Riches

RICHES By H. L. Johnston The word riches, generally carries one idea, the possession of gold. Large flocks, broad acres, fine houses, rich clothing and jewels, and a chance to laze around and enjoy them all, na- turally follow the possession of much gold. But when we consider real riches in such a light, we overlook one important truth, that many a man is far richer without a dollar in his pocket. I want to draw pictures of two young men, just starting out in the world to fight life's battles. One of the men I shall call Brewster. At the start, he is lucky, and obtains a good position, where he saves his money and invests it carefully. Good luck walks with him, hold- ing his hand, for twenty years, without a moment's desertion. He finds himself rich beyond his wildest dreams. In speaking of Brewster, his old friends back home, whom he had forgotten years ago, say, not knowing the true condition: "Brewster has surely made good. He has saved every cent he ever made, working day and night to get it. Ambition, there! All young men should follow in Brewster's footsteps, for he is a wonderful example of know- ing how to get what he started after." Regardless of the praise, Brewster is far from happy, for during the years of money grabbing, his very heart and soul have been pinched and drained until not a vestige of charity or unselfishness has been left. He has long ago been blinded by the gleam of gold, so that he can not see the want or suffering of his fellowmen. His ears have been deaf to the pleading of the still, small voice within him, which tells him, over and over, that "it is more blessed to give than to receive." In the end, wealth has cankered his soul, and never having met adversity during its accumulation, he can experience no joy in its possession. If the old friends back home only knew the true state of affairs, they would not trade their poverty for all of Brewster's riches. In ignorance, they figure his success, his worth to the world, and just how much he amounts to, by the number of. his dollars. At twenty-one, Charlie, the other young man in the picture, is filled with ambition to make money. It's possession never over- shadows for one second, the deep-seated desire in his heart to be generous to all humanity. Charlie goes to work and makes money, but seeing someone in want, gives freely. He finds it hard to refuse the beggar on the street. He can not enjoy himself on Christmas Eve, when he thinks of all the little empty stockings, that will still be empty on Christmas morn- ing, while poor little ones look into their depths in vain for the presents Santa forgot to bring. He spends his money trying to fill a few of these little stockings, and his only regret is, that he has so little to give.

RICHES 597 Charlie is always giving, always helping somebody. He com- forts the sorrowful, lifts up the fallen, and gives them new courage to meet life's battles. Twenty years pass, and the friends back home, whom Charlie has never forgotten, in comparing him with Brewster, say: "No, Charlie isn't amounting to much. He hasn't saved a dollar and will never be rich. He spends all that he makes." The friends back home are wrong. Charlie is both rich and happy. There is very little happiness in gaining wealth unless you get the happiness of giving and making others happy. It is the service, the love, that we give to our brothers and sisters that makes for our worth in this world- — and the next. Men who hoard vast fortunes and never give, or think of giving, to others can never be happy. They fail to expand, and never become grand outstanding char- acters. They know nothing of real success or happiness. One of the greatest successes in the history of man was poor and humble, yet He made others happy, and brought hope to all the world. He gave Himself in the service of humanity. The life of Jesus Christ was one great example of love. He healed the sick, raised the dead and comforted the sorrowing, but he had no money to give. It was Christ who said: "For inasmuch as ye do it unto the least of these, ye do it unto me." Beecher says, in regard to riches: "Heart-life, soul-life, hope, joy, love, are true riches." A healthy body is better than all the gold in the world. A head that thinks and works for the well-being of mankind is beyond com- pare with the richest jewels. The earth is ours to enjoy. If we are high in understanding we can enjoy its beauties. We have the riches of the heavens with which to feast our eyes. We can travel into the mountains and see the mighty works of God and be in touch with his Spirit. Why, then, should we strive to store up riches upon the earth to blind our eyes and warp our souls when we can gain the supreme happiness and riches by storing them in heaven? Tobar, Nevada. My Wish If I were given the right to wish, And power to make that wish come true, By some divine, eternal source, Beyond the vaults of endless blue: — ■ Forbid, O heaven, ambition's trend, To ask for wealth or fame or power, Or earthly pleasures, yea and friends To praise and pamper me each hour; A broader view illumes the soul That walks by faith and looks above, A wish, a longing, just to bring One soul to thee, O God of love. Logan. Utah SARAH E. MlTTON

