his name and home, she would have been grateful and sorrowful, but she would certainly have said, I cannot. She smiled a little as she recurred to Dora's letter. Had the old church won her heart? Surely it could not be anything else in South Plains. Yes, oh yes, it was something that she had found at South Plains. She had been lifted up into daily fellowship with the Lord. She was learning to live as seeing him who is invisible. And in the light of his daily companionship, she could not come into close relationship with such and one as Pierce Douglas, a man who did not profess allegiance to him. And yet, you who understand the intricacies of the human heart will be able to see how the letter had stung. She did not want to marry him, but she wanted to respect him to look upon him as a friend, to feel that he cared for her and not for her father's millions. It was bitter to feel that here was yet another to whom friendship had been only an empty name and to wonder how many more there were and because of him to have less faith in the world. On the whole, I think it was well that at last she cried. They were healthy tears and helped to wash away some of the bitterness. End of Chapter 16 Recording by Tricia G. Chapter 17 Of Interrupted by Pansy This Librebox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 17 Spreading Nets The morning found her her own quiet self. Her first waking thoughts were of Bud and the first thing she did after her toilet was made was to sit down and study her Bible with a view to selecting some verses that she meant to mark for Bud. All day she went about her many duties with a quiet heart. Even the sting of a false friendship seemed to have been taken away. In the afternoon she refused to ride with Mr. Anstead on the plea that she had a music lesson to give. But when the scholar failed to appear she, in no wise discomforted, set herself to the answering of the home letters. A long, genial letter to her mother longer than she had taken time for of late, fuller of detail as to the work that occupied hands and heart. Something about Bud, his lonely life, his one tender memory, her desire that he might find a friend who would never fail him. Her wish that the mother would remember him when she prayed. Her longing to be in a faint sense a helper to him as her father would surely have been were he on the earth. I cannot do for him what Papa would, so she wrote, but Christ can do much more. And it gives me a thrill of joy to remember that he is not only in heaven with Papa, but here watching over Bud. A detailed account of the last evening's rehearsal and the new recruits, a hint of her desire to lead this restless Alice into clearer light, if indeed the true light had ever shined into her heart. A word even about Louis Anstead. Would Mama pray for him too? It was said that he was in danger from several sources, and he said that his mother was not at all anxious about him. If you were his mother, so she wrote, you would be anxious. Be a mother to him for Christ's sake, Mama dear, and pray for him, as I am afraid his own mother does not. Still I ought not to say that, for she is a member of the church, and it may be that her son does not know her heart. To Dora there was but a scrap of paper. It is a pity, Dora Linda dear, to put you off with this little torn bit of paper, but I have written all the news to Mama, which means to you too, of course, and this bit is just large enough for the subject about which I want to speak to you alone. Don't worry, little sister, about me, nor about Pierce Douglas's treatment of me or of you. If his manliness can afford such a slight as he gave you, we certainly can afford to bear it. In a sense it was hard, but much harder I should think, for him than for us. No, little Dora, the church here has not my whole heart, though I will own that a large piece of it has gone out to the dreary little sanctuary, so sadly in need of a human friend. For the Lord will not do what his people ought to do, you know, but I will tell you who is filling my heart and keeping me at rest and happy, the Lord Jesus Christ. Not happy without Papa, but happy in the hope of meeting him again and never parting any more. Don't you remember, dear, there can never be another parting from Papa? Some sorrowful places there may be for your feet and mine on our journey home, but so far as Papa is concerned, there will be no more need for tears. Bear the thorns of the way, little sister, in patience, for they are only on the way through the woods, not a thorn in the home. I trust you will be so brave as to dismiss Pierce Douglas from your thoughts, unless indeed you will take the trouble to ask him for what he will let us have some handsome chairs for the pulpit. I remember at this moment that his money is invested in furniture. But perhaps you will not like to do that, and he might not let us have them at any lower rates than we could secure elsewhere. Goodbye, darling brave lonely sister. I both laughed and cried over your letter, though the tears were not about the things you thought would move them. She folded and addressed this letter with a smile. No need to tell this sensitive, fierce-hearted Dora that the wound rankled for a time and did not bring tears only because it was too deep for tears. Yet assuredly her heart was not broken over Pierce Douglas. The letter sealed and laid aside, an unemployed half-hour lay before her. Not that there was not plenty to do, but that curious aversion to setting about any of it, which busy workers so well understand, came over her in full force. A sort of unreasonable and unreasoning desire that the hour might be marked by something special hovered around her. She stood at