John’s Arrival

Carlisle Street runs westward from the centre of Johnstown, across a great black bridge, down a hill and up again, by little shops and meat-markets, past single-storied homes, until suddenly it stops against a wide green lawn. It is a broad, restful place, with two large buildings outlined against the west. When at evening the winds come swelling from the east, and the great pall of the city’s smoke hangs wearily above the valley, then the red west glows like a dreamland down Carlisle Street, and, at the tolling of the supper-bell, throws the passing forms of students in dark silhouette against the sky. Tall and black, they move slowly by, and seem in the sinister light to flit before the city like dim warning ghosts. Perhaps they are; for this is Wells Institute, and these black students have few dealings with the white city below.

Carlisle Street runs west from the center of Johnstown, across a great black bridge, downhill and up again. It passes little shops and meat markets, then single-story homes, until it suddenly ends at a wide green lawn. The lawn is broad and peaceful, with two large buildings standing against the western sky. In the evening, when winds swell from the east, the city’s heavy blanket of smoke hangs wearily above the valley. Then the red western sky glows like a dreamland down Carlisle Street. As the supper bell rings, the glow casts the passing students as dark silhouettes against the sky. Tall and Black, the students move slowly past. In the sinister light, they seem to drift before the city like faint ghosts bearing a warning. Perhaps they are, for this is Wells Institute, and these Black students have little contact with the white city below.

And if you will notice, night after night, there is one dark form that ever hurries last and late toward the twinkling lights of Swain Hall,—for Jones is never on time. A long, straggling fellow he is, brown and hard-haired, who seems to be growing straight out of his clothes, and walks with a half-apologetic roll. He used perpetually to set the quiet dining-room into waves of merriment, as he stole to his place after the bell had tapped for prayers; he seemed so perfectly awkward. And yet one glance at his face made one forgive him much,—that broad, good-natured smile in which lay no bit of art or artifice, but seemed just bubbling good-nature and genuine satisfaction with the world.

And if you watch, night after night, one dark figure always hurries toward the twinkling lights of Swain Hall. He comes last and late, for Jones is never on time. He is tall and lanky, with brown skin and coarse hair, and seems to be outgrowing his clothes. He walks with a rolling, almost apologetic gait. He used to send waves of laughter through the quiet dining room whenever he slipped into his seat after the prayer bell. He seemed so utterly awkward. And yet one look at his face made you forgive him a great deal. His broad, good-natured smile held no trace of pretense or deception. Instead, his smile seemed to bubble over with good nature and genuine satisfaction with the world.

He came to us from Altamaha, away down there beneath the gnarled oaks of Southeastern Georgia, where the sea croons to the sands and the sands listen till they sink half drowned beneath the waters, rising only here and there in long, low islands. The white folk of Altamaha voted John a good boy,—fine plough-hand, good in the rice-fields, handy everywhere, and always good-natured and respectful. But they shook their heads when his mother wanted to send him off to school. “It’ll spoil him,—ruin him,” they said; and they talked as though they knew. But full half the black folk followed him proudly to the station, and carried his queer little trunk and many bundles. And there they shook and shook hands, and the girls kissed him shyly and the boys clapped him on the back. So the train came, and he pinched his little sister lovingly, and put his great arms about his mother’s neck, and then was away with a puff and a roar into the great yellow world that flamed and flared about the doubtful pilgrim. Up the coast they hurried, past the squares and palmettos of Savannah, through the cotton-fields and through the weary night, to Millville, and came with the morning to the noise and bustle of Johnstown.

He came to us from Altamaha, far down beneath the twisted oaks of Southeastern Georgia. There the sea sings softly to the sands, and the sands listen until they sink half drowned beneath the water. Only here and there do the sands rise in long, low islands. The white people of Altamaha considered John a good boy. He was skilled at plowing, good in the rice fields, useful everywhere, and always good-natured and respectful. But the white people shook their heads when his mother wanted to send him away to school. “It’ll spoil him, ruin him,” they said, and spoke as though they knew. But fully half the black people proudly followed John to the station, carrying his odd little trunk and many bundles. There they shook his hand again and again. The girls kissed him shyly, and the boys clapped him on the back. Then the train came, and John gave his little sister a loving pinch and wrapped his great arms around his mother’s neck. Then, with a puff and a roar, he was off into the great yellow world. It blazed and flared around the uncertain pilgrim. The train hurried up the coast, past Savannah’s squares and palmettos, through the cotton fields and the weary night to Millville. With the morning, they reached the noise and bustle of Johnstown.

