Bellefonte, Pa., December 23, 1910.
CHRISTMAS CAROL.
The earth has grown old with its burden of care,
But at Christmas it always is young;
oppressed the man,
him grasp inwardly for air and free
At times, during his college course and
his years at the law school, he had yield-
ed to this impulse and broken away—
now toward extravagance and dissipation.
-and then, when the reaction came, to-
The heart of the jewel burns lustrous and fair, | Ward a romantic devotion to work
And its soul full of music breaks forth on the |
air,
When the song of the angels is sung.
It is coming, Old Earth, it is coming to-night!
On the snowflakes which cover the sod
The feet of the Christ-child fall gentle and
white,
And the voice of the Christ-child tells out with
delight
That mankind are the children of God.
On the sad and the lonely, the wretched and
poor,
That voice of the Christ-child shall fall.
And to every blind wanderer open the door
Of hope that he dared not to dream of before.
With a sunshine of welcome for all.
The feet of the humblest may walk in the field
Where the feet of the holiest have trod,
This, then, is the marvel Jo mortals revealed
When thesilvery trumpets of Christmas have
pealed
That maakind are the children of God.
~Phillips Brooks,
THE MANSION.
There was an air of calm and reserved
opulence about the Weightman mansion
that spoke not of money squandered, but
of wealth prudently applied. Standing
on a corner of the Avenue no longer fash-
ionable for residence, it looked upon the
swelling tide of business with an expres.
sion of complacency and half-disdain.
The house was not beautiful. There
was nothing in its straight front of choc-
olate-colored stone, its heavy cornices, its
broad staring windows of plate glass, its
carved and bronze-bedecked mahogany
doors at the top of the wide stoop, to
charm the eye or fascinate the imagina-
tion. But it was eminently respectable,
and in its way imposing. It seemed to
say that the glittering shops of the jew-
ellers, the milliners, the confectioners,
the florists, the picture-dealers, the fur-
riers, the makers of rare and costly an-
tiquities, retail traders in luxuries of life,
were beneath the notice of a house that
had its foundations in the high finance,
and was built literally and figuratively in
the shadow of Petronius’ Church.
At the same time there was something
weli-pleased and congratulatory in the
way in which the mansion held its own
amid the changing neighborhood. It al-
most seemed to be lifted up a little,
among the tall buildings near at hand, as
if it felt the rising value of the land on
which it stood.
John Weightman was like the house in-
to which he had built himself thirty years
ago and in which his ideals and ambi-
tions were encrusted. He was a self-
made man. But in making himself he
had chosen a highly esteemed pattern
and worked according to the approved
rules. There was nothing irregular,
questionable, flamboyant about him. He
was solid, correct, and justly successful.
His minor tastes, of course, had been
carefully kept up-to-date. At the proper
time, pictures by the Barbizon masters,
old English plate and portraits, bronzes
by Barye and marbles by Rodin, Persian
carpets and Chinese porcelains, had been
introduced to the mansion. It contained
a Louis Quinze reception-room, an Em-
pire drawing-room, a Jacobean dining-
room, and various apartments dimly
reminiscent of the styles of furniture af-
fected by deceased monarchs. That the
hallways were too short for the historic
perspective did not make much differ-
ence. American decorative art is capable
de tout, it absorbs all periods. Of each
period Mr. Weightman wished to have
something of the best. He understood its
value, present as a certificate, and pro-
spective as an investment.
It was only in the architecture of his
town house that he remained conserva-
tive, immovable, one might almost say
Early-Victorian-Christian. His coun
house at Dulwich-on-the-Sound was a pai-
ace of the Italian Renaissance. But in
town he adhered to an architecture which
had moral associations, the Nineteenth-
Century-Brownstone epoch. It was a
bol of his social position, his religious
trine, and even, in a way, of his busi-
ness creed.
"A man of fixed principles,” he would |
say, “should express them in the looks of
his house. New York changes its domes-
tic architecture too spi. It is like di-
vorce. It is not dignified. don't like it.
Extravagance and fickleness are adver-
tised in most of these new houses. I
wish to be known for different qualities.
Dignity and prudence are the things that
Every one knows that I
can afford to live in the house that suits
It is a guarantee to the pubiic. It
inspires confidence. It helps my infiu-
ence. There is a text in the Bible about
“a house that hath foundations. That is
the proper kind of a mansion for a solid
people trust.
me.
man.
