The Better Way

THE BETTER WAY By Elona G. Hill yard She was waiting, watching, too, perhaps, for she gazed intently at the long road as it stretched westward, then seemed to meet and blend itself with the glowing colors of the sunset. Thanksgiving eve, yes; all fathers, mothers and children waited in hopeful expectance for the home-coming. Even the giant forms of the mighty trees seemed waiting as they drew themselves proudly up and cast their dark shadows on the crimson glow. A blue haze, brightened with red here and there, covered the hill-tops on the east and painted fairy pictures on the ermine snow. Here and there smoke gushed forth from the huge chimneys and went whirling in the air, in various shapes and sizes. A crisp breeze fanned the air and made the girl unconsciously draw her wrap more closely around her shoulders. But the glories of the western sky were lost to this girl of scarcely twenty years. She was waiting for someone's return and listening — listening to the strains of music that reached her from across the way. It was a song, one she knew and loved well. Today it seemed to her the author must have written it for her. Strangely she followed closely the words of the song to the close: "That you'll be through life A good, true wife, dear, Just as your mother was." She compared them to words which had been said to her so recently. Only yesterday she had looked upon a scene equally as beautiful as the one nature had now pointed for her. She had said goodbye then to an old life, one in which she had known both joy and sorrow, until love had bidden her leave it for a greater life. With the dawn of the morn she had gone with the one she had accepted as her mate, to the holy temple of the Lord. She recalled the wonder- ful blessings and privileges which they had known, far greater than any others on earth. Upon leaving the temple they had walked side by side down the path to a little cottage, entered the place that was to mean so much to them both, and passed over the threshold to their home. How strangely that bit of knowledge thrilled their hearts. A dainty little wedding dinner alone, prepared by the artful, experienced hands of the little mistress! The happy moment when she had bowed her head in silence while the man, her husband, had thanked the Lord for the generous fare that had been prepared for their use. She was glad, very glad, Dave believed in all these various com- mandments which God had given to man. Some people had advised

THE BETTER WAY 35 her that he was not religious enough to be a member of the Church. She understood what they meant, of course, but they were wrong. She had never, in the short six months she had known him, heard him speak with less than a deep reverence for Deity, a high regard for strict morality, an earnest endeavor to be honest in his dealings with his fellow-men. He had gone to church with her several times, and before he went to war she was told he had been an ardent worker in the ward wherein he resided. He lived up to the Word of Wisdom as it had been taught, obeyed the law of tithing, and had that day taken the first step toward the fulfilment of the great commandment God had given to all His children. They were mistaken, she thought. Once more the glory of it all filled her thoughts and she bent her head while she whispered, "Father in heaven, help me to be a true and faithful wife." Footsteps sounded, and she was aroused quickly from her reverie. She had not waited in vain. Her husband was coming up the steps. "What luck, Dave?" She greeted him with a smile. "Fine," he returned, his face beaming with unconscious joy as he held his pretty young wife tightly in his arms and kissed her fondly. "Now come in out of the cold." "Don't you think we have the nicest home?" she asked again, while they laughed together for pure joy. Seated by the cozy fire in the dining room, Betty Sheldon said: "Now, tell me all about it, Dave, please, I'm really anxious." "Well, I have accepted the job. It's much better than the one I now have, and more money, too. Mr. John thought I might be able to make as much as two-hundred twenty-five dollars some months. I have to leave with the truck at 7:30 every morning and will prob- ably be home by 5:30 or 6:00 in the evening. Isn't that dandy? It can't be compared to these fellows who make so much money they can't count it, but you didn't happen to marry that kind, did you, Betty?" "Not if I believe you," she laughed, "and I guess it is too late to change now." "That's my one consolation of course," he offered. "Every- day— " he began. "Except Sunday," his wife added. "No," he said, shaking his head a little, "every day. We fel- lows who work for wages can't stop to consider little things. Busi- ness is business. If it says, 'go on Sunday,' we go, same as if it were any other day. If we have money we're all right, if we haven't we can't get anywhere. That's the whole story." "No, it isn't," Betty argued, as one in a trance, "I don't want you to change jobs if you have to work on Sunday. Fifty or seventy- five dollars don't pay for what you're losing by not attending to your Church duties."