And they that stood behind, that morning in Altamaha, and watched the train as it noisily bore playmate and brother and son away to the world, had thereafter one ever-recurring word,—“When John comes.” Then what parties were to be, and what speakings in the churches; what new furniture in the front room,—perhaps even a new front room; and there would be a new schoolhouse, with John as teacher; and then perhaps a big wedding; all this and more—when John comes. But the white people shook their heads.

That morning in Altamaha, those left behind watched the noisy train carry their playmate, brother, and son into the world. Afterward, they kept repeating one phrase: “When John comes.” What parties there would be, and what speeches in the churches! There would be new furniture in the front room, perhaps even a new front room. And there would be a new schoolhouse, with John as teacher. Then perhaps a big wedding would follow. All this and more would happen when John came. But the white people shook their heads.

At first he was coming at Christmas-time,—but the vacation proved too short; and then, the next summer,—but times were hard and schooling costly, and so, instead, he worked in Johnstown. And so it drifted to the next summer, and the next,—till playmates scattered, and mother grew gray, and sister went up to the Judge’s kitchen to work. And still the legend lingered,—“When John comes.”

At first he planned to come at Christmas, but the vacation turned out to be too short. Then he planned to come the next summer. But times were hard and school was expensive, so he worked in Johnstown instead. And so his return slipped to the next summer, and the next. His childhood friends scattered, his mother grew gray, and his sister went to work in the Judge’s kitchen. And still the legend lived on: “When John comes.”

Up at the Judge’s they rather liked this refrain; for they too had a John—a fair-haired, smooth-faced boy, who had played many a long summer’s day to its close with his darker namesake. “Yes, sir! John is at Princeton, sir,” said the broad-shouldered gray-haired Judge every morning as he marched down to the post-office. “Showing the Yankees what a Southern gentleman can do,” he added; and strode home again with his letters and papers. Up at the great pillared house they lingered long over the Princeton letter,—the Judge and his frail wife, his sister and growing daughters. “It’ll make a man of him,” said the Judge, “college is the place.” And then he asked the shy little waitress, “Well, Jennie, how’s your John?” and added reflectively, “Too bad, too bad your mother sent him off—it will spoil him.” And the waitress wondered.

At the Judge’s house, they rather liked this refrain, for they too had a John. He was a fair-haired boy with a smooth face. He had spent many long summer days playing until evening with the darker boy who shared his name. “Yes, sir! John is at Princeton, sir,” the broad-shouldered, gray-haired Judge said every morning as he marched to the post office. “Showing the Yankees what a Southern gentleman can do,” he added. Then he strode home with his letters and newspapers. At the grand house with its pillars, the family spent a long time reading the letter from Princeton. The Judge, his frail wife, his sister, and his growing daughters all lingered over the letter. “College will make a man of him,” said the Judge. “College is the place.” Then he asked the shy young waitress, “Well, Jennie, how’s your John?” He added thoughtfully, “Too bad, too bad your mother sent him away. College will spoil him.” And the waitress wondered.

Thus in the far-away Southern village the world lay waiting, half consciously, the coming of two young men, and dreamed in an inarticulate way of new things that would be done and new thoughts that all would think. And yet it was singular that few thought of two Johns,—for the black folk thought of one John, and he was black; and the white folk thought of another John, and he was white. And neither world thought the other world’s thought, save with a vague unrest.

So in the distant Southern village, the world waited, only half aware, for two young men to arrive. It dreamed, without finding words, of new things people would do and new thoughts all would think. Yet strangely, few thought of two Johns. The black people thought of one John, and he was black. The white people thought of another John, and he was white. And neither world shared the other world’s thoughts, except through a vague uneasiness.

Up in Johnstown, at the Institute, we were long puzzled at the case of John Jones. For a long time the clay seemed unfit for any sort of moulding. He was loud and boisterous, always laughing and singing, and never able to work consecutively at anything. He did not know how to study; he had no idea of thoroughness; and with his tardiness, carelessness, and appalling good-humor, we were sore perplexed. One night we sat in faculty-meeting, worried and serious; for Jones was in trouble again. This last escapade was too much, and so we solemnly voted “that Jones, on account of repeated disorder and inattention to work, be suspended for the rest of the term.”