Harold Weightman had often listened | girls—the
to his father rsing in this fashion
on the tal
principles of life, and
always with a divided mind. He admired
among
the poor. He had felt his father’s disap-
| proval for both of these forms of impru-
dence; but never in a harsh and violent
| way, always with a certain tolerant pa-
' tience such as one might show for the
! mistakes and vagaries of the very young.
John Weightman was not hasty, impul-
sive, inconsiderate, even toward his own
children. With them, as with the rest of
the world, he felt that he had a uta-
tion to maintain, a theory to vindicate.
He could afford to give them time to see
that he was absolutely right.
One of his favorite Scripture quotations
was, “Wait on the Lord.” He had ap-
plied it to real estate and to people with
profitable results.
being waited for is not always agreeable.
Sometimes, especially with the young, it
{ produces a vague restlessness, a dumb
| Tesentment, which is increased by the
fy it. Of this John Weightman was not
conscious. It lay beyond his horizon. He
did not take it into account in the plan of
| life which he had made for himself and
! for his family as the sharers and inherit.
: ors of his success.
“Father play us,” said Harold, in a mo-
ment of irritation, to his mother, “like
pieces in a game of chess."
“My dear,” said that lady, whose faith |
in her husband was religious, “you ought |
not to speak so impatiently. At least he
wins the game. He is one of the most re-
spected men in New York. And he is
generous, too.”
q wish he would be more generous in
‘letting us be ourselves,” said the young
man. “He always has something in view
for us and expects to move us up to it.”
“But isn't it always for our benefit?"
replied his mother. “Look what a posi-
tion we have. No one can say there is
any taint on our money. There are no
rumors about your father. He has kept
the laws of and of man. He has
never made any mistakes."
Harold got up from his chair and poked
the fire. Then he came back to the am-
ple, well-gowned, Jem iookmg lady, and
sat beside her on the sofa. He took her
hand gently and looked at the two rings
—a thin band of yellow gold, and a small
solitaire diamond—which kept their place
on her third finger in modest dignity, as
if not shamed, but rather justified, by the
splendor of the emerald which glittered
beside them.
“Mother,” he said, “you have a won-
derful hand. And father made no mis-
take when he won you. But are you
sure he has always been so inerrant?"
“Harold,” she exclaimed, a little stiffly,
! wha; do you mean? His life is an open
book.”
"Oh," he answered, “I don’t mean any-
thing bad, mother dear. I know the gov-
ernor’s life is an open book—a ledger, if
you like, kept in the best bookkeeping
hand, and always ready for inspection—
every page correct, and showing a hand-
some balance. But isn't it a mistake not
to let us make our own mistakes, to learn
for ourselves, to live our own lives?
Must we be always working for ‘the bal-
ance,’ in one thing or another? [wantto
be myself—to get outside of this ever-
lasting, profitable ‘plan’—to let myself go,
and lose myself for a while at least—to
i do the things that I want to do, just be-
| cause I want to do them.”
“My boy,” said his oe anxiously,
“you are not going to do anything w
or foolish? You know the faiseh
of that old proverb about wild oats."
He threw back his head and laughed.
"Yes, mother,” he answered, "I know it
well enoegh. But in California, you
know, the wild oats are one of the most
valuable ¢ They grow all over the
hillsides and keep the cattie, and the
horses alive. But that wasn't what I
meant—to sow wild oats. Say to pick
wild flowers, if you like, or even to chase
wild geese—to do something that seems
good to me just for its own sake, not for
the sake wages of one kind or anoth-
er. [I feel like a hired man, in the serv-
ice of this magnificent mansion—say in
training for father’s place as majordomo.
I'd like to get out some way, to feel free
| —perhaps to do something for others."
The young man's voice hesitated a lit-
tle. "Yes, it sounds like cant, I know,
but sometimes I feel as if I'd like to do
some good in the world, if father only
wouldn't insist upon God's putting it into
the ledger.”
His mother moved uneasily and a slight
look of bewilderment came into her face.
“Isn’t that almost irreverent?”
asked. “Surely the righteous must have
their reward. And your father is good.
See how much he gives to all the estab-
lished. charities, how many things he has
founded. He's always thinking of others,
and pianning for them, And surely, for
us, he does everything. How well he has
planned his trip to Europe for me and the
court presentation at Berlin,
the season on the Riviera, the visits in
England with the Plutons and the Halver-
stones. He says Lord Halverstone has
But to human persons the sensation of |
fact that one can hardly explain or justi- |
she | 4
the finest old house in Sussex, pure Elize-
bethan, ang a the old customs are kop
up, too— y prayers every morning
for all the domestics. the way, you
know his son Bertie, I believe.”