the window and looked out on the snow and watched the sleighs fly past. A sleigh ride would be pleasant. Why could she not have known that her music scholar was to disappoint her and so had the benefit of a ride? Possibly she might have said a word in season to Louis Anstead, though there was about her the feeling that he was not ready for the word in season and would make poor use of it. Perhaps the master knew that it was better left unsaid and so had held her from the opportunity, but she longed to do something. A sleigh was stopping at the academy. The young man who sprang out and presently peeled the bell was Harry Matthews. Did he want her, she wondered, and was this her special opportunity? No, he only wanted a roll of music to study the part which he was to sing. But on learning that the teacher was in and at leisure he came to her in the music room and asked questions about this particular song and about the rehearsal and asked to have the tenor played for him and as he bent forward to turn the music the breath of wine floated distinctly to her. Was this an opportunity? Was there something that she might say and ought to say? It was Louis Anstead's belief that this young man's special danger lay in this direction, but what a delicate direction it was to touch. He thanked her heartily for the help which he had given him about the difficult part, and in that brief time her resolution was taken. Now, do you know there is something that I want you to do for me? No, he did not know it, but was delighted to hear it. Miss Benedict was doing so much for them all that it would certainly be a great pleasure to feel that he could in any way serve her. He wished he could tell her how much he and some of the other boys appreciated this opportunity to study music. There had never been any good singing in South Plains before. There was a flush on Claire's cheeks as she replied, holding forward a little book at the same time. It would serve me. She could think of scarcely anything else so easily done that would give her a greater pleasure than to have him write his name on her pledge book. She had an ambition to fill every blank. There was room for five hundred signers, and she and her sister at home were trying to see which could get their pledge book filled first. Would he give her his name?  What an apparently simple request to make, how almost impossible it seemed to him to comply with it. He made no attempt to take the little book, but stood in embarrassment before it. Isn't there anything else? He said at last, trying to laugh. I hadn't an idea that you would ask anything of this sort. I can't sign it, Miss Benedict. I can't really, though I would like to please you. What is in the way, Mr. Matthews? Have you promised your mother not to sign it? The flush on his cheek mounted to his forehead, but still he tried to laugh and speak gaily. Hardly. My mother's petitions do not lie in that direction, but I really am principled against signing pledges.  This was foolish. Would it do to let the young fellow know that she knew it was? Then you do not believe in bonds or mortgages or receipts or promises to pay of any sort, not even bank notes. He laughed again. That is business, he said. Well, briskly, this is business. I will be very business-like. What do you want me to do, give you a receipt? Come, I want your name to help fill my book, and I am making as earnest a business as I know how of securing names. Miss Benedict, I am not in the least afraid of becoming a drunkard. Mr. Matthews, that has nothing whatever to do with the business at hand. What I want is your name on my total abstinence pledge. If you do not intend to be a drinker, you can certainly have no objection to gratifying me in this way. Ah, but I have. The promise tramples me unnecessarily and foolishly. I am often thrown among people, with whom it is pleasant to take a sip of wine, and it does no harm to anybody. How can you be sure of that? There are drunkards in the world, Mr. Matthews. Is it your belief that they started out with the deliberate intention of becoming such, or even with the fear that they might, or were they led along step by step? Oh, I know all that, but I assure you I am very careful with whom I drink liquor. There are people who seem unable to take a very little habitually. They must either let it alone or drink to excess. Such people ought to let it alone and to sign a pledge to do so. I never drink with any such, and I never drink anyway, save with men much older than I, who ought to set me the example instead of looking to me, and who are either masters of themselves, or too far gone to be influenced by anything that I might do.  But the young man before her was very young, and did not know his own heart, much less understand human nature. He was evidently in earnest and would need any amount of argument, would need indeed a much better knowledge of himself before she could convince him of his false and dangerous position, and her opportunity, if it were one, was swiftly passing. What was there that she could accomplish here and now? Since he was in such a state of bewilderment as to logic, she resolved to lay a delicate little snare for his feet. Well, I am sorry that you will not sign my pledge. I do not like your arguments. I think they are painfully weak. I wish at your leisure you would look into them carefully, and see if you think them worthy of lodgement in an honest mind. But in the meantime, there is something else, this little favor that I am about to ask. Will you promise to grant? The man looked immensely relieved. He had not expected her to abandon the ground so promptly. He had been on the verge of pleading fear lest his horse was