36 IMPROVEMENT ERA "Now, Betty, don't talk that way, you can go just the same, and besides, it doesn't matter much if I don't go. I'd rather not, I despise listening to men who preach wonderful sermons on Sunday and then take every possible advantage of their neighbor the next day." "That isn't our religion, Dave. The gospel doesn't teach that doctrine. Just remember, no man is perfect, that each of us must pay for the wrong we do. Look at the wonderful principles in the Church, not at the actions of its members. We are not judges." "Quite right, dear, but don't you know we can't all see things that way. Over in France, in the army, for instance, Betty, I had friends, pals who would give their life for you, but weren't mem- bers of our Church, some didn't belong to any church, yet they were more honest than some in our own Church." "I don't doubt it, there are good men in other churches, sincere, too. Now listen, that same man you admired if he knew the better way, understood the true principles of the gospel, the right plan of salvation for mankind, he would live them, don't you think? That would make him even better." David Sheldon smiled while he listened to his wife, then he gave her his final decision on the subject. "If we were all perfect, your idea would be fine, I guess, but right now we must think of our conditions, financially. I have ac- cepted the job and mean to stay with it. So let's say nothing more about it. We'll have some nice long evenings together anyway. Betty said no more, realizing that anything she might say would avail her nothing. How she had planned on them continuing their Church work together, studying over the various lessons and dis- cussing the different topics that might arise! Now she must face them alone, do her best anyway! During the evening several friends stepped in to wish them much happiness and success in their new life. Through it all Betty main- tained that same cheery smile her friends had known and loved so well, while Dave with ready wit and natural good humor made a splendid host. When the friends finally departed, they left feeling even more a spirit of "Peace on earth, good will toward man." Betty lingered in the hallway, after the goodbyes had been said. The conversation earlier in the evening was again recalled to her mind and with it the last request her father had made of her. "Remember to pray always, my child, both of you pray to- gether. It is the only way to live in perfect harmony. Ask God to teach you how to love each other, how to live in accordance with His will." "Did Dave pray?" she wondered. Softly she entered the room. He was sitting before the fire, watching the blaze play on the large logs in the fireplace. She loved him, this man, in a different way

THE BETTER WAY 37 than any other she knew. Such wavy dark hair, with bright dark eyes to match, clean-cut features — how handsome he was! Hers? She thrilled with a conscious pride. Then she approached slowly and laid one little hand lovingly on the dark head. "Thinking dear?" she asked. "Yes," was the answer, "painting pictures. Can you see them?" "Some of them, I believe," was the quiet answer. "You must tell me the ones I can't see." He did not answer. When Betty again broke the silence, it was to ask, "Dave, do you pray?" Again he did not reply, but his eyes met those of his wife. In her's there lingered a pleading, in his reigned a quiet reserve. "Would you like to hear a story?" Gently he drew her down beside him, as he began: "When Tom and I were just little fellows, we were play- ing outside one cold evening, something like tonight. Mother asked us both to come in so we wouldn't take cold. Tom started to obey, but I coaxed him until he stayed too. When we finally went in we were almost frozen. Next day Tom had a dreadful cold and it soon turned to pneumonia. He grew worse and worse until we thought he would die. Oh, how I prayed that he might be spared. I had truly repented of disobeying mother and I asked God to forgive me and let my little brother live. Next morning he was cold and stiff and a little mound in the cemetery marked the only answer to my prayer. Mother talked to me a great deal about it. She said that I had been forgiven, and it was only because Tommy was wanted that he was taken away. So, with her assurance, I still tried to pray. Two years later father was seriously injured in a mine explosion. He was brought home unconscious. We called in the elders, and we all prayed, but he, too, left us. It was pretty hard to believe in prayer after that, Betty, but once more mother helped me believe it was his will and I did. "Then, dear, a year ago when the influenza first broke out mother became one of its victims and even though we all exercised all the faith we possessed, she died, too. Since then I have been unable to pray or to take very much interest in anything to care whether I kept the Sabbath day holy or any of these other com- mandments. I can't believe God cares whether we pray or not. He wants us to live honest lives, do as, we think best, he doesn't have time to think of all these little things, though big they seem to us. Some people say and think their prayers are answered, mine never have been. If he answers yours, pray to him, I can't care much about any of it any more. You understand, don't you?" In the days following Dave thought a great deal of the events of the first day of their marriage. He realized that Betty was very much disappointed in him, but felt he could not remedy it. He would be all he could to her to make up for those things he was not, and

