A Loaf of Bread

LOAF OF BREAD. BY WILLARD DONE. I. Philip Blake sat in his elegantly-fitted olfice, in the busiest ■district of New York City. Everything about him betokened industry and prosperity. His desk was of the most expensive sort, and the papers, both in quantity and in care of arrangement, indicated the painstaking man of large affairs. The library which adorned the walls showed wide and well-selected reading and marked scholarship. The appointments of the office were of the best, and harmonized well with the carefully groomed appearance of the man. He was twenty-five years of age; and during his short life he had tasted most of the sweets of success, fitting with the advantages he had enjoyed from the first. Carefully educated in one of the leading colleges of his native state, he had supplemented his scholastic work with a careful and thorough business training, which prepared him well for the competition he would meet in the struggle for a livelihood. On the morning in question he had looked over the mail and dictated his letters, and his amanuensis had retired to her private room to finish the correspondence. Awaiting her work, he sat at his desk in a most complacent mood, watching the busy crowds in the street below, and inwardly complimenting himself on the prosperous circumstances of the great city in general, and of himself in particular. All that he had put his hand to had prospered, and was still prospering. Every venture was fortunate; and if any man could say, *'The world is my oyster," that man was Philip Blake. "Success" was written in large letters all over him and his surroundings. Blake was not what would be called a conceited man. His education had been too broad and thorough to admit of that. If a

604 IMPR0 VEMENT ERA. man has delved deeply into things, he is not likely to be wrapped' up in his own importance, or inconsiderate of the value and the rights of human beings in general. But Blake was extremely selfcomplacent. He recognized the largeness of the social scheme, but he attributed to himself a very large place in it; so that he could be said rather to have a wrong perspective of life than a tendency toward undue conceit. In a man of his condition and temperament, this feeling would naturally be expected, and some people might excuse it. For Philip Blake was worldly to a degree. To him, financial success and the winning of place and power took precedence over every other consideration. It superseded evary other aim. It was his ambition to be one of the wealthiest and most learned men of his time. The power and position wealth and learning afforded, formed the goal of his desire. He was not given to rioting or dissipation. These would interfere with his plans. He saw in such a course ultimate failure, and therefore he avoided it. That a breach of the moral law would be wrong in itself, probably did not occur to him as a reason for avoiding it. The other reason was sufficient. And thus he had come to the age of twenty-five, with every avenue of success open to him, and a great part of the road thither already covered. No wonder he was self-sufficient and complacent as he sat awaiting the completion of his letters. "0 Phil," said a gentle voice at his elbow, 'I've so much to .tell you." He looked around and saw his sister Jennie. He greeted her with warmth, but with a sort of superiority which harmonized well with his general mood. "Well," he replied, "you women usually have a great deal to say. I'm not surprised at your frank confession." There was a kindly smile accompanying the bantering remark, which robbed it of enmity. Jennie laughed as she replied, ' 'But this is so new and so special that you'll be interested, I know." "Anything my little sister says is of interest to me, if it's the oldest story in the world,'' he said indulgently. "0, but I must leave that to be told you by some other man's sister," she said naively. He shook his head at a proposition so seemingly impossible. I was going to describe the young lady who came so quietly