Up in Johnstown, at the Institute, we were puzzled for a long time by the case of John Jones. For a long time, the clay seemed impossible to shape into anything. He was loud and boisterous, always laughing and singing, and never able to work steadily at anything. He did not know how to study. He had no idea how to do anything thoroughly. His lateness, carelessness, and maddening good humor left us deeply puzzled. One night we sat in a faculty meeting, worried and serious, because Jones was in trouble again. His latest escapade was too much, so we solemnly voted “that Jones, because of repeated disorderly behavior and neglect of his work, be suspended for the rest of the term.”

It seemed to us that the first time life ever struck Jones as a really serious thing was when the Dean told him he must leave school. He stared at the gray-haired man blankly, with great eyes. “Why,—why,” he faltered, “but—I haven’t graduated!” Then the Dean slowly and clearly explained, reminding him of the tardiness and the carelessness, of the poor lessons and neglected work, of the noise and disorder, until the fellow hung his head in confusion. Then he said quickly, “But you won’t tell mammy and sister,—you won’t write mammy, now will you? For if you won’t I’ll go out into the city and work, and come back next term and show you something.” So the Dean promised faithfully, and John shouldered his little trunk, giving neither word nor look to the giggling boys, and walked down Carlisle Street to the great city, with sober eyes and a set and serious face.

It seemed to us that Jones first took life seriously when the Dean told him he had to leave school. He stared blankly at the gray-haired man, his eyes wide. “Why, why,” he stammered, “but I haven’t graduated!” Then the Dean explained slowly and clearly. He reminded Jones of his lateness and carelessness, his poor lessons and neglected work, his noise and disorder. At last, Jones hung his head in confusion. Then he said quickly, “But you won’t tell Mammy and my sister, will you? You won’t write to Mammy, will you? Because if you won’t, I’ll go into the city and work. Then I’ll come back next term and show you something.” So the Dean gave his solemn promise, and John lifted his little trunk onto his shoulder. Without a word or a glance at the giggling boys, he walked down Carlisle Street toward the great city. His eyes were sober, and his face was set and serious.

Perhaps we imagined it, but someway it seemed to us that the serious look that crept over his boyish face that afternoon never left it again. When he came back to us he went to work with all his rugged strength. It was a hard struggle, for things did not come easily to him,—few crowding memories of early life and teaching came to help him on his new way; but all the world toward which he strove was of his own building, and he builded slow and hard. As the light dawned lingeringly on his new creations, he sat rapt and silent before the vision, or wandered alone over the green campus peering through and beyond the world of men into a world of thought. And the thoughts at times puzzled him sorely; he could not see just why the circle was not square, and carried it out fifty-six decimal places one midnight,—would have gone further, indeed, had not the matron rapped for lights out. He caught terrible colds lying on his back in the meadows of nights, trying to think out the solar system; he had grave doubts as to the ethics of the Fall of Rome, and strongly suspected the Germans of being thieves and rascals, despite his textbooks; he pondered long over every new Greek word, and wondered why this meant that and why it couldn’t mean something else, and how it must have felt to think all things in Greek. So he thought and puzzled along for himself,—pausing perplexed where others skipped merrily, and walking steadily through the difficulties where the rest stopped and surrendered.

Perhaps we imagined it, but somehow we felt the serious look that crossed his boyish face that afternoon never left. When he came back to us, he went to work with all his rough strength. The struggle was hard, for learning did not come easily to him. Few memories of his early life and schooling came to help him along this new path. But the whole world he was striving toward was one he built himself, slowly and with great effort. As understanding slowly dawned on what he had created, he sat silent, absorbed in the vision. Or he wandered alone across the green campus, looking through and beyond the world of people into a world of thought. And sometimes those thoughts deeply puzzled him. He could not see just why the circle was not square. One midnight, he carried his calculations to fifty-six decimal places. He would have gone further if the matron had not knocked to signal lights out. He caught terrible colds lying on his back in the meadows at night, trying to work out the solar system. He had serious doubts about the ethics of the Fall of Rome. Despite his textbooks, he strongly suspected the Germans of being thieves and scoundrels. He thought long about every new Greek word, wondering why each word meant one thing and could not mean another. And he wondered how it must have felt to think everything in Greek. So he kept thinking and puzzling things out for himself. He paused in confusion where others skipped along cheerfully. And he walked steadily through difficulties where the others stopped and gave up.