3 8 IMPROVEMENT ERA felt he could never be again. He reasoned that prayer is an under- standing between God and man, not man and wife. Dave's attitude only lent Betty a more fervent determination to live up to those principles she had been taught. She had not known the loss of a father and mother, but she knew the loss of both brothers and sisters. She did not feel to blame Dave, only to wish and pray that God would help him to understand his will more fully. She prayed constantly that she might be faithful, so she could help him. The winter passed rapidly, and the hours that would otherwise have been lonesome for Betty were filled with religious obligations. Dave whose main inspiration had always been in mechanics, enjoyed his work. It did not tire him and the few dull hours were always brightened with the thoughts of the little home and the cheerful little wife who awaited his return. With the coming of the birds and flowers a sweet little stranger announced his intentions of coming to visit them. The days following were busy ones for the little wife and the evenings were spent in joyful anticipation of the future. So passed the hot summer days, and the chilling days of autumn came once more. And so came a day when the truck driver did not go on his usual journey, but became an anxious watcher beside the white bed where his wife lay quiet and still. Somewhat in fear, he followed good old "Doctor Dick" to the door of the room. Closing the door softly the old man laid a comforting hand on the young man's shoulders. "Don't take it so hard, my boy, things may be all right, the nurse will send for me when necessary," then he was gone. "Again?" he asked himself, "Does the only precious gift I yet possess lie so near the door of Shadow Valley?" What could he do? Pray? "No," came the answer, "it would be only in vain!" All that day and the coming night she lay unconscious, some- times quiet, scarcely breathing, sometimes raving in delirium. Near the dawn of the day "Doctor Dick" was again summoned and the following hours were years of torture to Dave. And with the first cry the little stranger uttered, the young father felt his heart would break. More than ever he felt the added responsibility that was his, and the still greater need for his companion. He left the baby at a motion from "Doctor Dick." -The now looked-for recovery seemed impossible. The little mother grew worse and before long it seemed her life was ebbing fast away. In despair he fled from the room, and in the darkness of the night, paced back and forth on the porch. His face burned, his throat was hard and dry. Only a year ago — their wedding day. As one in a dream he heard his wife's voice, "Don't you pray, Dave?" "O, God, forgive me!" he pleaded. "Please don't take her away, we need her so much!" He had scarcely finished when the

THE BETTER WAY 39 door opened and "Doctor Dick" was by him, "Come, quickly," he muttered. Blindly Dave followed, anxiously he leaned over the bed. The eyes were open, clear and beautiful, shining with a new light. She was smiling. Dave looked at "Doctor Dick," then at her again. He caught the little white hand and pressed it fondly. "Dave!" she whispered in a voice that uttered all she would say. He bowed his head, tears of joy filled the dark eyes while in his heart he knew he had learned "The Better Way." Songs and prayers arose from many homes and hearts, but none were more earnestly sincere than the prayer of thanksgiving that arose from the heart and home of Dave Sheldon. Auburn, Wyoming LET YOUR LIGHT SHINE Up, arise in your strength, Zion's children, And work with your zeal and your might To uphold and sustain, by right living, The standard of virtue and right. The ensign of God to the nations Has been raised by our parents so true; Let us rally, and bear it with honor, Let's not shirk though our numbers be few. They had standards so high and so holy, Which they've worked all their lives to attain; Though with poverty, sickness and exile Their efforts have not been in vain. But their days on this earth now are numbered, They'll be called to a holier sphere, And their children must then bear the burdens, Uphold truths to their parents so dear. Then be honest to God, and your neighbor, Have faith, hope and charity, too; Seek knowledge by prayer and by study, Be diligent, patient and true. Be virtuous, loving and tender; Be temperate, active, sincere; By pure lives, may you e'er Zion's children Teach the truths of the gospel so dear. Mesa, Arizona Ethel R. Lillywhite