A LOAF OF BREAD. 605 into the dull, prosy office. But I know my limitations in this direction too well to make any such attempt. She was beautiful, of that there could be no doubt. And she was dressed in the quiet, modest way which men like because they are not forced to pay -enough attention to the details of the dress to be able to give a description. She was quiet, womanly and modest, yet on such terms of comradeship with her brother as one rejoices to see. "Well, what is your story, little one?" he asked as he finished an admiring scrutiny of the handsome girl. "I've just found the sweetest little thing," she began. "What is it," he interrupted, "hat, cat, girl, poem, or novel?" "Now Phil, don't be sarcastic," she said, half reproachfully, * I've met a girl so different from those I knew before, and coming so near my ideal of what a woman should be, that I'm in love with her. " "And you want to subject your pour young brother to the danger of falling in love with her, too?'" "No, I don't," she said, half in jest and half in earnest, "unless you change your views on a few matters where she has decided opinions." * 'And what are those views, if I may be so bold as to inquire regarding the opinions of your paragon?" "It has to do with the old subject, Phil," she said, "on which we have had so many talks." Her face grew very serious, and her eyes filled with tears, as she drew a chair near his, and looked lovingly yet half reproachfully in his face. He would have put her ofl with a jesting remark, had it not been for her expression of anxiety. As it was, he took both her hands in his, and tenderly said, ' 'I respect your views, dear Jennie, but I love you too well to argue the subject with you. Can you not allow the difference of opinion to stand, declare a truce, and let us be friends?" "It is not for the sake of argument, Phil," she answered, "that I open the subject with you again. It is because your being mistaken hurts yourself, and not because it may wound my vanity. In a matter so important to your future happiness, I can not be in- 'different, nor can I feel content to nurse your prejudices. Your

606 IMPROVEMENT ERA. scoffing at religion, your slighting of those beliefs for which millions have sacrificed and suffered, and in which, living and dying^ they have found their only solace, will tend to shut out from your view the greatest realities of life—the realities which follow after death!" * 'You know my views on this matter too well, dearest sister, to ask me to argue the question with you. I am satisfied with this life and its realities. There may be a future life, there may not. I intend to live this life for its own sake. Then if I awake after the deep sleep of death, I shall be ready to take up that future life as I find it. If not, I can at least say that I have lived." * 'Lived in part only, Phil, as he can be said to have enjoyed the light who has closed to the sun all windows but the smallest and dimmest. The effulgent light comes to him Who accepts the higher realities, lives thereby the full life, and knows the joys of which it is capable. He alone can be said to have lived who has known this meaning." Her words became more earnest, and her voice took on the tense yet subdued quality of one who reverently approaches a sacred theme: ' 'I was sitting in my room yesterday evening, when a visitor was announced by the maid. The girl was from the west —the region from which we should scarcely expect new light. But I had not been with her an hour, until I found that my own conceptions of the fuller life were but crude and elementary compared with hers. She is studying music, and has sacrificed all the pleasures of her early womanhood, in order to follow her course- Yet, strange to say, she looks on the financial sacrifice as a matter not of duty but of positive pleasure. She dresses simply, because she cannot do otherwise and still take her course. When she returns to her people, she expects to use the remarkable talent she possesses, and the training she will receive, not for the gratification of any personal ambition, but in the service of her home and her fellow religionists. As to reward, she says it is enough to know that the skill she has herself acquired can be given to a service for which reward will come from God. I talked with her and discussed her plans. They were so broad and complete, and extended so far beyond the end of the mortal life, that yours and

A LOAF OF BREAD. 607 mine seem small and imperfect by comparison. You build up, from day to day, by infinite toil and patience, a structure of material wealth, which in a moment may prove a house of cards and fall about your ears. Your fabric of social influence is intact, only so long as your wealth remains. Even your learning which ripens with your years, and bids fair to gain for you the admiration of all mankind, passes into the age of senility and decay, and the mouthings of second childhood. And when you sink into the grave, what lasting satisfaction can you gain from the thought of what you have been, if you cannot look forward to the hope of what you will be?" Her face became more earnest, her voice more pleading, as she continued: "Phil, the girl of whom I speak looks far beyond your narrow horizon. She sees life not only in its present meaning, but in its future significance. Not only the work one begins and partly performs in mortality, but the relationships one forms here may be continued throughout eternity. The new light she gives me on these matters is so wonderful, and her reasoning so sound, that I am more than convinced she is right. But best of all, the hope she holds out meets so fully the desire of humanity for life and activity and happiness hereafter, that it is perfectly satisfying. I want you to meet her, Phil, and know the things she has taught me." "Well, little sister," replied Blake, "I have no objection to meeting your wonderful friend, and listening to what she may have to advance along the lines you indicate. But to me those matters are so dim and indistinct, while I am so well satisfied with the present results of my work, that I feel no interest in them. I work for money and the power and influence it will bring to me. I want place and honor among my fellows. Learning and the prestige it gives me is another goal. When these things are given me, and I have enjoyed them, my life shall have been full enough. My letters are ready. I will sign them, and then we'll go to luncheon." II. Marjorie Trent and ^Jennie Blake had become acquainted in the most unusual way. "-* Marjorie was a young music student from Utah, devoted to ,her art, to her home, and especially to her re-