restive, and so breaking away from the embarrassment. He tumbled eagerly into the pretty net. What could she ask that would not be easy enough, now that the total abstinence pledge was out of the way? He could think of nothing else that a lady such as Miss Benedict certainly was, could ask, which would not be comparatively easy of accomplishment. I don't believe in that way of doing business, he said, looking wise and smiling down on her in a superior way. As a rule, I promise nothing with my eyes shut. But I am sure to be able to trust you, and I will try to do anything else that you ask of me, if only to prove how sincere I am in my desire to please. It is a very good rule as a rule, she said quickly. I would not violate it often, but this is easy enough to do, I want your signature to that. She turned the leaves rapidly, and pointed to a few lines in the back part of the little book. Two signatures were appended, but the astounding words that arrested the young man's attention were these. I promise that within 24 hours after I have taken a taste of anything that will intoxicate, I will report the same either in person or by letter to my friend, Miss Benedict.  I am fairly caught, he said at last, in a constrained voice, and in a way that I least expected. May I ask you what possible good it can do you to burden yourself with such senseless confidences as these? You are right, she said. They are confidences. I should not have shown you the book if I were not sure that the names there are utterly unknown to you, and will be likely always to remain so. I had a good motive, and the effort resulted in good. So much you must believe on trust. But I did not mean to catch you, at least not in the way you mean, and to prove it, I will release you from your promise. I judged from what you told me that you would not consider it a hard one. She was speaking with cold dignity now. She was willing that he should not sign this pledge if he wished to be released. If only his unwillingness to sign would lead him to think on what dangerous ground he stood, part of her object would have been attained. But no, his pride was roused now, and came to the rescue. He refused to be released. Since she chose to burden herself in this way, he was quite willing and should certainly add his name. This he did with a flourish, trying to be gay again, and went away assuring her that he was sorry for her, for he always kept a pledge. After he was gone, she tormented herself as to whether she had done wisely. She was more than doubtful. Those two other names had been written by friendless and sorely tempted boys, who distrusted themselves and their resolution to such an extent that she had devised this little plan for helping them up from the depths of despair. They were gone now, both of them were stronger arms than hers upheld them, where they were forever safe from falling, and Harry Matthews' knowledge of their names would harm no one. But Harry was of a different world. Had she been foolish and thus almost stealing his promise, he had not taken it as she thought he would. She had believed him to be gaily indifferent to his habits in this direction. She had believed that he was unaware how frequently he accepted business invitations of this character. On the whole, she was more than doubtful as to the unusual work done in this leisure half hour, and looked with apprehension rather than pleasure at the name in her book. Nevertheless, she prayed over it as she had been want to do for those who were gone now. There was nothing for it but to ask him who never made mistakes to overrule hers if it was a mistake, and to use it in some way for his glory. This rested her. It was so wonderful to remember that he could make even mistakes serve him. Meantime, Bud, the little lamp which belonged to his quarters over the stable, was left holy to his care, and he did not get the best. He often stumbled his way to bed in the dark rather than take the trouble of filling the lamp in the daytime. But tonight, with his treasure under his arm, he rejoiced to remember that part of his morning work had been to fill that lamp and put it in unusual order. It was with satisfaction that he lighted and set it on the inverted barrel that he had improvised for a table. He was to read a verse in a book. He had little knowledge as to whether the verses were long or short, whether it would take till midnight or longer to read one, and it had nothing to do with his promise. He reflected that the lamp was full and resolved that as long as it would burn, he would work at the verse if necessary. But where to begin? What a big book it was, if Claire had but marked a verse for him as she had planned. Well, what then? It would not have been likely to have been the one over which he stopped at random and slowly spelled out, going back over each word, until he had the complete sentence. As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you, and he shall be comforted in Jerusalem.  Might it not as well have been in Greek? End of Chapter 17, Recording by Tricia G. Chapter 18 of Interrupted by Pansy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 18, Bud in Search of Comfort Let me tell you that sentences which you believe will be as Greek to certain souls are sometimes fraught with wonderful meaning because of an illumination about which you know nothing. It was so with Bud.   