. Harold smiled » little to himself as he
answered: “Yes, I fished at Catalina Is.
land last June with the Honorable Ethel.
bert; he's rather a decent chap, in spite
of his ingrowing mind. But you?—moth-
er, you are simply magnificent! You are
father’s masterpiece.” The young man
leaned over to kiss her, and went up to
the Riding Club for his afternoon canter
in the Park.
So it came to pass, early in December,
that Mrs. Weightman and her two daugh-
ters sailed for Europe, on their serious
pleasure trip, even as it had been written
in the book of Providence; and John
Weightman, who had made the entry,
| was left to pass the rest of the winter
{ with his son and heir in the brownstone
| mansion.
| They were comfortable enough. The
‘ machinery of the massive establishment
ran as smoothly as a great electric dyna-
mo. They were busy enough, too. John
| Weightman's plans and enterprises were
complicated, though his principle of action
was always simple—to get good value of
every expenditure and effort. The bank-
ing-house of which he was the chief, the
brain, the will, the absolutely controlling
hand, was so admirahly organized that
the details of its direction took but little
time. But the scores of other interests
that radiated from it and were dependent
upon it—or perhaps it would be more ac-
curate to say, that contributed to its solid-
ity and success—the many investments,
| industrial, political, benevolent, reforma-
tory, ecclesiastical, that had made the
name of Wighteman well known and po-
tent in city, church, and state, demanded
much attention and careful steering, in
order that each might produce the de-
sired result. There were board
of corporations and hospitals, conferences
tions and committee meetings in the
brownstone mansion. ;
For a share in all this business and its
of thecity; for he held that Banking it-
self is a simple affair, the only real diffi-
Meanwhile he wished the young man to
would have to deal when he became a
| partner in the house. So a couple of din-
December, after which the father call
the son's attention to the fact that over a
hundred million dollars had sat around
the board.
their talk across the broad table,
ing with silver and cut glass,
lit shaded es, was intimate,
though a little slow at times. The elder
man was in rather a rare
pansive and confidential than usual; and
when the coffee was brought in and they
were left alone, he talked more freely of
his personal plans and hopes than he had
TF don beta. ful ight,” said he,
“ very grateful to-night,”
at last;” it must be somethi
of Christmas that gives me
thankfulness for many
cies that have been bestowed
All the principles by which I have
guide my life have been justified. I have
never made the value of this salted al-
mond by anything that the courts would
not uphold, at least in the long run, and
yet—or wouldn't it be truer to say and
therefore?—my affairs have been won-
derfully prospered. There's a great deal
in that text “Honesty is the best"—but
no, that's not from the Bible, after all, is
it? Wait a moment; there is something
of that kind, I know.”
“May I light a cigar, father,” said Har-
old, turning away to hide a smile, “while
you are remembering the text?”
“Yes, certainly,” answered the elder
man, rather shortly; “you know I don't
dislike the smell. But it is a wasteful,
useless habit, and therefore I have never
practiced it. Nothing useless is worth
feeling of
mer-
not bring the reward. Oh, now I recall
the text, ‘Verily I say unto they have
their reward." 1 shall ask Br. Snodgrass
day."
Rising you as an illustration?”
“Well, not exactly that; but I could
give him some good ma
own experience to prove the truth of
Scripture, 1 can honestly say that there
Jo ot One 3 a ither in the
rought me in a return, e in
increase of influence, the building up of
credit, or the association with substantial
people. Of course you have to be careful
you give, in order to secure the best
results—no indiscriminate giving—no pen-
nies in beggars’ hats!
my principles same
kind of j t in charities that I use
in my other affairs, and they have not
isappointed me.”
“Even the check that you put in the
plate when you take the offertory up the
aisle on Sunday morning?”
seems to me romantic and wasteful. You
never hear from it in any definite way.
say the missionaries have done a
deal to open the way for trade; per-
ng —
i
1
i
haps—but they have also gotten us into
commercial and political difficulties. Yet
I give to them—a little—it is a matter of
conscience with me to identify myself with
all the enterprises of the Church; it is
the mainstay of socisl order and a pros-
perous civilization. But the best forms of
benevolence are the well-established, or-
ganized ones herc at home, where people
can see them and know what they are do-
ing.
“You mean the ones that have a local
habitation and a name."
“Yes; they offer by far the safest re-
turn, though of course there is something
gained by contributing to general funds.