WILL A WOMAN WAIT? A Story of Pioneer Life at the Copper Mines of Arizona By Mrs. Ruth S. Hilton "Of course I'm going away, and be quick about it," argued Robert Parry as he whirled a smooth pebble into the swirling waters of Silver Creek. "Measly, wicked, little stream," he muttered, feeling sure there was not a foot along its banks — from the source, far up the mountain above Prescott, to where it emptied into the mighty Verde off to the northeast — but had known disappointment. When the settlers would have water there was none, only a drizzling little stream over which the settlers squabbled, endeavoring to give drink to their thirsty acres; but when they builded dams and reservoirs to hold and control the precious drops, a terrific storm would ensue. Down would come the racing waters from the Ridge, as if an ocean had escaped its bounds, carrying dams, ditches, and even farms in its mad course. Last night the usual spring flood had reached its peak, repeating the old tragedy as it swept the entire waterworks of Yavapai down stream. Many times before the little village had faced similar crises, but fired by the spirit of the dauntless pioneers they had rebuilt stronger and better. Each time they were wiser, and now it was not so hard as it had been. For a few years they had known harvest time and they knew much more about controlling unruly streams, making ditches and wresting bread from the little patches of soil along Silver Creek. They knew much more than they dreamed of when, early in the "60's" less than a dozen families had headed the vanguard of civilization on the western frontier and camped on the site of Yavapai. Hence, when Mr. Parry laid a heavy hand on his boy's shoulder, the morning after the flood, he said slowly, "Guess it's a good thing you're goin', Bob. Be a man, won't you? Sometimes me and yer mother had almost hoped you'd give it up." "Why so?" came the spirited interrogation. "Oh, things' 11 be hard this season — new dam to build and so much ditch to — " "Yes, and that's why I'm going. For eleven years we've given all we had to give — can't be done. 'Tain't no farming country. Little patches of rocky soil next to the mountains — Bah! Tell you, I'm through." He spoke with all the impetuousness of his nineteen years. "But, son, things' 11 pick up soon." "Nonsense, Father."

WILL A WOMAN WAIT? 599 Mr. Parry gave a low whistle, he always did before giving his final word, rubbed the hard, brown hands briskly. "Yes, I know, but there's ore — ore, I tell you, in these ol' hills." Bob climbed the low log fence. Perched on top ready to slide off on the other side, but Mr. Parry continued, "Someone' 11 get it one o' these days, too. Then people' 11 come in by the hundreds, and the railroad, too." "Too much vision. I can't endure it. Settle down here like any common scrub? Not me! I'm going back to the states. I'll find some school; I'll find some work; I'll — I'll — " "I hope so." Slowly the old pioneer started for the house, hesi- tated a moment, then turned around to add: "Sorta wished, though, that you'd take up with some nice girl like Molly Crane, just stay and grow up with the country, cause it's bound to — " But Bob had jumped from the log fence and was hurrying away toward the creek. "I say, Bob, Molly's an unusual gal — she is," his father called as a finale. "Unusual — unusual," he repeated in no uncertain terms. No one knew that more distinctly than Bob did, but just now it rather irritated him. He would not settle down and stay at Yavapai. He must see the world. However, the thought persisted, so when he found a huge rock to sit on and plenty of smooth pebbles to throw into the stream; staring hard at the rushing eddies, he argued — "Of course, I'm going away." He was not afraid of Molly nor the moonlight, but he was afraid of himself, and so it was Molly who had caused him to hurry his plans for departure, since that last big dance and their commonplace good-bye. "The quicker, the better," he soliloquized. He had entertained a secret wonder, perhaps it almost amounted to hope, that Molly would care — just a little, when he left. But her broadest smile, and clear, unruffled, "Good luck to you," was all. "Well," he assured himself, "it's all right — just fine. So glad she don't care — 'cause then I might hate to go." It seemed ages to him, as he sat musing, since he first met Molly. Nine years is a long time to a boy of nineteen. He was only ten and she still younger. It was the big Harvest Ball. He must have a girl, all the fellows had. The auspicious occasion marked the autumn of their second y*3ar at Yavapai; however, Molly's parents had left the states over a year later than the first residents of Yavapai, hence the Cranes had been with them since the late spring only. Six weeks after their arrival, Mr. Crane was instantly killed while getting logs from the Ridge with which to complete their little cabin home. So, in a barren land among strangers, Mrs. Crane faced life with Molly. Folks don't remain strangers long in such places, however, for hardships strengthen