"THE WORLD'S A STAGE- By James Sickles Hart "NO." And to further emphasize his already very emphatic negative, Mr. Henderson banged his huge fist against the desk in such a manner that his dejected listener could not mistake the note of finality. "Furthermore," Mr. Henderson added, by way of explanation, "You are incapable of handling a part of this kind." I have — " the man addressed started to protest. "I don't care what you have done — you can't have this part! Frankly, I can't see why you should wish to change — you have been doing these comedy parts so long that — " "That's just it, Mr. Henderson," his listener cried out in agony of one helplessly doomed to an ignominious fate, "I want to play just one part — oh, I can't explain it to you — but one wherein I can be my natural self. Think of the irony of it — within me beats the tragic heart of a Hamlet — and I am forced to be a Touchstone! Why, if I were to die out there on the stage some night — those gibbering idiots out in front would applaud and laugh at my death struggles! Can't you see — can't you — WON'T you understand what I mean?" he pleaded shaken and white-lipped from the tempestuous appeal he had made. Mr. Henderson smiled as if greatly amused. "H'm, so, Happy, you want to jump from Hooligan to Hamlet? Quite a step from the ridiculous — don't you think? Think how the people would laugh if over their coffee they should read — "Ed Morgan — Famous Comedian Aspires to Play Serious Roles!" The public might accept Chaplin as Romeo but YOU as Hamlet NEVER! Come now, Ed, be reasonable — you're the best man in your class today — but — stay in your class!" With this bit of well meant advice, the big producer turned his attention to some papers on the desk, signifying that the interview was over, and the old actor's lips trembling from suppressed disap- pointment sadly withdrew. Now "old actor" is hardly fair to Ed, for "Dad," as he is affect- ionately called by all the folks backstage, is not yet forty. But he had been in the business so long before the younger actors had even left grammar school, that he was looked upon as authority on the many subjects that arise on the other side of the footlights, hence the name of "DAD." A gorgeous chandelier, with its swaying thousands of opales- cent crystals glittering and scintillating with color, much as an Esqui- maux village of ice igloos in the Northern Lights might, suffused the

THE WORLD'S A STAGE— 41 room with a languorous, mystic radiance. The air was filled with a swirling haze of oriental incense, which, as it curled lazily upward, caused fantastic shadows to dance upon the walls and floor. Some- where in the great house a fountain splashed and gurgled merrily, while at the foot of the grand stairs, ankle deep in costly Persian master-craft, a palm swung gracefully to and fro in a gentle zephyr that whiffed playfully through the open windows. At the head of the stairs, poised lightly, as for flight, the mistress of the Mansion stood, smiling, well pleased with the delightful picture that spread itself be- for her — as if waiting her inspection and approval. Gathering her shimmering train in one beautiful white hand, she started to descend daintily — ■ "Mary Ann! Stop that there fool play actin' an' git them stairs cleaned!" With a start the girl on the stairs came to herself, and glanced dazedly about her. Instead of a smoothly glowing chandelier, she saw swinging craz- ily from the ceiling a smoky, blinking lantern, throwing some light, but much more shadows, as a street lamp in a London fog. Instead of sweet smelling incense, her nostrils were assailed by the poignant stench of burning vegetables; and the misty haze proved to be only dust clouds — arising from the energetic broom of Mrs. Maguire down- stairs. The fountain continued to bubble in its laughing way, which puzzled the disappointed girl much. Suddenly with a mad burst of speed she ran back down the hall — she had forgotten to turn off the sink! Sadly and with lagging steps she returned to the stairs. Instead of rich carpets — her eyes met only torn and frightfully dirty lino- leum. At the foot of the stairs, hung on the hat rack, a rain coat and dripping umbrella jostled each other as the wind from outside, whistling through a smashed transom, blew them about. With a deep sigh the little Make Believe Girl took her train, a much used and very torn apron tied high and reversed, in her grimy, toil-stained little hands and placed it on straight, pulling it low in front so that it covered two large holes in her stockings, then picked up her broom. The mop, the broom and the dust rag, that constituted Mary Ann's day. Occasionally, by way of pleasant diversion and healthful recreation, she was allowed to wash the dishes. Mary Ann was her full name, she had no other for the simple reason that no one had ever known it. At the tender age of six weeks she had been left at the door of Mrs. Maguire's boarding house, and Mary Ann had been given her (but nothing else) to distinguish her from Mary the dusky hued grid- dle queen. The only thing that kept Mary Ann from succumbing under the colorless, rather, the dust-colored monotony, was her vivid, spar- kling imagination.