Thus he grew in body and soul, and with him his clothes seemed to grow and arrange themselves; coat sleeves got longer, cuffs appeared, and collars got less soiled. Now and then his boots shone, and a new dignity crept into his walk. And we who saw daily a new thoughtfulness growing in his eyes began to expect something of this plodding boy. Thus he passed out of the preparatory school into college, and we who watched him felt four more years of change, which almost transformed the tall, grave man who bowed to us commencement morning. He had left his queer thought-world and come back to a world of motion and of men. He looked now for the first time sharply about him, and wondered he had seen so little before. He grew slowly to feel almost for the first time the Veil that lay between him and the white world; he first noticed now the oppression that had not seemed oppression before, differences that erstwhile seemed natural, restraints and slights that in his boyhood days had gone unnoticed or been greeted with a laugh. He felt angry now when men did not call him “Mister,” he clenched his hands at the “Jim Crow” cars, and chafed at the color-line that hemmed in him and his. A tinge of sarcasm crept into his speech, and a vague bitterness into his life; and he sat long hours wondering and planning a way around these crooked things. Daily he found himself shrinking from the choked and narrow life of his native town. And yet he always planned to go back to Altamaha,—always planned to work there. Still, more and more as the day approached he hesitated with a nameless dread; and even the day after graduation he seized with eagerness the offer of the Dean to send him North with the quartette during the summer vacation, to sing for the Institute. A breath of air before the plunge, he said to himself in half apology.

So he grew in body and soul, and his clothes seemed to grow and fall into place with him. His coat sleeves grew longer, cuffs appeared, and his collars became less dirty. Now and then his boots shone, and a new dignity entered his walk. We saw a new thoughtfulness growing in his eyes each day and began to expect something of this slow, steady boy. So he moved from preparatory school into college. We watched him change over four more years. Those changes almost transformed the tall, serious man who bowed to us on graduation morning. He had left his strange world of thought and returned to a world of action and people. For the first time, he looked closely around him and wondered why he had seen so little before. Slowly, almost for the first time, he began to feel the Veil between him and the white world. He now noticed oppression that had not seemed like oppression before. He noticed differences that had once seemed natural, and restrictions and insults he had overlooked or laughed at as a boy. Now he felt angry when men did not call him “Mister.” He clenched his fists at the “Jim Crow” railroad cars and resented the color-line that confined him and his people. A touch of sarcasm entered his speech, and a vague bitterness entered his life. He sat for long hours wondering and planning how to find a way around these injustices. Each day he found himself pulling away from the stifling, narrow life of his hometown. And yet he always planned to return to Altamaha, always planned to work there. Still, as the day drew nearer, he hesitated more and more, filled with a dread he could not name. Even the day after graduation, he eagerly accepted the Dean’s offer to send him North with the quartet that summer. They would sing for the Institute during summer vacation. A breath of air before the plunge, he told himself, almost apologetically.

It was a bright September afternoon, and the streets of New York were brilliant with moving men. They reminded John of the sea, as he sat in the square and watched them, so changelessly changing, so bright and dark, so grave and gay. He scanned their rich and faultless clothes, the way they carried their hands, the shape of their hats; he peered into the hurrying carriages. Then, leaning back with a sigh, he said, “This is the World.” The notion suddenly seized him to see where the world was going; since many of the richer and brighter seemed hurrying all one way. So when a tall, light-haired young man and a little talkative lady came by, he rose half hesitatingly and followed them. Up the street they went, past stores and gay shops, across a broad square, until with a hundred others they entered the high portal of a great building.

It was a bright September afternoon, and New York’s streets shone with men on the move. As John sat in the square watching them, they reminded him of the sea. The crowd was always changing yet always the same, so bright and dark, so serious and cheerful. He studied their fine, flawless clothes, the way they held their hands, and the shapes of their hats. He peered into the passing carriages. Then he leaned back with a sigh and said, “This is the World.” Suddenly he felt an urge to see where the world was going. Many of the richer, more brightly dressed people seemed to be hurrying in the same direction. So when a tall, light-haired young man and a small, talkative woman passed, John got up, hesitated, and followed them. They went up the street, past stores and lively shops, and across a broad square. Then, along with a hundred others, they entered a great building through its tall doorway.