600 IMPROVEMENT ERA human ties, foster sympathy, and make partners in them closer than kith or kin. Bob still remembered the thrill the old log school house gave him as he thought of going there to a dance with all the "big folks." The school house was one low, log room in the center of the partially finished fort, which served for church, school, and recreation. He remembered, too, how he wondered if she would be home, or if she would smile and show her white teeth, as he shyly made his way toward the Crane cabin the afternoon of the great celebration. Just then he saw a bit of calico and a bright pink bonnet flit up the crude steps and disappear inside. How wildly his heart pounded. What on earth was the matter, he wasn't afraid, he — Bob Parry — not much! In spite of this self-assurance, his heart pounded more furiously than ever, as he jerked off an old rag cap and peered around the cabin door. "Hello, Bob, what do you want at a rag-bee?" called the bantering voice of Mrs. Joseph Hanks. And there, sure enough, sat a crowd of neighborly women. A real old fashioned rag-bee. What could he do? Bob felt his face grow redder and redder. He wanted to run, but run he could not. At last he did the only thing that could be done. Unconscious of the disheveled auburn hair, and muchly patched trousers, he turned to Mrs. Crane and slowly stammered, "I — I'd like to ask Molly to go to the dance." He heard a smothered titter go around the room. Then again that high pitched voice of Mrs. Hanks called out, "Well, there she is — go ask her." He could never tell just how he got to the corner where Molly sat, somewhat apart from her mother's guests, but once there he felt freer. "Say, Molly, I'm comin' to take you to the dance." "Not going." "Oh, sure you are. Everybody goes there, you know." "No, I'm not," then she turned her head away and stared hard at the chinking between the newly-hewn logs. She didn't want to hurt Bob, and she did want to go so very much. At last in an under- tone she stammered, "I just can't, Bob; I've got no shoes." "Oh, that don't matter. We're none o' the big folks yet. Lots o' the girls in our bunch go barefoot till nearly Christmas," came the prompt reply. "But I — just can't do it." For an instant the urchin was nonplused, then the grey eyes fairly popped. He leaned over and whispered in excited tones, "Mary Ann has an old pair I could fetch, shall I?" Molly's head dropped lower, and now she turned her back squarely upon him, but a foolish little smile played 'round her mouth, while Bob saw the bowed head slowly nod assent.

WILL A WOMAN WAIT? 601 He was off, and so contrived that even Mrs. Hanks failed to see or hear just how Molly got the shoes. "Got your candle ready," cried Bob as he rushed into Molly's house a full hour before dance time. Mrs. Crane answered for Molly. "Yes, Bob, she has one, but it's only a bit of braided rag with a button tied in the bottom and grease poured onto the plate, the contrivance your mother calls a sluff." "That's good 'nough. I got a dandy, though. Sidy tried to get. me to take a little half burnt one, but I traded it off to Mary Ann." "We're just out of wicking, so no candles can be made," replied Mrs. Crane. "Oh, Ma's havin' a new ball come in on the mail next week." There was no air service in those days, only the pony express which made semi-monthly runs between Albuquerque, New Mexico, and Prescott; passing enroute five or six such camps as Yavapai. The candle question was dropped as Molly slipped in — a really delightful little miss, with shining curls and soft brown eyes. Slipping closely up to Bob, she shyly whispered. "Didn't I fix 'em nice and black With soot from the old mud fire back?" Bob grinned approval at the little, stubby, black tip, put out for his inspection. "Come, children, I guess we just as well be off." Mrs. Crane wrapped a clean towel around the molasses cake as she picked it up — her share for the midnight refreshments. Already poor, blind Jim Stapely was seated on the orchestra's stool, squeaking on one string of an old fiddle. "Jes' tunin' up a bit," he was saying in a high-pitched, nasal voice. "Oh, there's Molly!" Little Lucy Gardner skipped across the floor to meet them at the door. Dan Naylor gave a piercing whistle, then bawled out, "And Bob's with 'er!" A group of rowdy youngsters now laughed and skipped and hop- ped in delight as they helped the new-comers to light and place their candle, each one eager to show which one he had contributed. "But won't it be nice and light, Mother, when they all get here," Molly clapped her hands in delight. "Come here, Bob, and hold that candle o' yourn so's I kin see where to put this string. Alus hafta break one," fairly shouted Stapely. "Oh, Jim, you couldn't see with the best of light." "Tut, tut, sonny. Come on and hold your candle close." Bob obeyed, but failed to light it. Instantly the string slipped into place. "There, what I tell yer," came the nasal rejoinder. The "tunin" continued while a titter was heard from the elders and a roar of laughter from the youngsters.

