Andrew the Glad

He dodged just in time to escape the lighted pipe that was hurled upon

him, and he couldn't have suspected that a hastily-formed plan to place

himself opposite Caroline Darrah had gone up in the smoke that followed

the death of life in Andrew's pipe.

Then following the urgent instructions of David, Andrew began to right up

the papers in his den which opened off the living-room. His desk was

littered with manuscript, for the three days past had been golden ones

and he had written under a strong impetus. The thought suddenly shot

through him that he had been writing as he had once read, to eyes whose

"depths on depths of luster" had misted and glowed and answered as he

turned his pages in the twilight. Can ice in a man's breast burn like

fire? Andrew crushed the sheets and thrust them into a drawer.

Then came Eph and the cook to lay the cloth in the dining-room, and a man

brought up the flowers. For a time he worked away with a strange

excitement in his veins.

When they had finished and he was alone in the apartment he walked slowly

through the rooms. Where David happened to keep his household gods had

been home to Andrew for many years. His books were in the dark Flemish

oak cases and some of the prints on the walls were his. Most of the rugs

he had picked up in his travels upon which his commissions led him, and

some interesting skins had been added since his jungle experiences. It

was all dark and rich and right-toned--the home of a gentleman. And David

was like the rooms, right-toned and clean.

Andrew found himself wondering if there would be men like David in the

next generation, happy David with his cavalier nature and modern wit. The

steady stream of wealth that was pouring into the South, down her

mountain sides and welling up under her pasture lands, would it bring in

its train death to the purity and sanity of her social institutions?

Would swollen fortunes bring congestion of standards and grossness of

morals? Suddenly he smiled for Billy Bob and Milly and a lot of the

industrious young folks seemed to answer him. He had found eleven little

new cousins on the scene of action when he had returned after five

years--clear-eyed young Anglo-Americans, ready to take charge of the

future.

And he, what was his place in the building of his native city? His

trained intelligence, his wide experience, his genius were being given to

cutting a canal thousands of miles away while the streets of his own home

were being cut up and undermined by half-trained bunglers. The beautiful

forest suburbs were being planned and plotted by money-mad schemers who

neither pre-visioned, nor cared to, the city of the future which was to

be a great gateway of the nation to its Panama world-artery. He knew how

to value the force of a man of his kind, with his reputation and

influence, and he would gage just what he would be able to do for the

city with the municipal backing he could command if he set his shoulder

to the wheel.