608 IMPROVEMENT ERA. ligion. While resting from her musical studies in New York, she was occupied not in the frivolities which some students turn to, but in assisting the Mormon Elders in the great city in their difficult and arduous work. Her refinement and pleasing address made lier a valuable aid to them, as she • entered into the homes of the ■wealthiest and most polished, and had the assurance of a second welcome. It was her custom to visit the residences in the fashionable districts, during the absence of the men. She was thus ■enabled to talk in an unrestrained way on the principles of the ■gospel with the women she met, and many were interested in her ■.clear and earnest exposition. In the course of this work she had visited the home of the Blakes. Mr. and Mrs. Blake had died a few years previously, leaving to their two children, Philip and Jennie, a comfortable fortune, which the young man was intent upon increasing as rapidly as possible. In Jennie the young missionary found a congenial companion. It was the day after their first meeting when the conversation in the brother's office took place. Without knowing . the denomination she represented (for Marjorie had tactfully avoided mention of it), Jennie had become enthused with the beautiful, sensible, practical doctrines her new friend had brought to her. This interest in her beliefs had arisen from the interest Jennie felt in Marjorie's plans, and in the use she was to make of the skill she was acquiring. The third evening after the conversation detailed above, Marjorie was a guest at the Blake household. It was a delightful occasion to all three. Marjorie's common sense and conversational skill, and the wit and repartee which passed between her and Philip on the subject of belief and disbelief, opened the door of hospitality to her from that time. Thenceforward her visits to the Blake home were not nearly so frequent as her pressing invitations. One day a note of regret, which Marjorie had written to Jennie, was left on Philip's table. Picking it up he glanced carelessly at the crest on the note paper. It was in the form of a curiously constructed "M," strong and distinct in outline, but possessing a peculiarity which would have made it recognizable wherever seen. Philip casually mentioned the matter to Jennie, and asked

A LOAF OF BREAD. 609 her the meaning of the letter. She did not know. Both of them were too well bred to mention it to the young lady herself, and the opportunity for casual reference to it did not come. The visits continued, and Philip began to realize that he was taking a much more personal interest in the beautiful girl than he would have cared to acknowledge even to himself. Vacation time came, and Marjorie was preparing to return home for the summer. A short time before her intended departure, she was at the theatre with the brother and sister. The play was a tragedy, and between the acts all were strangely preoccupied. In her abstraction, Marjorie was pricking with a pin on a blank space on her program. Unconsciously the pin-point traced the "M" which adorned her note paper. Jennie saw it, and recognized her opportunity to solve the mystery. She carelessly asked the meaning of it. Marjorie flushed with self-consciousness, and her eyes took on an earnest glow. But as she was about to reply, the curtain rose on the last act, and they became absorbed in the play again. But when they reached the open air, and started on the short walk to Marjorie's lodgings, she entered frankly and fearlessly on an explanation of the letter. "My friends," she said, "I hope you will think none the less of me for what I am about to say. I was born and raised a 'Mormon. ' I have been a 'Mormon' all my life. I hope I shall continue one until my death. The principles I have been presenting to you in imperfect form are a few of the uplifting tenets of the 'Mormon' faith. There are many more which I have not had the opportunity of giving to you. While visiting you as a friend, I have been also a 'Mormon' missionary. I proclaim the principles of my religion wherever and whenever I can, and consider that I am doing God service. So I have done with you. I do not know what led me to keep you in the dark as to my religion. I never did it before. I appreciate the tact which kept you from asking me directly as to my faith. Perhaps I should have told you before; but I saw a better opportunity to present the principles of the true religion to you than I could have had if I had named it. Will you pardon me?" The effect of ner frank avowal was noteworthy. At the first