602 IMPROVEMENT ERA That was nine years ago, and during that time Bob had learned to face deserts, forests, floods, and Apaches alike. He had also learned that he didn't want to live forever in Yavapai. He was constantly telling Molly of the great things he would do out in the big world, some day. "Can't you see how silly it is for young people to just grow up here and get married? I'm going to see the world," he assured her. "I'm going to pioneer for future generations," retorted Molly promptly. He laughed outright. "Just like you, always thinking of the other fellow." Molly looked far away up over the Ridge. "Sure, and I wish you luck, but you know there's something grand about this wilderness. The fine old Ridge with its forest of pines — and — home — and just — good old Yavapai." "Pa talks like that, but he don't mind me wantin' to go, much." sj: ;Js >{: sjs sjc Now they were grown; his dream about to be realized. The big dance, just before the flood, was over. Did he wish it had not happened? Bob could not tell. The new dance hall was fine he thought. A rambling frame shack, much larger than the log school house. Sputtering coal-oil lamps' replaced the candle rows. Sheep pelts or salt pork each gent must pay for his ticket. Even the orchestra had changed. Old Stapely was assisted by two guitars. "Some music," shouted Bob from the side as Molly passed him in a graceful twirl of the old fashioned quadrille. "By Jove, she is pretty," he mused. Not a doll face, but a clear-cut, open countenance aglow with the enthusiasm of youth. The wavy, light hair, combed straight back from a high, white forehead, fell in tiny curls over the ears and ended in a loose knot on the neck. Her mouth, perhaps a little too large to pass the beauty critic, had a be- witching way of turning up at the corners, adding charm to her per- petual smile. The big, brown eyes, now gay, now serious, always full of understanding, looked everyone squarely in the face. She wore the most precious thing of her wardrobe — a simple, white muslin gown, obtained by great effort from the states. A dainty, frilled polonaise was caught up at each side with a tiny slip of light blue yarn. A heart-shaped locket hung around her throat. This had been her grandmother's. "How goes it?" interrogated Dan Naylor, with a slap on Bob's shoulders, which suddenly brought him out of his reveries. "Fine, yes, great party we're havin'." "Tell me yer leavin' ol' Yavapai fer good." "Perhaps, indefinitely anyway." "What for?" "A little bit of everything. I'll go to school, I'll make some money, I'll — "

WILL A WOMAN WAIT? 603 "Me'be you will." "No me'be about it. By the way, things'll be somewhat changed when I dance here again. There's Joe and Edith — they'll be married and their youngsters givin' us the rounds." "Edith and her Prescott fop," laughed Dan. "Yes — and you and Lucy, an' — " "Not so sure," prompted Dan. "Lucy's nice enough, I reckon, but so's Molly. Eh? — Don't like it, huh? I'll just dance with her for that." Dan broke out in a hoarse laugh. Gave one jump and two slides which brought him across the narrow hall where the girls were chatting happily. "Partners for the lancers," called the portly floor manager. Bob stared at Dan and Molly. "They do dance well together," he admitted. In this most exacting of dances, Molly had the spry sureness of the mountain squirrel, which she loved so much to watch when on those long, enchanting rides over the Ridge. Bob moved uneasily. "Dan could marry Lucy, and leave Molly alone. But Molly will get married some day." The thought was annoying. "Of course, she will. Well, why not? I'm goin' away anyhow." The party over, they paused an instant as Molly stepped onto the old log stile in front of her home. "O-o-o," she shivered, "I'm afraid it's going to rain." "Guess so, just time for the spring flood," Bob answered soberly. Molly pulled her course, home-knit shawl closer around her throat, shivered again; the moon peeped over the edge of a threatening cloud. Was it in the moon, Molly's shiver, or the clear sound of Dan's distant whistle? Bob never knew — he just knew that he wanted Molly. He took a step forward and would have caught her in his arms, but Molly was looking at the house and took another step up the log stile. Bob suddenly straightened, gathered but half of his usual poise, grasped both her hands warmly, like a much embarrassed school boy. "Oh, Molly, I — good-bye — you see, I'm going away." He left her on the run. "Oh, good-luck to you," she called in a surprised, but clear and steady tone. But as he turned the corner — out of sight — -the words died suddenly in a gasp. The shivering girl sank onto the logs, sobbing her disappointment out to the darkness. She had made a mistake. They were only friends, had always been such — but she thought — thought that he had felt something more. The threatening rain was coming in earnest when Molly finally grew calm. She must go to the house. She went, devoutly thankful for the solitude and the darkness. No one would ever know, she vowed. Calling herself a little fool she buried the dearest secret of her young life deep down in her heart, "So deep it can never get out," she kept saying over and over,