He was pushed toward the ticket-office with the others, and felt in his pocket for the new five-dollar bill he had hoarded. There seemed really no time for hesitation, so he drew it bravely out, passed it to the busy clerk, and received simply a ticket but no change. When at last he realized that he had paid five dollars to enter he knew not what, he stood stockstill amazed. “Be careful,” said a low voice behind him; “you must not lynch the colored gentleman simply because he’s in your way,” and a girl looked up roguishly into the eyes of her fair-haired escort. A shade of annoyance passed over the escort’s face. “You will not understand us at the South,” he said half impatiently, as if continuing an argument. “With all your professions, one never sees in the North so cordial and intimate relations between white and black as are everyday occurrences with us. Why, I remember my closest playfellow in boyhood was a little Negro named after me, and surely no two,—well!” The man stopped short and flushed to the roots of his hair, for there directly beside his reserved orchestra chairs sat the Negro he had stumbled over in the hallway. He hesitated and grew pale with anger, called the usher and gave him his card, with a few peremptory words, and slowly sat down. The lady deftly changed the subject.

He was pushed toward the ticket office with the others and felt in his pocket for the new five-dollar bill he had saved. There really seemed to be no time to hesitate. So he bravely pulled out the bill and handed it to the busy clerk, who gave him only a ticket, without change. At last he realized he had paid five dollars to enter something he knew nothing about. He stood completely still, astonished. “Be careful,” said a quiet voice behind him. “You must not lynch the colored gentleman simply because he’s in your way.” A girl looked up mischievously into the eyes of her fair-haired escort. A hint of annoyance crossed the escort’s face. “You will not understand us in the South,” he said with some impatience, as if continuing an argument. “Despite all your claims, you never see such warm and close relations between white and black people in the North. Those relations are everyday occurrences with us. Why, I remember my closest childhood playmate was a little Negro named after me. And surely no two, well!” The man stopped short and blushed to the roots of his hair. Right beside his reserved seats in the orchestra section sat the Negro he had stumbled over in the hallway. He hesitated and turned pale with anger. He called the usher and handed him his card with a few sharp commands, then slowly sat down. The lady skillfully changed the subject.

All this John did not see, for he sat in a half-daze minding the scene about him; the delicate beauty of the hall, the faint perfume, the moving myriad of men, the rich clothing and low hum of talking seemed all a part of a world so different from his, so strangely more beautiful than anything he had known, that he sat in dreamland, and started when, after a hush, rose high and clear the music of Lohengrin’s swan. The infinite beauty of the wail lingered and swept through every muscle of his frame, and put it all a-tune. He closed his eyes and grasped the elbows of the chair, touching unwittingly the lady’s arm. And the lady drew away. A deep longing swelled in all his heart to rise with that clear music out of the dirt and dust of that low life that held him prisoned and befouled. If he could only live up in the free air where birds sang and setting suns had no touch of blood! Who had called him to be the slave and butt of all? And if he had called, what right had he to call when a world like this lay open before men?

John saw none of this, for he sat half-dazed, taking in the scene around him. The hall’s delicate beauty, the faint perfume, the crowds moving about, the rich clothes, and the quiet hum of conversation surrounded him. All seemed part of a world so different from his, so strangely more beautiful than anything he had known. He sat as if in a dream. Then a hush fell, and he startled as the music of Lohengrin’s swan rose high and clear. The endless beauty of that mournful sound lingered and swept through every muscle of his body, bringing all into harmony. He closed his eyes and gripped the chair’s armrests, unknowingly touching the lady’s arm. And the lady pulled away. A deep longing filled his heart to rise with that clear music above the dirt and dust of his lowly life. That life held him prisoner and left him stained. If only he could live high in the free air, where birds sang and sunsets had no touch of blood! Who had called him to be everyone’s slave and the target of everyone’s mockery? And if someone had called him, what right had he to call when a world like this lay open before men?