610 IMPROVEMENT ERA. mention of the word "Mormon,"an involuntary exclamation rose to Jennie's lips; but it was suppressed. Philip set his teeth and his face became tense and white. It was with difficulty that he held his peace. Both were too well bred to declare their feelings openly, but Marjorie instinctively felt that she had lost caste with them. Before she could speak further, or they could reply, they had reached her door. They bade her a grave good night, and extended a formal invitation for her to visit them previous to her return home; an invitation which she knew came from the lips, but not from the heart. With heavy spirits she went to her room and retired, and spent the sleepless night in meditation. On the way home, brother and sister said but little, and that little was on different subjects from the one that so keenly inter ested them both. It would be difficult to analyze their feelings. Pride struggled with a desire to do justice to the sweet, openhearted girl. In their secret hearts both admired her courage, and Jennie was as much as ever convinced of the truth of the doctrines she had advanced. In Philip's heart there was a new, strange pain, caused by a tenderness for the brave woman which he now felt, in his disappointment, more strongly than he had thought possible. It is no wonder they were not inclined to conversation, nor that each sought the earliest opportunity to retire. And so Marjorie departed for her home, and severed the pleasant relations she had formed. She did not even leave her address with her friends, because it seemed to have been tacitly agreed that the resumption of their friendly intercourse would depend on her. At home she settled down to the routine of life, of devotion to duty that she had marked out for herself. But there was a void in her heart that the ceaseless round of professional and household duties could not fill. It would have been impossible for her to explain what it was; but she felt that a work of vital importance had been left unfinished, and her happiness would depend on its completion. Yet her life was filled with activity, and her work was most pleasurable. She had neither time nor inclination for brooding. As for Philip Blake, he could find little peace in the home he had known. Impelled by restlessness, and a desire to better his condition, he sought a new home. The west, with its promise of

A LOAF OF BREAD. 611 larger activity and better financial returns, attracted him; and he crossed the continent, taking up his residence at San Francisco. He purchased an elegant home for himself and sister, and invested his money in business property. His wealth and business sagacity soon made him a most important factor in the financial life of the great and growing city. In the little town of S , in Utah, Marjorie Trent was the center of all schemes of social usefulness. In her father's home she was a domestic genius. Every art known to the good housekeeper, she was skilled in. She prided herself as much in this skill as in the musical genius which enabled her to render most valuable service in the different ward aflfairs. Visitors from the larger cities of the State, who called at her home and recognized her great genius, asked her why she did not take up her residence in a populous place, where better opportunity would be given for the ability she possessed. Her answer deserves a place in the momorandum book of every girl who is led by the ignis fatuus of a public life: "I think I know my case better than any one else. If I should go into public life, and compete with the professional musician, I should reach no more than third or fourth rank. In the jostling and excitement of public assemblies, and their noisy applause, I might be able to find brief and temporary satisfaction; but the next moment that applause might change to jeers and hisses, and my popularity be a thing of the past. In the glare of the footlights, I might find a gratification of personal pride, but a breath will darken the footlights and plunge the house and my hopes into gloom. The idol of today may be discredited tomorrow. The work of a lifetime may be marred—ruined by the mistake of a look, a movement, or a gesture. Popularity gone, I should look forward to bitter regret, unrelieved by the memory of what I have seen. * 'Compare with that the work I am doing—the work every woman should be able to do." She brought to the table, set with daintiest care, a loaf of bread she had just taken from the oven. It was such bread as proves a veritable "staff of life" to the man who eats it. With a modest mien she held the loaf up before her visitor. "Why," said she, "a loaf of bread like that may save a life. A meal well cooked may rob the dram-shop of it»