604 IMPROVEMENT ERA The rain came — so did the flood. The dam above Yavapai washed away, and Bob went off.. 3|c ^c # % s|s The solemn days, haunted by poverty, which followed, were more tedious to Molly because of her mother's failing health. The frail woman had proved no match for this western wilderness. She grew worse daily. Winter set in, cold and white. Molly was alone with her, gently chafing the cold hands. Mrs. Crane spoke slowly in a whisper, "It's about over, my girl. -Oh, how I hate to leave you alone." "It's all right, dear, all right. Just rest now — " came bravely. "But tell me, Molly, you'll marry Dan. Won't you? He loves you and has been so good to us." The girl turned away, bit her lips. Her fingers clutched the dying woman's hands feverishly. She could not reply. "Molly, dear, in such event I could be happy in going. And then — there might be some — babies, and you would be happy, too." Molly turned around. The tempest had passed. Tears flowed unheeded down her cheeks. "My own darling mother," she soothed, "don't worry over me. I'll try to live true to the womanhood you have taught me to know. True to myself, to love, to principle. I can't dishonor a friend by giving my hand without my heart. Yes, mother, I'll try — try — mother. Oh, mother, please — just one more word." She was excitedly weeping now. "Mother, oh, wake up and say you don't mind — for I — I can't." It was over. The grim reaper had called and taken her loved parent. Molly was weeping now uncontrollably kneeling by the crude four- posted bed, feverishly clasping the clayey hands, soothing the rigid brow. Winter — cold, icy winter — looked in through the one tiny win- dow. It seemed to freeze itself into her very soul and whisper, "Alone!" sf: % ^ ^ H1 "Ash Fork — Ash Fork. Change cars for Prescott, Phoenix, all points south," called the brakeman on the Los Angeles-Chicago Express of the Sante Fe. Robert Perry didn't need telling, however. Bag in hand he was ready long before the train was. Leaving the main line, he took the branch line for Prescott. About ten miles north of that place, he left the branch line for another branch line winding up through the hills to Jerome; a slow, dirty local which carried freight, copper, passengers, and provisions. "Hey, lad, pick me up." Bob shouted to the only visible vehicle around the lonely, deserted station at Jerome. "Fall in," came the answer from somewhere under a huge fur

WILL A WOMAN WAIT? 605 headgear. It was nearly midnight, and December weather at Jerome is cold. "Some local you folks use in these parts," growled Parry. "Why, I went out of this country fifteen years ago with a buckboard and two bronco mules, making better time than that thing made tonight." His companion merely grunted. Apparently the local was good enough for him. If he would not talk he could drive, so Parry abruptly ordered, "The best bed in town, and that in a hurry." "All right, sir, up at Naylor's. Know'd he's got them there 'lectric lights? Sure fine, I tell ye! Gid-dap — Very many o' us ain't got 'em yet. The company jes' put in a plant last summer." "Oh, did you say up to Naylor's?" querried the smooth voice of the traveler. "Sure, Dan Naylor, an old timer. Always lived here, I reckon," muttered the driver. "Say — wonder if Dan married Lucy?" quizzed Parry. "Wall, I'm not sure of the missus' name. Be you acquainted in these parts?" He surveyed his passenger a little more critically now. "Used to be. Fifteen years ago, last March, I knew most every rock on the old Ridge and every crook made by Silver Creek far down the valley," warmed Parry. "Yer did, fer sure?" "Don't know much tonight, though. Why Jerome has just 'sprung up' from nothing since then. Never dreamed of copper in those days," he assured himself more than he could the driver. "Whoa — Here we are, Mister." "At Naylor's?" querried Parry. "Course so," snapped the driver. Next morning Bob lost no time in hunting up the proprietor. "Wall, I'll be durned, if that isn't Bob Parry. Man alive, but you look good. Where did you come from? Whar you goin'? What on earth you doin' here? How long you reckon you'll stay?" Dan paused for breath. "Which one shall I answer first?" came the suave reply. "Don't mind any of 'em. Jes' shake and sit down a spell." Naylor gripped his hand in real western fashion. "And I'll ask the questions," suggested Bob. "You see since my father died, I haven't heard a word from this country, and that is a decade ago." "The story is short. They found some gold, then oodles of copper, which tells the whole yarn, I reckon." "But the papers told me that much. I want to know about you — the 'bunch' — and Yavapai, and Lucy. By the way, how's Lucy?" commented Bob. "Yes, sure, I married Lucy. Reckon that's what you wanted, eh?" "To be sure," came the prompt rejoinder.