42 IMPROVEMENT ERA It so happened that on this, the fiftieth thousand rude awakening from her land of Fancy, Mary Ann became rather careless. As she scrubbed away industriously, she did not notice how perilously near the edge her water bucket had been shoved, and all at once — splosh! The water and bucket tumbled and rushed down the stairs. No great harm had been done, for the steps had to be washed anyway, but Mary Ann had good reasons to know the irascible temper of Mrs. Maguire, and she trembled at the thought of facing her florid- faced, acid-tongued mistress. Behind the wide eyed Mary Ann a door opened and closed softly, but she did not know nor care. "You seemed frightened," a quiet voice spoke at her side. With a gasp of fear Mary Ann cringed as though to ward off a blow, then straightened quickly. "I — I am!" she whispered hoarsely. "Of whom?" the newcomer asked smiling. "M-Mrs. McMaguire!" she told him, big round tears welling in her staring eyes, and coursing down her pale cheeks till they fell, glist- ening from her trembling lips. Even as she spoke that worthy person appeared at the foot of the stairs, face almost purple from exertion and anger. Laboriously she clambered up the steps until she stood gasping, a virtual goddess of vengeance, a puffing nemesis, confronting the terror-stricken girl. '"So," she panted, "it's up to yer old thricks ye air? Well, m: lady," she told Mary Ann leeringly, coming toward her while rolling dirty sleeves high on capable arms suggestively, "I guess you know what comes now — ?" The stranger coughed slightly, then spoke apologetically, "I'm very sorry, Mrs. Maguire, you see-er-the fact of the mat- ter is — I am the cause of the accident. I sincerely trust that no great damage has resulted from my carelessness, if so I shall gladly reim- burse you," and he removed a bill folder from his pocket. Mrs. Maguire did not understand all that " this dood feller" had said, but she gathered from his tone and actions that he and not Mary Ann had been the cause of "th' commoshun," and as he had only yesterday paid a month's advance rent — she could afford to be lenient, so with muffled excuses she bowed and grimaced drunkenly and hastily withdrew. Awkwardly Mary Ann stood, twisting her apron in a ball. Sud- denly she felt the cool night air touch her bare knees and hastily and blushingly smoothed it out again. Mary Ann had had little or noth- ing to do with strangers, finding it much more pleasant and profit- able to keep to her Make Believe World and its wonderful, if impos- sible people. But this one, she reasoned as she took especial pains with her ragged apron, was different. Out of the corner of her eyes she studied him. He was neither young nor old, she decided, because a