612 IMPROVEMENT ERA. victim. A house well kept is a foretaste of heaven. The woman who can and will do the humble work of the home skillfully and well, and leave her great talent to be used as the Lord may direct, in the service of his people, may well leave to the professional women, whose views of life are different, the work of the stage and the platform.'' With another modest blush, she continued: * 'And if the time should come when one of God's choice sons will want me as his life partner, will it not be a matter of greater concern to him to know that his house will be well kept, his meals well cooked, his children well cared for, than to read in the morning paper that his wife was, the night before, the center of an admiring throng, the recipient of cheap applause, and perhaps an object of guilty envy to half the other women?" III. It had been a busy day in Philip Blake's office. He was interested in several large deals, all of which had been successfully carried through. During the day he had drawn from the vaults of the bank practically all his uninvested money, and had placed it as loans on the choicest San Francisco business blocks. He sat, toward evening, complacently looking over the papers which made him master of so large an area of the choicest property in the great city, and mentally calculating the increase of wealth he could expect during the coming years. He was aroused from his reverie by a timid knock. He opened the door and admitted a poorly dressed woman, who shov/ed in her whole person the imprint of grinding poverty. "0 sir," said she, *'I have never asked a soul for help before, but the night is coming on and my children are without food. Could you lend me a little money till tomorrow?'' He looked at her for a moment, -and then with a remark that he had no use for those who depended on others for support, he threw her a little change and turned to his desk. She flushed painfully, but the necessities of her children overcame her feeling of pride and resentment, and she hurriedly left the office. Blake was not naturally a hard-hearted man; but his view of life was singularly self-centered, and financial success was his only criterion

A LOAF OF BREAD. 613: of judgement. He did not realize that his act was one of cutting cruelty instead of a kindness. As he left the office the sun had set and the dusk was coming on. Losing himself in the hurrying crowd, he took his way homeward. He found dinner ready and his sister awaiting his arrival. As he sat at the well-provided table, and said the short, perfunctory grace his father had taught him, his mind reverted for a moment to the poor woman who had come into his office, and he mentally calculated the kind of dinner and breakfast she could provide for herself and children with the meagre sum he had so gingerly thrown to her; but his complacency was not disturbed by his mental arithmetic. He took great credit to himself for the fact that, through his bounty, they could have dinner and breakfast at all. The meal finished, he asked Jennie if she cared to go to the theatre. She consented, and he telephoned for tickets and a carriage. On their arrival, they found that the play was the same onethey had witnessed on that last evening with Marjorie. They would have withdrawn, but it was .too late. The play was progressing when they took their seats. Every act and scene brought back memories, the chief element in which was the curiously constructed "M" and its meaning, so bravely explained and defended by their beautiful friend. It would be difficult to tell how they felt during the progress of the play. Their preoccupation was greater even than on the former occasion; and on the way home they said not a word. Each was glad of an opportunity to retire. * * ***** At daybreak next morning, a demon awoke in San Francisco. It stirred underground, and strong buildings trembled and fell, the streets opened, the pavement writhed, the watermains and gasmains burst, electric wires werp crossed, and conflagrations burst forth in the stricken ruins. Men, women and children fled shrieking into the streets, where they met other streams of humanity, all of them as helpless and hopeless as a babe in the grasp of a destroying giant. Philip and Jennie Blake were awakened by the grinding and groaning noise of the earthquake. Their home was of brick and stone, and therefore an easy prey for the giant. Walls and