606 IMPROVEMENT ERA "What of you, old man?'" queried Dan. "Not so bad. I've seen things good and plenty. Been up and down. Scraped up a nice little pile. Think I might invest in some copper," meditated Bob. "Got a family?" "No — none such. Haven't had time," Bob answered. "But say, how did this sudden growth of cities, railroads, etc., affect old Yavapai?" "Yavapai? Why man alive, there ain't no such place — jes' swallowed up. On the site there's a squalling town of several thou- sand families of the miners. They call it Scottsdale." Why Scottsdale?" put in Bob. "Oh, I reckon 'cause ol' Scott — ah — ah — I beg pardon — Samuel H. Scott, president of the company, owns the lights, the houses, the water, the telephone, the railroad. I reckon he 'bout owns the miners, too. Why not call it Scottsdale?" Bob made no reply. For years he had planned an illustrious return to Yavapai, and now they told him it had vanished. Was it too late? Where was Molly? Somehow he couldn't ask about her. Breakfast was announced and Bob went to the back, "Jes' to take a little snack with the family," as Dan put it. There was Lucy, much like the bright, jolly little girl he had known more than twenty years ago. And there he met the five young Naylors who took turns climbing over his knees, inspecting his pockets, and asking curious questions. Dan was evidently proud of his flock. He exhibited each one separately and then all collectively. "You said somethin' 'bout not havin' had time fer a family. But you see that's all I have had time for," he laughed good naturedly. Lucy laughed, too. "Don't matter how tired you git, one jes' has to keep laughin' long as there's five growin' youngsters 'round ye. What the kids can't think of — wal — I give up," she beamed. "The old town is swallowed, but what of our bunch?" Bob ventured again when they were seated around the table. 'They're scattered, here and there. S'pose most of 'em live at Scottsdale yet. Less than five miles from here, yer know." "The Hanks — Joe Warner and — ?" queried Bob. "Yes, Will Hanks was about the only pioneer in the valley that got hold of a slice of the copper pie. And Joe's married Edith, but she died, yer know. Purty hard on the ol' boy. And then there's Molly." Bob showed immediate interest. "Molly,' put in Lucy, "and I tell yer she's the sweetest thing on earth. There ain't a poor, sufferin' soul in the country but what' 11 swear by her." Bob was glowing. "What is it that makes her so thoroughly adorable?" This time, as though he were impatient to hear the story through.

WILL A WOMAN WAIT? 667 "Her life's work, as she calls it. I tell you she has a real job." Bob's face twitched. A hard line appeared around his mouth. His fork, half way between plate and mouth, suddenly became station- ary. For a moment he just stared at Lucy. "Her life's work," he repeated mentally, "of course, Molly was married." He could imagine her in no other form of life's work than home-making. However, Lucy paid no attention to the suspended fork, as she went on easily, "You see, it's Molly's way. Quite different from the rest of us. She's a charity specialist." The fork resumed action, the grey eyes lost their stare. You know, she's alive with sympathy. Understanding sym- pathy for the fellow that's all in." "But how — " "Kinda natural, I guess. You see, that winter after her mother died she just started nursin'. Seemed like she knew how better'n any- one 'round here. So sick folks wus mighty glad to git her. Next come the copper scare and people poured into the country by hundreds. Foreigners, easterners, workers, idlers, rich, and poor, were all huddled into one sufferin' heap. I tell you that much humanity comin' so quick in a new land made a real mess. Misery enough, 'specially the first few winters. The county, the church, all kinds of good folks, of course, was tryin' to help out. But somehow Molly jes' kept on in her own way until somehow she got kinda of an organization fixed up." The listening man was trying to see this woman as the slight girl of eighteen, when she stood on the old log stile, so many years ago. "Why," continued Lucy enthusiastically, "if the sad, the failures, the sick, the weary, haven't been relieved by her sweet presence, then this old world has never known relief. The things she kin do lor people are just great." "For instance?" put in Bob in a suspended breath. "Well, when poor Mrs. Zando went weeping to the county board of charities for support, declarin' that her children were starvin', it was Molly who took relief. But she didn't stop there — not much — she jes' hunted up the runaway man and found some way to reconcile 'em. Went time and time again to help Mrs. Zando to learn how to manage on a small income. She got the older son to work, and the children in school. In fact they're all together a respectable family now. Don't ask anybody for help." "Unusual little woman, did you say? Yes, that's just what I'm tellin' you. Sure, when Sally Bryant wus run out of her own parents home with her baby cause it didn't have a daddy, it wus Molly who found her work and a place where she could keep the baby? Keep it with her — learn to live for it. Made a woman out o' Sally. Now Molly's got a little girl of her own. 'Bout four years I reckon. Seems to be mighty happy and managin' right along in the same old way." Suddenly Bob felt sick. Then she is married, after all — of