This was all that she would have been to you, but to Bud she would have served for his ideal of an angel, had he known anything about angels. She was little Jack's mother, and she was motherly, and Bud had never seen a motherly woman before. Perhaps, after all, you get an idea of why she was glorified in his eyes. His own mother slept in a neglected grave when Bud was five years old, but after he came to live at little Jack's, he had lain awake nights to think how she would have looked and acted and spoken had she been alive. And she always looked to him like this one motherly pattern, how Bud longed for her for the sound of her voice for the touch of her hand, only he could have told you. Little Jack had been in the habit of running to mother with every disappointment, every grievance, every pain. He had never been a healthy, rollicking, self-reliant boy, but a gentle, tender one to be shielded and petted. And Bud had heard again and again and again these words spoken oh so tenderly that the memory of them now often brought the tears.  And the words were accompanied with a gesture that framed itself in Bud's heart, the enveloping of little Jack's frail form within two strong motherly arms, suggestive to the boy of boundless power and protectiveness. Could words better fitted to meet Bud's heart have been marked in his Bible? Would Claire Benedict have been likely to have marked that particular verse for him? It is a truth that a certain class of Christian workers need to ponder deeply that when we have done our best, according to the measure of our opportunities, we may safely leave the Holy Spirit to supplement our work. The next morning, Bud thoughtfully rubbed the shining coats of the horses, his mind awake and busy with a new problem. What did the verse mean that he had read so many times that now it seemed to glow before him on the sun-lighted snow? He had wakened in the night and wondered, what could it mean? Not that he did not understand some of it. He was too unenlightened to imagine that plain words could mean other than they did. It had not so much as occurred to him that, because they were in the Bible, they must necessarily have some obscure meaning utterly foreign to what they appeared to say. Such logic as that is only the privilege of certain of the educated classes. Bud knew then what some of the sentence meant. Somebody was to be comforted by somebody, and the way it was to be done was as a mother would do, and Bud, because of little Jack in heaven, knew how that was.  Both of you were educating a soul for the king's palace and you knew it not. How wonderful will the revelations of heaven be when certain whose lives have touched for a few days and then separated shall meet in some of the cycles of eternity and talk things over. Who but the maker of human hearts could have planned Bud's education in this way? Well, he knew another thing.  And if Jesus could do such great things for Jack and really wanted him, could not he plan the way? Bud believed it to be shown the way to reach such a place as Jack told of, and to be made ready to enter there when he should reach the door would certainly be comfort enough. He could almost imagine that one saying to the little hurts by the way, never mind, Bud, it will be all right by and by. That was what the mother used cheerily to say sometimes to little Jack and the verse read, as one whom his mother comforteth. You see how the photographs of his earlier years were educating Bud. But there was one thing shrouded in obscurity. This comforting was to be done at Jerusalem. Now what and where was Jerusalem? Poor Bud, he had never had no book he will remember, and his knowledge of geography was limited indeed. He knew that this village which had almost founded his life was named South Plains. And he knew that back in the country among the farms was where little Jack had lived and he knew the name of the city that lay in the opposite direction. None of these were Jerusalem. Bud did not know, however, but that the next city or town or even farming region might answer to that name, and might be the spot to which those who would have comfort were directed. Little Jack might have lived there for ought that he knew. They came from some other place to the farm. This Benedict might be from there, in which case she would know how to direct him. I want you to take special notice of one thing. It lay clear as sunlight in the boy's ignorant mind. To Jerusalem he meant to go. And as to time, just as soon as he possibly could, he should start. As to how he should manage by the way, or what he should do after he reached that country, he made no speculations. The road was too dark for that. All that he was sure of was that he would start. I wouldn't miss of little Jack for anything, he said, rubbing with energy. And as for the comforting, if that can be for me, and she said so, why I'd go till I dropped to find it. A clear voice broke in on his thoughts. Bud, Mama wants the light carriage and the pony to be ready to take her to the 1220 train. Yossum, said Bud, and he had as yet not a thought of saying anything else. But Miss Alice lingered and watched the rubbing. Not that she was interested in that, or indeed was thinking about it at all. She was watching Bud and thinking of him. What did Claire Benedict find in him to interest her? What did she suppose that she, Alice Anstead, could do to help him? The idea seemed fully as absurd as it had when first suggested. As if the boy had an idea above the horse he was rubbing so carefully. He did not look as intelligent as the animal. She had often wondered what the horses thought about as they trotted along. What did Bud think about as he rubbed? Did he think at all? You seem to like that work. It was Miss Alice's voice again. It startled Bud. The tone was so gentle as though possibly she might be saying the words to comfort him. He dropped the brush with which he had been working. But as he stooped to pick it up, answered respectfully. Yes, ma'am. Alice's lip curled. The idea