614 IMPROVEMENT ERA. ceiling fell, and amid blinding dust and smoke, the brother and sister rushed into the street. Neither had time to dress fully; each took whatever clothes could be found at the instant. When they reached the street, they were separated by the rushing, flightened throng, and carried in opposite directions. Philip felt for his money, and found to his dismay that he had left it all in the house, now a hopeless ruin. He was penniless and helpless. But the latent manhood within him was called to full life and activity by the need of assistance he saw around him. He rushed into the thickest of the danger and alarm, and battled bravely with the destroying elements, the stake being human lives. To tell all that he and others saw and did on that eventful day would be to write a chapter of disaster and bravery almost unparalleled in the history of the world. Men were dragged from the ruins of buildings, where they would have been cremated but for the prompt rescue. Helpless women and children were carried to places of temporary safety, in time to escape the flames. Shrieks and prayers rent the air, as human beings were dashed to death or caught and imprisoned, to be food for the flames. People who had never before uttered the name of Deity except in imprecation, called on God for help in the mids t of the awful desolation. Those who, the night before, had laughed, feasted, caroused, and showered or received applause, now caught at a morsel of food, or fought for a place of safety, or prayed despairingly for the rescue that would never come. It was a day to be remembered as a foretaste of purgatory. Those who passed through its horrors will never forget them. What the earthquake left, the flames devoured. The smoke rose dark against the sky and obscured the noonday sun. Flames flashed and crackled and leaped from building to building, and massive blocks melted before them. Fortunes were wiped out in a breath. Men who had gone to bed millionaires the night before, awoke that day paupers. They were considered fortunate to have escaped with their lives. The demon was no respecter of persons. With the leveling of the buildings ■ which had formed the city's pride and wealth, came a leveling of social ranks. The man of wealth was a beggar, and fled with beggars in the streets. Rich and poor were alike in the midst of the awful destruction.

A LOAF OF BREAD. 615 As evening came on, Philip realized that he was terribly hungry. He had never known keen hunger before. The new sensation was extremely painful to him. With his hunger came a realization of the fact that he had no food and no money. He was surrounded by men, women and children as hungry and hopeless as himself. He made his way toward Golden Gate Park. A common impulse seemed to seize on thousands to do likewise. The babel of discordant sounds, rising in the crowded streets, mingled with the roar of the conflagration, and the cries of hungry little ones echoed in his ears like a breath from the Inferno. He would gladly have run from the scene, with his eyes and ears closed to its terrors, if flight had been possible. But he would have to flee from himself, for he was part of the scene, and could not separate himself from it. It was his city, as well as theirs, which had been destroyed; his safety and theirs was equally a matter of conjecture; his future and theirs was alike. As he reached the park he found it occupied by a motley throng of people, whose only thought in going there was to escape from the horrors of the crowded city. There they could at least find safety from falling buildings and scorching flames. Then came the problem of food, clothing and shelter. And that problem was most difficult. The officials of the city and the military officers attacked the situation bravely and brought some order out of chaos. But after all, the tender ministrations of the women who passed from one group to another, dispensing food and comfort, did more than all else to relieve the situation of its terrors. Among these, Philip was delighted to find his sister Jennie. With s. glad cry she ran to him and fell into his arras. Weak as he was with work and fasting, he mingled his tears of joy and sorrow with hers. That night they sU pt as best they could under the open sky, and without covering or shelter. A crust of bread, which a fellow-sufferer shared with them, had to suffice for their supper. Their rest was broken by the noises in the doomed city, and the wailing and lamentation of the homeless refugees. In the morning they arose, weak and weary with fasting and sleeplessness. The duties of the day beckoned them on, and they found therein a slight respite from the grief of their situation.