Then the movement changed, and fuller, mightier harmony swelled away. He looked thoughtfully across the hall, and wondered why the beautiful gray-haired woman looked so listless, and what the little man could be whispering about. He would not like to be listless and idle, he thought, for he felt with the music the movement of power within him. If he but had some master-work, some life-service, hard,—aye, bitter hard, but without the cringing and sickening servility, without the cruel hurt that hardened his heart and soul. When at last a soft sorrow crept across the violins, there came to him the vision of a far-off home, the great eyes of his sister, and the dark drawn face of his mother. And his heart sank below the waters, even as the sea-sand sinks by the shores of Altamaha, only to be lifted aloft again with that last ethereal wail of the swan that quivered and faded away into the sky.

Then the movement changed, and a fuller, mightier harmony swelled. He looked thoughtfully across the hall. He wondered why the beautiful gray-haired woman looked so listless, and what the little man could be whispering about. He would not want to be listless and idle, he thought. With the music, he felt power stirring within him. If only he had some great work to do, some way to devote his life to service. The work could be hard, yes, bitterly hard, but free of groveling and sickening submission. Free of the cruel hurt that hardened his heart and soul. When at last a soft sorrow crept through the violins, he saw a vision of a distant home. He saw his sister’s large eyes and his mother’s dark, drawn face. And his heart sank beneath the waters, just as the sea-sand sinks along the shores of Altamaha. Then his heart rose again with the swan’s final, otherworldly cry, which trembled and faded away into the sky.

It left John sitting so silent and rapt that he did not for some time notice the usher tapping him lightly on the shoulder and saying politely, “Will you step this way, please, sir?” A little surprised, he arose quickly at the last tap, and, turning to leave his seat, looked full into the face of the fair-haired young man. For the first time the young man recognized his dark boyhood playmate, and John knew that it was the Judge’s son. The White John started, lifted his hand, and then froze into his chair; the black John smiled lightly, then grimly, and followed the usher down the aisle. The manager was sorry, very, very sorry,—but he explained that some mistake had been made in selling the gentleman a seat already disposed of; he would refund the money, of course,—and indeed felt the matter keenly, and so forth, and—before he had finished John was gone, walking hurriedly across the square and down the broad streets, and as he passed the park he buttoned his coat and said, “John Jones, you’re a natural-born fool.” Then he went to his lodgings and wrote a letter, and tore it up; he wrote another, and threw it in the fire. Then he seized a scrap of paper and wrote: “Dear Mother and Sister—I am coming—John.”

It left John sitting so silent and absorbed that for a while he did not notice the usher. The usher was tapping him lightly on the shoulder and saying politely, “Will you step this way, please, sir?” A little surprised, John rose quickly at the last tap. Turning to leave his seat, he looked straight into the fair-haired young man’s face. For the first time, the young man recognized his Black childhood playmate. And John realized the young man was the Judge’s son. The white John gave a start, raised his hand, and then froze in his chair. The Black John smiled faintly, then grimly, and followed the usher down the aisle. The manager was sorry, very, very sorry. But he explained that a mistake had been made in selling John a seat already sold to someone else. He would refund the money, of course. He truly felt deeply about the matter, and so on, and before he had finished, John was gone. John walked hurriedly across the square and down the broad streets. As he passed the park, he buttoned his coat and said, “John Jones, you’re a natural-born fool.” Then he went to his lodgings, wrote a letter, and tore it up. He wrote another and threw it into the fire. Then he grabbed a scrap of paper and wrote: “Dear Mother and Sister, I am coming. John.”

“Perhaps,” said John, as he settled himself on the train, “perhaps I am to blame myself in struggling against my manifest destiny simply because it looks hard and unpleasant. Here is my duty to Altamaha plain before me; perhaps they’ll let me help settle the Negro problems there,—perhaps they won’t. ‘I will go in to the King, which is not according to the law; and if I perish, I perish.’” And then he mused and dreamed, and planned a life-work; and the train flew south.

“Perhaps,” John said as he settled into his seat on the train, “perhaps I’m to blame for resisting my clear destiny. I’m resisting simply because it seems hard and unpleasant. My duty to Altamaha is clear. Perhaps they’ll let me help solve the Negro problems there. Perhaps they won’t. ‘I will go to the King, even though doing so is against the law. And if I die, I die.’” Then he reflected and dreamed, planning his life’s work, and the train sped south.