of Miss Benedict trying to interest her in a bore like that, who could not reply to the nearest common place without growing red in the face and blundering over his work. She turned to go. She could not think of anything else to say, and if she could, what used to say it? But in that one moment of time Bud had taken his resolution. The voice had been kind. Its echo lingered pleasantly. He would summon all his courage and ask the question which was absorbing his thoughts. It might be days before he could see Miss Benedict again and he could not wait. Miss Anstead, he said, and she noticed that his voice trembled. Would you tell me one thing that I want to know right away? That depends, she answered lightly. I may not know. However, if your question is not too deep, I may try to answer it. What do you want? Why, I've got to know right away where Jerusalem is. Jerusalem, she repeated. Why on earth do you wish to know that? I don't know myself precisely. It is across the ocean somewhere in Asia, you know. Why do you care, Bud, where it is? I've got to go there, said Bud, with simple dignity. Miss Anstead's laugh rang out merrily. That is an undertaking, she said gaily. When do you intend to start? And what is the object of the journey, I wonder.  But Bud had another question to ask. His face was grave, almost dismayed, across the ocean. That sentence appalled. He had heard of the ocean and of a storm on it and a shipwreck. A wandering sailor once told in his hearing a fearful story of wreck and peril. Yet, be it recorded that the boy, though appalled, did not for one moment recede from his fixed resolve to start and go as far as he could. That comforter he meant to find. It had taken such hold of his heart that he knew he could never give it up again. This was his next timidly put question. Did you ever go there, Miss Anstead? I never did. She answered, laughing still, and very curious now to know what queer project poor Bud had on his mind. Why do you want to go, Bud? The answer was direct and grave. I want to go after him who said he would comfort me. Ye shall be comforted in Jerusalem. That is what it says. And she said it meant me. And little Jack went, I make sure and mean to go. I must go. But before that answer Alice Anstead stood dumb.  What did the fellow mean? What could have so completely turned his foolish brain?  This was her rapid thought, but aloud she said at last, I don't know what you are talking about, Bud. You have some wild idea that does not seem to be doing you any good. I would advise you to drop it and think about the horses. They are your best friends. I can't drop it, said Bud simply. I read the verse in the Bible. I promised I would and I did and I know all about it and I want to have it. She said it was for me. What is the verse? And Miss Alice sat down on the carriage stool to listen. Bud repeated with slow and solemn emphasis the words which were now so familiar to his ear. As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you and he shall be comforted in Jerusalem. I know about mothers, he explained. There was little Jack's mother and she used to say to him just that. Mother will comfort you and she did. And this one I make sure is Jesus because she said he wanted me to go to where little Jack is. And I guess he means me because I feel as if he did and I'm going to Jerusalem if it is across two oceans. Evidently his heart gathered strength as he talked. His voice grew firmer and the dignity of a fixed resolve began to settle on his face. Was there ever a more bewildered young lady than this one who sat on the carriage stool? She surveyed Bud with a sort of half curious, half frightened air which she might have bestowed on a mild maniac whose wanderings interested her. What was she to say to him how convince him of his queer mistake? That doesn't mean what you think it does, Bud. She began at last. Why doesn't it? Bud asked quickly, almost as one would speak, who was holding on to a treasure which another was trying to snatch from him. Because it doesn't. It has nothing to do with the city named Jerusalem. It is about something that you don't understand. It has a spiritual meaning. And of course you don't understand what I mean by that. I haven't the least idea how to explain it to you. And indeed it is extremely unnecessary for you to know. You see, Bud, it means something entirely beyond your comprehension and has nothing whatever to do with you. Bud made not the slightest attempted answer, but went stolidly on with his work. And Alice sat still and surveyed him for a few minutes longer, then arose and shook out her robes and said, So I hope you will not start for Jerusalem yet a while, and laughed and sped through the great sliding doors and picked her way daintily back to luxury, leaving the world blank for Bud. Miss Anstead was wise about the world and about books. Surely she would know whether the verse meant him and whether the word Jerusalem meant Jerusalem. Was it all a mistake? The pony was brought forward now and had her share of rubbing and careful handling and a bit of petting now and then, though the conversation which generally went on between her and the worker was omitted this morning. Bud had braver thoughts. While he worked, he went over the old memories.  