A public man can't afford to be without
public spirit. But on the whole 1 prefera
building or an endowment. There is a
mutual advantage to a good name and a
good institution, in their connection in
the public mind. it helps them both.
Remember that, my boy. Of course at
the beginning you will have to practise it
in a small way: later, you will have larg
er opportunities. But try to put vour
gifts where they can be identified and do
good all around. You'll see the wisdom
of it in the long run.”
“I can see it already, sir, and the way
you describe it looks amazingly wise and
prudent. In other words, we must cast
our bread on the waters in large loaves,
carried by sound ships marked with the
owner's name, so that the return freight
will be sure to come back to us.”
The father laughed, but his eyes were
frowning a little as if he suspected some-
thing irreverent under the respectful re-
y.
"You put it humorousiy, but there's
sense in what you say. Why not? God
rules the sea; but He expects us to fol-
low the laws of navigation and commerce.
Why not take good care of your bread,
even when you give it away?”
“It’s not for me to say why not—and
meetings | yet 1 can think of cases—" the young
man hesitated for a moment. His half-
in Wall Street and at Albany, consulta- | finished cigar had gone out. He rose and
tossed it into the fire, in front of which
| he remained standing—a slender, eager,
|
adjuncts John Weightman had his son in |
training in one of the famous law firms |
i
restless young figure, with a touch of hun-
ger in the fine face, strangely like and
unlike the father, at whom he looked
| with half-wistful curiosity.
|
meet and know the men with whom he |
ners were given in the mansion during [1 ”
|
But on Christmas Eve father and son |
were dining together without guests, and |
“The fact is, sir," he continued, “there
culties of finance are on its legal side. | is such a case in my mind now, and it is
a good deal on my heart, too. So I thought
of speaking to you about itto-night. You
remember Tom Rollins, the Junior who
was so good to me when | entered col-
father nodded. He remembered
very well indeed the annoying incidents
of his son's first escapade, and how Rol-
lins had stood by him and helped to avoid
a public disgrace, and how a close friend-
ship had grown between the two boys, so
itter- | different in their fortunes.
y |
“Yes," he said, “I remember him. He
was a promising young man. Has he suc-
i
i
in the air ,
upon me.
tried to |
while, that's my motto—nothing that does
to preach a sermon on that verse some
more ex- |
|
|
“Not exactly—that is, not yet. His
business has been on rather badly.
He has a wife and little baby, you know.
And now he has broken down with tu-
berculosis.
The doctor says his only the
chance is a year or eighteen months in
Colorado. I wish we could help him?"
“How much would it cost?”
; “Three or four thousand perhaps, as a
oan.”
"Does the doctor say he will get well?”
"A fighting chance—the doctor says.”
The face of the older man changed subt-
ly. Not a line was altered, but it seemed
to have a different substance, as if it were
carved out of some firm, imperishable
stuff.
"A fighting chance.” he said, "may do
for a speculation, but it is not a good in-
vestment. You owe something to young
Rollins. Your grateful feeling does you
credit. But don’t overwork it. Send him
three or four hundred, if you like. You'll
never hear from it again, except in the
letter of thanks. But for Heaven's sake
don't be sentimental. Religion is not a
matter of sentiment; it's a matter of prin- | od
ciple.”
The face of the younger man changed
now. But instead of becoming fixed and
graven, it seemed to melt into life by the
heat of an inward fire. His nostrils quiv-
ered with quick breath, his lips were
curied.
“Principle!” he said. “You mean prin-
cipal—and interest too. Well, sir, you
. know best whether that is religion or not.
| saved me from
terial from my |
“Certainly; there the influence !
less direct; and I must confess that I
have my doubts in to the collec-
tion for Foreign That always
But if it is, count me out, please. Tom
going to devil, six
ago, and I'll be damned if I don't
ie him to the best of my ability now."
John Weightman looked at his son
Steatily. “Harold,” he said at last, "you
know I dislike violent language, and it
never has any influence with me. If I
could honestly approve of this proposition
of yours, I'd let you have the money; but
I can’t; it's extravagant and useless. But
you have your Christmas check for a
thousand dollars coming to you to-mor-
row. You can use it as you please. I
never interfere with private affairs.”
you,” arold. “Thank
you very much! But there's another pri-
vate affair. | want to get away from this
life, this town, this house. It stifles me.
You refused last summer when | asked
you to let me go up to Grenfell's Mission
on the Labrador. [ could go now at least
as far as Newfoundland tion. Have
you changed your mind?”