616 IMPROVEMENT ERA. Durinfy the second day their fare was as meagre and their labors were as difficult as on the day before. Philip was heart-sick at the scenes he witnessed; and only the excitement of the work he was called to do, saved him from collapse. It seemed to him as if all the force and strength of his body was concentrated in his nerves. When night came, they fairly tingled with the work he had done and the scenes he had looked upon. As he staggered to the park, and joined his sister there, he was entirely spent. The excitement which had sustained him during the past two days, had exhausted his body, unused to toil and hardship, and a deep despondency came over him, as he thought of the loss of his property and the hopelessness of his condition. His sister saw his mood and tried to cheer him; but her efforts were fruitless. Truly it has been said that when one's idol turns to clay, all the world seems empty and false. So it seemed to Blake, when he saw the fruits of his life-work swept into nothingness in one short minute. Life seemed to him to hold no prospect worth the effort to acquire. That night he slept not at all. When morning came, his moody spell was stronger upon him. He arose wearily and walked mechanically and dejectedly toward the ferry dock. His sister would have detained him, but her attention was taken by a case of suffering which she was able and anxious to relieve. As he walked, he mused disconsolately on his condition. ''What is the use of it all?" he asked himself. "We build a structure formed of the best of brain and brawn we have, and in a moment it vanishes into nothingness. Wealth is annihilated, and with it power and prestige. Life becomes no longer worth the living. I am of no value to myself or to others. I am but a burden on the already overburdened officers." As he approached the ferry- slips, he seemed to have fixed upon a grim purpose. His eyes were deep-shaded by his hat, but they were fixed and bloodshot. His mien was so dejected that more than one person, on meeting him, turned around and said in whispers, "That man is desperate." He had almost reached the ferry when he came face to face with a woman leading two children, and carrying a loaf of bread under each arm. Involuntarily he started, as he recognized the

A LOAF Oh BREAD. 617 woman to whom he had given alms. Seeing his wan, pinched face, she hurriedly placed one of the loaves in his hand, and walked quickly away. As he gazed after her, and contrasted her noble, unobtrusive self-sacrifice with his contemptuous giving, he saw the smallness of his self-centered opinion. His cowardice in determining to rid himself of a troubled life, when its pleasures were exhausted, appeared in all its hideousness. The vision of his sweet sister seeking vainly for him, was the crowning thought. Turning sharply around, he walked rapidly back to the park and joined his sister. Without a word, he handed the loaf of bread to her. As she took off the wrapping paper, she uttered a cry of surprise, and held the bread toward him He looked at it and fell sobbing on a bench. Daintily engraved on the top of the loaf was the symbolic "M" Marjorie Trent had used on her note paper. Jennie quickly cleared a place on the grass, and cutting the loaf handed part of it to Philip. The bread was perfectly mixed and perfectly baked—it could not have been better. As they ate in perfect thankfulness, Philip devoutly exclaimed, "This loaf of bread has saved my life. God bless the lovely heart and hand that sent it." , IV. The following day, food and clothing arrived at the temporary camp in sufficient quantity to relieve the worst of the suffering and make the future hopeful. The worst was over, and with undaunted courage the people began to plan for the future. As it was desirable that as many as could be spared should leave the stricken city, at least for a time, and as the civil and military authorities had the situation well in hand, Philip and Jennie decided to join the hundreds of refugees who were leaving for Utah and other places eastward. There was a quizzical smile in Jennie's eyes when her brother mentioned this plan to her. She readily saw that he was determined to find Marjorie Trent. And her desire was as keen as his, though perhaps a little different in intent. And both were equally anxious to leave the stricken city. Through the kindness of the railway officials, transportation was furnished for all refugees from the city, to any desired point