He knew better. Then there were the plain, simple words, standing like a solid wall of granite. As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you. Stand around, said Bud in a tone of authority, and while the great pony obeyed, he told her his resolve. Them words mean something, Dolly, and she knows what they mean, and Bud is going to find out. You are not to suppose that the pronoun referred to Alice Anstead. She had said that she could not tell him what they meant. If anybody had been looking on with wide open eyes, it would have been an interesting study in Providence to watch how Bud was led. It was Alice Anstead who had a very little hand in it again, though she knew nothing of it. The leading was connected, too, with so insignificant a matter as an umbrella. Mr. Ramsey had overtaken Louis Anstead in a rainstorm a few days before and had insisted on lending his umbrella, and it suited Louis Anstead's convenience to direct that it be sent home by Bud that morning. Why Alice Anstead took the trouble to go herself to Bud with that order, instead of sending a servant she hardly knew. Neither did she understand why, after having given it, she should have lingered to say, I presume, Bud, that Mr. Ramsey can answer all the questions about Jerusalem that you choose to ask. Now Mr. Ramsey was the dreary minister who seemed to clear Benedict to have no life nor heart in any of his work. Bud stood still to reflect over this new thought suggested to him with a half laugh. He did not think to thank Miss Alice, and yet he knew that he was glad. It was true the minister would be likely to know all about it, and there might not be a chance to speak with Miss Benedict again, and Bud felt that he could not wait.  He had never spoken a word to a minister in his life, but he would ask to see him this morning and find out about Jerusalem if he could. End of Chapter 18, Recording by Tricia G. Chapter 19 of Interrupted by Pansy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 19, Comforted Saturday morning and the minister in his dingy study struggling with an unfinished sermon, struggling with more than this, with an attempt to keep in the background certain sad and startling facts that his meat bill was growing larger and that his last quarter's salary was still unpaid, that his wife was at this moment doing some of the family washing which illness had prevented her from accomplishing before and taking care of two children at the same time, that his Sunday coat was growing hopelessly shabby, and there was nothing in his pocketbook wherewith to replace it with a new one, that the children needed shoes and there was no money to buy them, that the wife was wearing herself out with overwork and anxiety, and he was powerless to help it, that his people were absorbed in their farms and stores and shops and cared little for him or for the truths which he tried to present. What a spirit in which to prepare a sermon for the Sabbath that was hurrying on. The study was dingy from force of necessity. The carpet was faded and worn in places into positive holes. The table spread was faded because it had been long worn and was cheap goods and cheap colors in the first place. Everything about him was wearing out, and the old young minister felt that he was wearing out too years before his time. I do not know that it is any wonder that he frowned when he heard the knock at the side door. It was nearly Saturday noon. He had not time for loiterers yet he must answer that knock. Thus much he could save his wife. He threw down his pen, with which he had just written the half form sentence, the inexorable and inscrutable decrees of God, and went to the door to admit Bud and the umbrella. Not much need for delay here, and yet Bud lingered. The umbrella had been set aside, and the minister had said that it was no matter that it had not been brought before, and still Bud did not go. He held his hat in his hand, and worked with nervous fingers at the frayed band around it, and at last, summoning all his courage, dashed into the center of his subject. If you please, sir, will you tell me where Jerusalem is? Jerusalem, replied the minister, and he was even more astonished than Alice Anstead had been. But he looked into Bud's eager, wistful face, and saw there something he did not understand what, which made him throw the door open wider and say, come in. And almost before he knew what he was doing, he had seated Bud in the old armchair by the stove in the study, and was sitting opposite him. You don't expect me, I hope, to describe that interview. There have been many like it, in degree, all over the world, but nothing quite so strange had ever come to this minister before. Actually, a hungry soul looking for the Jerusalem above, about which he, the minister, had read that morning, with bated breath, and an almost rebellious longing to be there, where there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain, for the former things are passed away. It was not difficult to show Bud the way. He was like a child, who heard with wide open, wondering eyes, and for the first time, the astounding fact that the Jerusalem toward which his eyes were turned was near at hand, that there was no ocean to cross, no dangerous journey to take. It was simply to put forth the hand and accept the free gift. I pause, pen in hand, to wonder how I can make plain to you, that this is no made up story, that Bud is a real character, who lives and does his work in the world today. It is so natural in reading what people call fiction, to turn from the book with a little sigh, perhaps, and say, oh yes, that is all very well in a book, but in real life, things do not happen in this way, and there are no people so ignorant as that Bud, anyway. But some of us do not write fiction. We merely aim to present in compact form before thoughtful people, pictures of the things which are taking place all around them. Bud did live and does live, and he was just so ignorant, and he did here with joy the simple, wonderful story of the way to the Jerusalem of his desires, and he did plant his feet firmly on the narrow road and walk