“Not at tll. Ithink it is an exceedingly
foolish enterprise. It would interrupt the
career I have marked out for you.”
“Well, then, here's a cheaper proposi-
tion. Algy Vanderhoof wants me to join
him on his yacht with—well, with a little
rty—to cruise in the West Indies.
' Would you prefer that?”
"Certainly not! The Vanderhoof set is
wild and gedless—1 do not wish to see
you keeping company with fools who
walk in the broad and easy way that leads
to perdition.”
“It is rather a hard choice,” said the
young man, with a short laugh, turning
toward the door. *“Accordi to you
there's very little difference —-a fool's para.
dise or a fool's hell! Well, it's one or the
other for me, and I'll toss up for it to
night; heads, 1 lose; taiis, the devil wins.
Anyway, I'm sick of this, and I'm out of
i’
“Harold,” said the older man (and
there was a slight tremor in his voice),
“don’t let us quarrel on Christmas Eve,
All T want is to persuade you to think
seriously of the duties and responsibilities
to which God has calied you-—don't speak
lightly of heaven and hell--remember,
there is another life.”
The young man came back and laid
his hand upon his father’s shoulder.
“Father,” he said, “I want to remem-
ber it. [try to believe in it. But some-
how or other, in this house, It all seems
unreal to me. No doubt all you say is
perfectly right and wise. [don't venture
to argue against it, but I can’t feel it—
that's all. If I'm to havea soul, either to
lose or to save, I must really live. Just
now neither the present northe future
means anything to me. But surely we
won't quarrel. I'm very grateful to you,
and we'll part friends. Good night, sir.”
The father held out his hand in silence.
The heavy portiere dropped noiselessly
behind the son, and he went up the wide
curving stairway to his own room. :
Meantime John Weightman sat in his
carved chair in the Jacobean dining room.
He felt strangely old and dull. The por-
traits of beautiful women by Lawrence
and Reynolds and Raeburn, which had
often seemed like real company to him,
looked remote and uninteresting. He
fancied something cold and almost un-
friendly in their expression, as if they
were staring through him or beyond him.
They cared nothing for his principles, his
hopes, his disappointments, his successes;
they belonged to another world, in which
he had no place. At this he felt a vague
resentment, a sense of discomfort that he
could not have defined or explained. He
was used to being considered, respected,
appreciated at his full value in every
ion, even in that of his own dreams.
ny he rang for the butler, telling
him to close the house and not to sit up,
and walked with lagging steps into the
long library, where the shaded lamps
were burning. His eye fell upon the low
shelves full of costly books, but he had
no desire to open them. Even the care-
fully chosen pictures that hung above
them seemed to have lost their attrac-
tion. He paused for a moment before an
idyll of Corot—a dance of nymphs around
scme forgotten altar in a vaporous glade
—and looked at it curiously. There was
something rapturous and serene zbout
picture—a breath of spring-time in
the misty trees—a harmony of joy in the
dancing fifties tit wakened in him a
feeling of half-pleasure and half-envy. It
represented something that he had never
known in his calculated, orderly life. He
was dimly mistrustful of it.
“It is certainly very beautiful,” he
thought, “but it is distinctly pagan; that
altar is built to some heathen god. It
does not fit into the scheme of a Chris.
tian life. 1 doubt whether it is consis-
tent with the tone of my house. I will
sell it this winter. It will bring three or
four times what I paid for it. That was
a good purchase, a very good bargain.”
e dropped into the revolving chair
before his big library table. It was cov-
ered with pamphlets, and reports of the
various enterprises in which he was in-
terested. was a pile of newspaper
clippings in which his name was mention-
with praise for his sustaining power as
a pillar of finance, for his judicious benev-
dent reform movements, for his discre-
tion in making permanent public gifts—
“the Weightman Charities,” one very
complaisant editor called them, as if they
deserved classification as a distinct
species.
He turned the papers over listlessly.
There was a description and a picture of
the “Weightman Wing of the Hospital for
Cripples,” of which he was president: and
an article on the new professor in the
“Weightman Chair of Political Jurispru-
dence” in Jackson University, of which
he was a Srusies; and 0 sHated ac-
count o opening of t eightman
Grammar-School” at Dulwich-on-the-
Sound, where he had his legal residence
for purposes of taxation.
pe DTaP he mom sare
of eightman Char-
ities. He desired to win the confidence
and support of his rural neighbors.
had pleased him much when the local
newspaper had spoken of him as an ideal
citizen and the logical candidate for the
Governorship of the State; but upon the
whole it seemed to him wiser to keep out
of active politics. It would be easier and
better to put Harold into the running, to
have him sent tothe Legislature from the
Dulwich district, then to the national
House, then to the Senate. Why not?