608 IMPROVEMENT ERA course — and why not? But he realized now, though he had never admitted it even to himself, that Molly was behind his every wish to come west. Somehow he managed to get through the meal and im- mediately excused himself to the Naylors. "You'll call in soon — old man?" as Dan arose to see him off. "No — no — I'm afraid — I won't have time. I'm leaving on the midnight local." "Tonight! Why I thought you'd come to — " "Yes, I know. I'll look around a bit today. Powerfully glad to see you and Lucy as well as the fine youngsters." Dan stood still and stared after him for a full minute, then ob- served slowly, "Lucy, did you see how tired he looked?" "Some relief to be out in the open," Bob thought as he made his way to the long remembered Silver Creek. "I'll just follow the old trail over to Yavapai. The big stone below the curve won't be changed, grown, nor vanished anyway," he said, half aloud, then murmured something about a long time and preposterous dreaming. Lucy may have known something of the joy that came to Molly as a result of her work, but she never even guessed the real happiness which the beautiful little Marvel Wilson brought into her life. Molly was accustomed to being called to administer relief of all sorts, but it was quite different when one Mrs. Wilson sent for her to come to Jerome. Mrs. Wilson was sick, in fact, dying. Her first greeting to Molly was that she differed from common charity clients. She didn't want money, she just wanted Molly, herself, to give her time and devotion to a tiny baby girl only two day's old. Alone, in a lonely land, the mother failed to drop one hint of her life or reason for being in Jerome. "You see, Miss Crane," she gasped, "I'll leave what money I have. It will keep her a little while. Here is a letter to my mother." Molly took the proffered missive. It bore an address in Phila- delphia. The gasping woman went on, "Either she or Mr. Wilson, my baby's father, will come for her. Oh, God grant it — -yes, I know they will. You'll keep her? Promise me — won't — " Molly promised, and she, who had ministered to the dying in a myriad of life's ways, never saw a face so full of tender gratitude, as that stranger mother understood her promise. Next evening found Molly with a new born infant at her little room in Scottsdale. In front of the huge old fireplace she warmed and fed the tiny mite. A radiance of motherly light filled the soft brown eyes as she cuddled the little bundle closer to her. "Oh, glory of glories," she murmured. Then she patted the soft, downy hair, ex- amined the perfect little ears, the beautiful curved chin, and kissed the tiny, red fist, beating aimlessly at the air, time and time again. "So

WILL A WOMAN WAIT? 609 helpless, but so very lovely." She caressed the softest of cheeks. It could not even smile; could not turn or raise its tiny head, but it could look at her. The wonder of those big, bright, angelic eyes seemed as if the spirit of its whole being was urging expression and found but one way open, that of the eyes. ' 'Celestial orbs of loveliness,' 'Joy untold,' and why not?" Molly soliloquized. Why hadn't she though of it before. Her friends all had babies. Why, Lucy had five! Of course, true love, home, and babies all go together, but if it does all come well — well — -, "I've got a really new baby tonight anyway," she said aloud. Again that glorious pressure of the little form against her bosom. Thus it was that little Marvel grew- — grew into the life of Molly Crane, fastening her fairy- like self around the very heart strings of the lonely woman. Letters were exchanged with the baby's people in Pennsylvania, money was sent for her keep, but she was being well cared for and if Miss Crane wished it, they would postpone coming after her. So wrote the grandmother. Then the time came when Molly began to think that Marvel was really always going to be with her, except a very occasional feeling that would grip her and almost choke. "What if they should suddenly send for her — impossible!" With a real effort she always dismissed the thought. She grew gayer, and Molly declared "even younger" as she romped, told stories, and played with the growing baby. All the neighbors heard how Marvel came teasing, "Nanty, dear, please some more meats dat look like sweet potatoes," after a picnic where they had roasted "hot dogs," and how she looked longingly at a picture of Black Beauty, then cried "Come out, hossie, come out." Hence, when a telephone call told Molly that Mr. Wilson was in Jerome and coming to get his four-year-old daughter, Molly was wholly unprepared. Her face turned ashen pale, the world seemed to whirl around her. "Yes, Mr. Wilson — of course — come — oh — " hoarsely whispered Molly into the 'phone. "Tell her I'm coming, so not to shock the child. Have her ready in the morning," came the decided reply. For once in Molly's life she couldn't speak. The receiver dropped with a jerk. She never knew how she got into the old rocker, or later prepared Marvel for bed, but she could remember seeing the gowned little figure kneeling by a low, white cot praying, "Oh, dear Lord, bless 'Nanty dear' and make her laugh again. Amen." Marvel slept, but Molly kneeled by the old rocker before an open door gazing out into the darkness of a chilly autumn night. "Don't let him come," she prayed as she beat frenzied fingers into the wool cushioned seat. However, he came, explaining that Marvel had a good home and a good family awaiting her and her education must be cared for. "Very grateful to Miss Crane, of course." So they left her and in the hour?