therein. I want to tell you what that minister did after the door had been closed on Bud for a few minutes. He walked the floor of his limited study with quick, excited steps three times up and down, then he dropped on his knees and prayed this one sentence. Blessed be the Lord God, who only do with wondrous things. Then he went out to the kitchen and kissed his wife, and made up the fire under her wash boiler, and filled two pails with water, and carried Johnny away, and established him in a high chair in the study with pencil and paper and a picture book. And then he took the five sheets of that sermon over which he had been struggling and tore them in two, and thrust them, decrees and all, into the stove. Not that he was done with the decrees, or that he thought less of them than before. But a miracle had just been worked in his study, and he had been permitted to be the connecting link in this wondrous chain through which ran the message to a newborn soul, and the decree which held him captive just then was that one in which the eternal God planned to give his son to save the world. And he was so glad that this decree was inexorable, that its inscrutability did not trouble him at all. I am glad that he made up that fire, and filled those water pails, and, busy as he had need to be, gave some gentle attention to Johnny. A religious uplifting which does not bubble over into whatever practical work the heart or the hands find to do, is not apt to continue. It was on the following Sabbath that Ms. Benedict found opportunity to offer to mark the verses in Bud's Bible. But, she said, stopping at the bell rope where he told the bell, if you will let me take your Bible after church, did you bring it with you? Well, if you will let me take it, I will mark some verses in it that I think will help you. Did you read a verse each day? Oh, yes, um, said Bud, and there was that in his voice which made her turn and look closely at him. I read it, and I found out the way, and I went and spoke to him, and he took me right in, as he said he would, and there's no comfort like it, I'm sure.  What did all this mean? Bud began in the middle of things according to his want. He forgot that Ms. Benedict had heard nothing about the promised comfort in Jerusalem, nor the difficulties he had had in being shown into the right way. Yet there is something in the family language, however awkwardly used, that conveys a meaning to those of the same household. Bud, do you really mean that you went to Jesus Christ and he gave you comfort? I do that, ma'am, said Bud with a hearty voice and shining eyes, and he gave the bell rope a vigorous pull. He was right by my side all the time, the minister said, when I bothered so about crossing the ocean, and there wasn't any ocean to cross, and I've got the comfort, and I'm going to hear the singing that you told about. I didn't think I ever could, but now I know the way. Claire turned away silently, and walked softly into church, odd. Had poor Bud really met the Lord in the way? It looked so. She need have no more regrets over those unmarked verses. But how wonderful it was, and that is just the truth, dear half-asleep Christian. Wonders are taking place all about you, and it is possible that you are merely engaged in trying to prove to yourself and others that the age of miracles is past. Though why you should be very anxious to prove it does not clearly appear even to yourself. The minister who preached that morning was the same minister who had stood behind that desk and read his sermons to that people for seven years, though some of his hearers rubbed their eyes and looked about them in a dazed way, and wondered if this could be so. What had happened to the man? He had not a scrap of paper before him. In the estimation of some, he did not preach. Mrs. Graves, who read sermons aloud at home on Sabbath afternoons and was inclined to be literary, said that it was not a sermon at all, that it was just a talk. But Deacon Graves, who was not literary, replied, Well, if he should take to talking very often, we should all have to wake up and look after our living, for it pretty nigh upset everything we have done this good while. And I must say it kind of made me feel as though I should like to see something stirring somewhere. None of them knew about the minister's uplifting, only Bud. And Bud did not know that it was an uplifting, or that the minister cared, or that the sermon had anything to do with him, or for that matter, that it was any different than usual. Bud knew he was different, and it gave him the most intense and exquisite joy to discover that he understood nearly every word that the minister said. But this he attributed not to a change in the sermon, but because he had fairly started on his journey to the heavenly Jerusalem. It is possible that some listeners need that sort of uplifting before the sermons to which they appear to listen will ever be other than idle words. Yes, there was one other who knew that a strange and sweet experience had come to the disheartened minister. That was his wife. She had known it ever since he came and kissed her and made up that fire and filled those pales. The kiss would have been very precious to her without the other, but the human heart is such a strange bit of mechanism that I shall have to confess to you that in the light of that new-made fire, the tenderness glowed all day. And now the preparations for the concert went on with rapid strides. The Ansteads slipped into the program almost before they realized it and were committed to this and that chorus and solo and planned and rearranged and advised with an energy that surprised themselves. It has been intimated to you that