618 IMPROVEMENT ERA. in the east. It galled the pride of Philip Blake to go to the officials having charge of the arrangements and ask the f avoi' of transportation to Ogden. But it was merely one of the lessons of the past few days; and he was learning fast. So he accepted the inevitable without murmur. He and his sister were soon "ticketed and labeled" with the other refugees, and sped eastward over the Southern Pacific, thankful that, though they had nothing else, they had each other. A book could be written on the humorous and tragic features of the journey to Ogden, and some writer may arise out of the general confusion and disaster, with the true artist's pen, capable of handling the difficult but fascinating theme. I acknowledge that I am not that writer, and must therefore content myself with a brief account of the incidents that belong to this narrative. On arriving in Ogden, the brother and sister were taken in hand by the relief committee of that noble city. There they gained an idea of what Utah had done and was doing for the sufferers. Carloads of provisions were standing on the tracks, ready for departure. The ground was piled with boxes and crates of supplies, ready for loading in the cars. The members of the committee were moving about, giving food here, a word of encouragement there, and kind smiles and hearty handshakes everywhere. As Philip glanced at the provisions awaiting loading, he was startled to see a box containing bread on which was the familiar and endeared "M." Stopping the man who had the box, he asked where it came from. ''From the little village of S—, a few miles from the city," was the answer. "How can I get there?" was the next question, and a world of eagerness was in the words. A little searching resulted in the information that, the young man who had just brought the supplies from that village would drive there within the hour. He readily consented to carry Philip and Jennie with him. They removed as much of the stain and dust of travel as possible, but their appearance was so far from the well-groomed neatness they prided themselves in, that both were moved to good- - natured laughter. Each thought at the same time of the words.

A LOAF OF BREAD. 619 "Just as I am,'' and knew if they found Marjorie Trent, she would have to receive them at their true valuation, without collateral embellishment. Philip's heart was beating wildly as the wagon reached the gate of the Trent home. Enclosed with a neat fence, he saw a small but tasteful cottage, with lawn and shrubbery in front, just coming into the green of springtime. Impatiently he leaped from the vehicle, and assisted Jennie to the ground. As they came to the front door they heard a sweet voice, which came from one of the farther rooms. They stood and listened enraptured, as the voice they knew so well arose in a simple but exquisite melody. They recognized in it the mingling of household work and music which Marjorie had told them of. To them it seemed as if such a home, so graced and beautified, could not be far from heaven. In answer to their knock, a motherly lady of middle age came to the door and kindly bade them enter. "Does Marjorie Trent live here?" asked Jennie. ' 'Yes, she is in the kitchen,'' was the answer. ' 'Shall I call her?" "No, I thank you," hastily responded Philip; "kindly permit us to go to her." The request was so sincere and earnest, that the mother escorted them to the kitchen door. There stood the familiar figure, fairer than ever in her kitchen dress and apron, busily engaged in mixing and baking bread. Several loaves, like the one they had eaten in San Francisco, were on the table, each one bearing the sjnnbolic "M," and Marjorie was just then completing the monogram on the loaf she was about to place in the oven. "Marjorie!" called Jennie, in a low, sweet tone. The girl looked around, startled at first, as if at an apparition. The next instant the two girls were sobbing in each other's arms, and Philip eagerly awaited the handshake he had longed for through the weary days. At length Marjorie extended her hand with the old frank smile, and he took it in both of his. "God bless you!" was all he could say. Introductions and hasty explanations followed; and soon the refugees were clothed and housed and provided for in a manner that removed from them all embarrassment, and made them realize

620 IMPROVEMENT ERA. more and more, the kindly fellow-feeling that makes the whole world kin. Their story was quickly told; and Marjorie listened in open-eyed.'astonishment to the account of her own accidental connection with it. No scene could be more impressive than the one when, in the presence of all the family, Philip Blake stood in the kitchen with a hand reverently laid on a loaf of Marjorie's bread, and earnestly said, ' 'A loaf like this has saved one life; this one may save another." That evening, under the soft spring sky and mildly beaming stars, Philip Blake poured forth the Jong pent-up tribute of his soul to Marjorie Trent. It was not in the form of a sudden or selfish declaration of love. His reverence for her, and his sense of his own unworthiness, would have prohibited that, for he knew he had his probation to serve. But it was an almost worshipful acknowledgment of her superior view and grasp of life and its duties and relationships. In it was a note of thankfulness for the new light that had come to him, confirming her opinions, and showing him the wrong of his self-centered hopes and ambitions. Its frankness and manliness gave evidence that he was sincere, and that his labors and ambitions would thenceforward run parallel with hers. Salt Lake City, Utah.