THE WORLD'S A STAGE— 43 certain almost boyish expression around his mouth was offset by the stern, harsh lines about his eyes. At his temples was just a tinge of steel, as if Time had touched his fingers there and passed on. There was something striking about his face, that sad, wistful smile seemed to grow on one, — she hadn't liked him yesterday, but now — Impulsively she extended her hand, boy like, and said bashfully, "I — I'd like to — to thank you, sir!" After the water bucket incident, life ceased to be just so manv weary hours of drudgery to Mary Ann, for her new-found friend was as sunshine to her starved little heart. One day she had asked him thoughtlessly, wistfully, how he had ever happened to come to such a place as Mrs. Maguire's. She had not seen the look of pain that crossed his face, had not seen his smile fade as he regarded her closely, suspiciously, for his voice was easy, almost gay as he had replied: "Well, you see, little Sun- beam, (he always called her that — saying she was the only one in that dark old house) I am a very serious, assiduous sort of person, and they wouldn't let me be myself out there in the world, so I am hiding here till they forget me, then I am going out and just be — me. Do you see?" She hadn't seen, but she had nodded anyway. Her greatest joy came, though, when he told her wonderful stories of strange far away lands and lovely people that lived there. She listened eagerly, hungrily to his tales of fairies, dwarfs, knights, dragons, princes and romance. One, about a handsome prince who came over the hills on a beautiful charger and carried his princess away with him, seemed to her the acme of perfected cheerup stories. All day long, even in her hours of drudgery, she would dream, imagine that she was the princess and that her handsome prince was near. And always, though she realized it not, the Prince of her imagination bore a marked resemblance to the stranger. "Where's the fire, buddie?" Dad Morgan asked casually of a boy mounted on a fire plug, eagerly watching the big red engines dash clanging and shrieking past. "Mrs. Maguire's," he answered over his shoulder, never losing sight of the ladder car. " 'S big one, too! Gee, wisht I wuz closter!" "Mrs. Maguire's?" Dad almost shouted, "Why, all my stuff is up there! And Mary Ann — !" The color fled from his face as he thought of the danger in which the child might be. Disregarding the warnings of two policemen, he dashed madly up the street. When he arrived at the house it was nothing but a mass of shooting flames. Mrs. Maguire saw him and ran over excitedlv. "Shore, an' uts alright sor, we got yer thrunks out in toime," she told him, thinking to relieve his mind. He waved his hand impatiently.

44 IMPROVEMENT ERA "Where's Mary Ann!" he demanded. Mrs. Maguire shrugged. "In there," she pointed significantly, and indifferently, "some- where." "What!" he started tell her in no calm words what he thought of such devilish calmness, but changed his mind and ran, battled, shoved and fought his way towards the blazing house. "Here, you can't go in there, you fool!" a fireman grabbed his arm. With a fierce growl he threw the man off and knocked another out of his way, and with folded arms shielding his face, he plunged into that fiery hell. The smoke was choking, and fearfully hot, but he felt not the heat, nor the scorching pain the fumes made in his chest. He was forced to stop at the stairs, for they were a solid wall of flame, roaring derisively, some flicking out as if to beckon him on. With eyesight nearly gone, breath coming in sobbing, broken gasps, "Happy Hooligan" clenched his teeth and plunged forward. But even as he made the start, the stairs crashed in with a thunderous, re- sounding roar, swallowing the flames momentarily in the swirl of smoke and debris. Dad, driven back, fell to his knees, faint, seared, discouraged. With a rasping voice he scarce recognized as his own, he screamed, "Mary Ann! Mary Ann! In God's name, answer me!" Silence — as choking as the smouldering fire. Then somewhere within that Valley of the Shadow, a gentle moan sounded, not a shriek of agony nor of terror, but such a sound as a sorrowing mother might give over her child's sickbed. "Mary Ann!" Dad screamed again, in a harsh, croaking voice, "I'm coming — I'm com " but the exertion and heat had proven too much, and like a stricken doe he fell in his tracks. ********** Forty-eight hours after he had first entered the burning house to seek and save the poor house girl, Dad Morgan opened his eyes. For a time he lay perfectly still, just thinking. So this was Heaven! H'mm, well, it wasn't so bad, but that funny odor, what was it now? Oh, yes, disinfectant, that was mighty familiar. Soon a nurse, white from head to foot, moved soundlessly to his bedside. "Did you wish something?" she asked softly. Dad could barely see her, for his right eye was bandaged tightly, and the left swollen almost shut, and when he went to answer, be found that his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and was also swollen. But with difficulty he managed to ask about Mary Ann. "Oh, the little girl?" the nurse answered, "Oh, she got out all