opportunities for enjoying good music were rare at South Plains. What musical talent they possessed had lain dormant, and the place was too small to attract concert singers, so an invitation to a musical entertainment came to the people with all the charm of novelty. Of course, the girls took care that the invitations should be numerous and cordial. In fact, for three weeks before the eventful evening, almost the sole topic of conversation, even in the corner grocery, had been the young folks' concert and the preparations that were making. Still, after taking all these things into consideration, both the girls and their leader were amazed when at last the hour arrived to discover that every available inch of room in the stuffy little church was taken. For once in its life it is full, announced Anna Graves peeping out and then dodging hastily back. Girls, it is full to actual suffocation, I should think, and they have come to hear us sing. Think of it. Well, whether those girls astonished themselves or not, they certainly did their fathers and mothers. Indeed, I am not sure that their young teacher did not feel any motion of surprise over the fact that they acquitted themselves so well. Their voices, when not strained in attempting music too difficult for them, had been found capable of much more cultivation than she had at first supposed, and she had done her best for them without realizing until now how much that best was accomplishing. It was really such a success, and with all such a surprise, that some of the time it was hard to keep back the happy tears. It is true, there was one element in the entertainment which the teacher did not give its proper amount of credit. The fact is, she had so long been accustomed to her own voice as to have forgotten that to strangers it was wonderful. I suppose that really part of the charm of her singing lay in the simplicity of the singer. Her life had been spent in a city where she came in daily contact with grand and highly cultivated voices, and she therefore gauged her own as simply one among many, and a bird could hardly have appeared less conscious of his powers than did she. Not so her audience. They thundered their delight until again and again she was obliged to appear, and each time she sang a simple little song or hymn suited to the musical capacities of the audience so that she but increased their desire for more. It was all delightful, yet really sorted beings that they were. I shall have to admit that the crowning delight was when they met the next morning, tired but happy, and counted over their gains, and looked at each other's faces and exclaimed and laughed, and actually cried a little over the pecuniary result. Girls, said Miss Benedict, her eyes glowing with delight, we can carpet the entire aisles, think of that. Then began work. Since we haven't been doing anything for the last two months, said Mary Burton, with a merry laugh, I suppose we can have the privilege of going to work now. Meantime the days had been moving steadily on, Christmas holidays had come and gone, and the boys, as well as the girls, to whom the holiday season had been apt to be a time of special dissipation and temptation, had been tidied safely over it by reason of being so busy that they had no time for their usual festivities. The vacation to which Claire Benedict had looked forward with sad heart on her first coming to South Plains, because it would be a time when she might honorably go home if she could afford it, and she knew she could not, had come and passed, and had found her in such a whirl of work, so absorbed from morning until night as to have time only for postals for the mother and sister. When the rush of work is over, so she wrote, I will stop for repairs and take time to write some respectably lengthy letters, but just now we are so overwhelmed with our desire to get the church ready for Easter Sunday that we can think of nothing else. Mama, I do wish you and Dora could see it now and again after it emerges from under our hands. What is the matter with her? asked Dora, and then mother and daughter laughed. It was impossible to be very dreary with those breezy postals constantly coming from Claire. It was impossible not to have an almost absorbing interest in the church at South Plains, and to think of and plan for it accordingly. Mama, Dora said after having read the latest post all, as she said bending it into various graceful shapes, I suppose that church down on the beach that the girls of our society are working for looks something like the one at South Plains. I think I will join that society after all. I suppose I ought to be doing something since Claire has taken up the repairing of old churches for a life business. This last with a little laugh, and the mother wrote to Claire a few days later. Your sister has finally succeeded in overcoming her dislike to joining the benevolent society again and is becoming interested in their work. They have taken up that seaside church again, which you were going to do such nice things for, you know. Dora has felt all the time that there was nothing for her to do now because we are poor and has held aloof. But yesterday she joined the girls and brought home aprons to make for the ready-made department of Mr. Stevenson's store. The plan is that Mr. Stevenson shall furnish shades for the church windows at cost and the girls are to pay him by making up aprons for that department. I am glad for anything that rouses Dora. Not that she is bitter, but she is sad and feels herself useless. My dear, you are doing more than repairing the church itself planes. You are reaching, you see, a way out into the seaside. End of chapter 19, Recording by Tricia G.