The Weightman interests were large
snough to need w direct representative
guardian at ashington.
But tonight all these plans came back
olence, for his support of wise and pru- | the
to him with dust upon them. were
dry and crumbling like Te
tions. The son upon whom his honorable
ambition had rested had turned his back
upon the mansion of his father's hopes.
The break might not be final; and in any
event there would be much to live for;
the fortunes of the family would be se-
cure. But the zest of it all would be gone
if John Weightman had to give up the
assurance of uating his name and
his principlesin his son. It was a bitter
disappointment, and he felt that he had
not ed it.
He rose from the chair and paced the
room with leaden feet. For the first time
in his life his age was visibly upon him.
His head was heavy and hot, and the
thoughts that rolled ‘in it were confused
and depressing. Could it be that he had
made a mistake in the principles of his
existence? There was no argument in
what Harold had said—it was almost
childish—and yet it had shaken the elder
man more deeply than he cared to show.
It held a silent attack which touched him
more than open criticism.
Suppose the end of his life were nearer
than he thought—the end must come
some time—what if it were now? Had he
not founded his house upon a rock? Had
he not kept the commandments? Was he
not, “touching the law, blameless?" And
heyond this, even if there were some
faults in his character—and all men are
sinners—yet he surely believed in the
saving doctrines of religion—the forgive-
ness of sins, the resurrection of the body,
the life everlasting. Yes, that was the
true source of comfort, after all. He
would read a bit in the Bible, as he did
every night, and go to bed and to sleep.
He went back to his chair at the library
table. A strange weight of weariness
rested upon him, but Ie opened the book
at a familiar place, ard his eyes fell upon
the verse at the bottom of the page.
“Lav not up for vourselves treasures upon
carth.”
That had been the text of the sermon a
few weeks before. Sleepily, heavily, he
tried to fix his mind upon it and recall it.
What was it that Doctor Snodgrass had
said? Ah, yes—that it was a mistake to
pause here in reading the verse. We
must read on without a pause—Lay mof
up treasures nton earth where moth and
rust do corrupt end where thieves break
through and steal—that was the true doc-
trine. Our treasures upon earth must
not be put into unsafe places, but into
safe places. A most con:forting doctrine!
He had always followed it. Moths and
rust and thieves had done no harm to his
veEmans :
ohn Weightman's drooping eyes turn-
ed to the next verse, at the top of the
second column.
“But lay up for yourselves treasures in
ven.”
Now what had the Doctor said about
that? How was it to be understood—in
what sense—treasures—in heaven?
The book seemed to float away from
him. The lightvanished. He sank slow-
ly forward upon the table. His head
rested upon his folded hands. He slipped
into the unknown.
How long afterward conscious life re-
turned to him he did not know. The
blank might have been an hour or a cen-
tury. He knew only that something had
happened in the interval. What it was
he could not tell. He found great diffi-
culty in catching the thread of his identity
again. He felt that he was himself; but
the Srouble was to ake pe SoRmections
to verify place himself, to Ww Wi
and where he was.
At last it grew clear. John Weight-
man was sitting on a stone, a little way
off from a road in a strange country.
The road was not a formal highway,
fenced and graded. It was more like a
great travel-trace, wort by thousands of
t passing across open country in
the same direction. Down in the valley,
into which he could look, the road seemed
on the hillside the threads were more
firmly woven into one clear band of travel,
though there were still a few dim paths
joining it here and there, asif persons
had been climbing up the hill by other
ways and had turned at last to seek the
From the edge of the hill, where John
Weightman sat, he could see the yavel.
ers, in little groups or larger compan
gathering from tiie to time i the dif-
erent paths, making ascent.
They were ali clothed in white, and the
form of their garments was
him; it was like some old picture.
fro Er ur Saul
quietly or singing;
in haste, but with a pi
Hess wld joy as iit ars Sad
on ir way to an i place.
did not ran ap to him, but
looked at him often and spoke to
him a fri greeting, so
they A him to be with "
re was quite an interval betw
g
388s
2
:
ft
:t
7
5
:
:
passed, blanching the long ribbon of the
road for a little transient space, rising and
among the rounded hillocks of aerial
Continued on page 3, column 1.