THE WORLD'S A STAGE— 45 right, the firemen got anxious over you and went into get you out, and they found her, too. She was pretty badly burned, poor thing, and the steps nearly crushed the life out of her, so the firemen say, said they had to take a heavy plank off before they could get to her. She's resting fairly easy now, though. "Am I bathly hurth?" Dad asked thickly through bruised lips. "Oh, no, you'll soon be able to be up, your's was more exhaustion than anything else," the nurse replied easily. And what she had predicted was true, for Dad was able to be up two days later. His first move was to walk painfully and slowly to Mary Ann's room. He sat for hours, awaiting some sign of life, but with the exception of the irregular, labored breathing, the little figure swathed in greasy bandages, might easily have been mistaken for dead. Suddenly a slight tremor shook her, and she opened one scorched little eye lid pitifully. Seeing Dad by her side, but, of course, not recognizing him, she asked weakly, anxiously: "Has my Prince come for me, yet? Have you seen my Prince?" and without waiting for an answer, she closed her eye, and once more resumed her deathlike posture and the ghastly breathing of a sufferer poised under the shadow of the Grim Reaper's wings. "What did she mean?" Dad whispered to a nurse near by. "That's what she always says when she wakes up," was the reply, "and we can't understand it. Perhaps her mind has been affected, it would be no wonder!" But a light of understanding beamed on Dad's eye, and he rose stiffly and hobbled out of the room. "Nurse," he asked when he had gained his ward, "that little girl in forty hasn't long to live, has she?" "No, why?" she answered. "Oh, nothing much." Three hours later Dad in a fever of excitement asked the nurse, "Have those trunks I sent for arrived yet?" "Yes, I had them put where you told me, the lights are fixed as you asked. What are you going to do?" Dad never answered, doubtless never heard, for he was ahead/ hobbling down the hall muttering to himself before she had finished. Once in the room, Dad's momentary excitement left him. Methodically he opened a trunk and took various boxes out and laid them on a small shelf over which a light had been placed. Deftly he applied the grease paint to his face in the places where it was not bandaged, though he winced at the stinging pain it brought. Under his skilful fingers, the marks of fire and time were erased, where there had been a bleary-eyed, grey haired man of forty, now stood a bright-eyed, fair-faced, dark-haired lad of twenty. Out of another

46 IMPROVEMENT ERA trunk he took a faded Cavalier Court uniform and donned it care- fully. "She won't see the bandages," he muttered, "guess I'm alright now. God," he prayed, "I've never been much good to anyone, but please grant me this, let me be on time for my cue — amen." He stepped carefully into the sleeping girl's room and coughed slightly. With a start the little swollen eye lid flickered open. For a moment a puzzled frown mantled her brow, then in gladdened tones she cried out: "My Prince! I knew you'd come, I knew you'd come!" Silently and tenderly Dad gathered the little wasted body in his arms, where she nestled contentedly. With a gentle sigh and wistful smile, she dropped off into that soft sleep from which there is but one awakening. The nurse standing near brushed a tear from her eye, fumbled for her kerchief and stole silently from the room. With tears streaming down his painted cheek, Dad reverently laid her back on the bed and folded one frail little hand across the other. Slipping to his knees, which cracked warningly and painfully, he lifted his face and heart to God: "I was on time, God! I did play a part, and it wasn't a slap- stick role either, was it?" Slowly he rose, and gazed around. The door was filled with nurses and patients, all with flooding eyes. A wistful, half triumphant smile stole across Dad's lips, lifting one painted corner grotesquely. Then in an awed voice he whispered to himself. "And no one laughed!" Joplin, Mo. ONE WORD IN PENITENCE (Psalm 51:1 — Have Mercy Upon Me, O God) Lord, how I love thee, thy holy name I adore, And with the close of each long day I love thee ten fold more. Countless blessings unto me each day befall; Countless sins committed, thou dost forgive them all; Countless lessons learned each day, From thy wisdom and thy way, And still in paths of error do I stray, But I with each strong deed must pay The penalty of injured conscience sad. 'Tis then in heart I turn to thee, Eyes downcast, yet heart-glad. Belleisle, N. B., Canada, Alan C. Reidpath.