610 IMPROVEMENT ERA of bitterness that followed, when alone before the fire where they had enjoyed their evening play, Molly would cry until weary, then sigh, "Oh, my baby, my own little girl!" the very flames seemed to mock her as the reply flashed at her, "No, not yours. You were only a hired caretaker — nurse for someone else's child." Why couldn't she forget that she had been paid to lavish all the devotion of her mother heart on that orphan child? % sfc s|c % %: With winter severe and cold, and then the approach of Christmas, Molly found more and more to do in her work of relief, but try as she would, she could not forget the beautiful love and companionship of a child that had been hers. This day it seemed harder than ever. Tomorrow was the great world-wide holiday. Who would play Santa to her baby? She was hurrying toward the office, there was a few more boxes to be sent out before evening; two more calls to make, then she would be alone to her own Christmas time. A familiar voice rang out clearly: "Hello, Molly, don't you know me?" Know the voice? Why she couldn't forget it, but such was impossible. However, there he was. Before her stood Bob Parry, a broad grin covered his face. He was obviously glad to see her. Molly was glad, too, but she was a girl no longer. Long since she had learned to speak calmly over tumult. It seemed to the waiting man that she pulled herself a wee bit higher and away from him, but genially she took the proffered hand. "Why, Bob — Parry! I'm right glad to see you. How comes it that you are here?" She noticed he wore the clothes and appearance of a muchly traveled man. His accent also told that he was a stranger in the copper belt. He was older, too, than her mental picture of him, and he wore a mustache, but the grey eyes had the old familiar twinkle. "And pray, tell us where you've been and how you do," she finished. "Not much, just now. Looking up the folks I used to know, and here I find you." "Good," she said coolly, trying to hide her excitement. "I've been waiting all these years to get another look at old Yavapai, — and — now she's gone." "No, not gone exactly. Just grown up. However, there is still something fine and enticing in our great, open west." "Well, let's go, wherever you're going for I am going along," he commented easily as she started on and he fell into step. Then a stifling silence fell. Neither seemed to have anything to say. Bob asked a few questions which Molly answered in monosyllables, then con- versation ceased. Bob just stared and stared again. "So this is Molly?" he mused, "wonderfully changed Molly." Her manner was naive; her dress simple. She had the step and poise

WILL A WOMAN WAIT? 611 of true culture, while a look into the open face showed that she knew life, and understood it. His blank stare changed to a longing gaze of admiration. Molly was conscious that he watched her, but was beset with but one emotion almost uncontrollable. How she longed to tell him of Marvel. Just to sit down — right there — anywhere — and sob out the story of her lost baby. But how could she? Not there, anyway. Then a new thought almost choked her. She could not tell him anywhere. He would not understand — she just knew he wouldn't. "But Marvel was my own — wasn't she?" Molly bit her lips, she had uttered the last few words aloud. Bob shot a look of inquiry. "Why, yes, but it's this way, Bob," the womans eyes were glistening with tears now. She gave a quick, appealing look at her listener. "Ive lost my baby, my own little girl." Bob looked dumbfounded. What could he do? Take the sad little woman in his arms and comfort her? "Horrors! What a thought!" he chided. At last stammering, "There — there — " Then with regained ease, he continued, "Why, yes, I heard about her — " "You knew she was gone, then?" "No — no — just that you had a child." "Had one, yes, for four long, happy years, we've lived, laughed, and loved together — and now she's gone!" "I see — urn—" clearing his throat. Molly was calm now, but she felt a dull heartache. Had he changed so very much that he couldn't even sympathize in her sor- row? she wondered vaguely. They were approaching the business district now. People — package-laden — hurried to and fro getting in their last touches of Christmas shopping. Gaily tinted toy windows, trees and tinsel; laughing boys and girls in all directions. A bundle of fluffy whiteness skipped past them. Now it turned, white fur from head to foot, exposing only a pair of sparkling blue eyes, a tiny nose, and red baby lips puckered as to speak. Just one glance, then the little miss danced off like a fairy right in front of the grotesque-looking Santa Claus as he dingled a bell over a pot of small coins. She pulled him down to her, whispered something in the mask-like ear, clapped her hands in glee and was gone. "Who will play Santa Claus to my little girl?" breathed Molly half aloud. "Santa! Why — er — you said she was dead," came the surprised answer. "No — no! ! Not that. She's gone. They took her away." "They? Who's 'they'?" "Oh, that man — that Mr. Wilson. Her father took her to Pennsylvania." Bob rubbed his hand across his forehead. "That man," he echoed, "Molly, wasn't she really yours? Aren't you — married?" "Her mother was one of my clients — that's all. But I loved

612 IMPROVEMENT ERA the baby, because — er— I wanted a baby of my very own." Molly's eyes drooped. Then she turned her head. Midday, surrounded by jostling crowds. "Unusual," thought Bob, "but Molly is always so." An ethereal light shone from his eyes. This was the end of his waiting — waiting for what he had not known — right here in old Yavapai. He took both Molly's hands in his own; just one instant their eyes met. Quickly he drew one step closer and whispered, "H-o-m-e." Bob threw back his shoulders, lifted his chin, took two long strides forward, then slowed down to Molly's pace again. "Molly — Molly — there's a bishop in the next block — come — won't you? And — and — we'll be home for Christmas — tomorrow." Salt Lake City, Utah Lost River, Idaho. Dropping a rock into the bottomless pit, "Crater of the Moon.