Down in Altamaha, after seven long years, all the world knew John was coming. The homes were scrubbed and scoured,—above all, one; the gardens and yards had an unwonted trimness, and Jennie bought a new gingham. With some finesse and negotiation, all the dark Methodists and Presbyterians were induced to join in a monster welcome at the Baptist Church; and as the day drew near, warm discussions arose on every corner as to the exact extent and nature of John’s accomplishments. It was noontide on a gray and cloudy day when he came. The black town flocked to the depot, with a little of the white at the edges,—a happy throng, with “Good-mawnings” and “Howdys” and laughing and joking and jostling. Mother sat yonder in the window watching; but sister Jennie stood on the platform, nervously fingering her dress, tall and lithe, with soft brown skin and loving eyes peering from out a tangled wilderness of hair. John rose gloomily as the train stopped, for he was thinking of the “Jim Crow” car; he stepped to the platform, and paused: a little dingy station, a black crowd gaudy and dirty, a half-mile of dilapidated shanties along a straggling ditch of mud. An overwhelming sense of the sordidness and narrowness of it all seized him; he looked in vain for his mother, kissed coldly the tall, strange girl who called him brother, spoke a short, dry word here and there; then, lingering neither for handshaking nor gossip, started silently up the street, raising his hat merely to the last eager old aunty, to her open-mouthed astonishment. The people were distinctly bewildered. This silent, cold man,—was this John? Where was his smile and hearty hand-grasp? “’Peared kind o’ down in the mouf,” said the Methodist preacher thoughtfully. “Seemed monstus stuck up,” complained a Baptist sister. But the white postmaster from the edge of the crowd expressed the opinion of his folks plainly. “That damn Nigger,” said he, as he shouldered the mail and arranged his tobacco, “has gone North and got plum full o’ fool notions; but they won’t work in Altamaha.” And the crowd melted away.

Down in Altamaha, after seven long years, everyone knew John was coming. The homes were scrubbed and scoured, especially one. The gardens and yards were unusually neat, and Jennie bought a new gingham dress. With some tact and negotiation, all the Black Methodists and Presbyterians were persuaded to join a huge welcome at the Baptist Church. As the day drew near, heated discussions sprang up on every corner about exactly what John had accomplished. He arrived at noon on a gray, cloudy day. The Black townspeople flocked to the station, with a few white people at the edges. The happy crowd exchanged “Good mornings” and “Howdys,” laughing, joking, and jostling. His mother sat watching from her window. But his sister Jennie stood on the platform, nervously fingering her dress. She was tall and slender, with soft brown skin and loving eyes peering through a tangled mass of hair. John rose gloomily as the train stopped, because he was thinking of the “Jim Crow” car. He stepped onto the platform and paused. He saw a small, dingy station, a Black crowd in showy, dirty clothes, and half a mile of rundown shacks. The shacks stood along a winding, muddy ditch. An overwhelming sense of how shabby and confining everything was seized him. He looked in vain for his mother and coldly kissed the tall, unfamiliar girl who called him brother. He spoke a few brief, dry words here and there. Then, without lingering to shake hands or chat, he started silently up the street. He merely raised his hat to the last eager old auntie, leaving her open-mouthed in astonishment. The people were clearly bewildered. Was this silent, cold man really John? Where were his smile and hearty handshake? “Seemed kind of down in the mouth,” said the Methodist preacher thoughtfully. “Seemed terribly stuck-up,” complained a Baptist woman. But the white postmaster at the edge of the crowd plainly expressed what his people thought. “That damn Nigger,” he said, shouldering the mail and adjusting his tobacco, “has gone North and filled his head with foolish ideas. But those ideas won’t work in Altamaha.” And the crowd drifted away.

The meeting of welcome at the Baptist Church was a failure. Rain spoiled the barbecue, and thunder turned the milk in the ice-cream. When the speaking came at night, the house was crowded to overflowing. The three preachers had especially prepared themselves, but somehow John’s manner seemed to throw a blanket over everything,—he seemed so cold and preoccupied, and had so strange an air of restraint that the Methodist brother could not warm up to his theme and elicited not a single “Amen”; the Presbyterian prayer was but feebly responded to, and even the Baptist preacher, though he wakened faint enthusiasm, got so mixed up in his favorite sentence that he had to close it by stopping fully fifteen minutes sooner than he meant. The people moved uneasily in their seats as John rose to reply. He spoke slowly and methodically. The age, he said, demanded new ideas; we were far different from those men of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries,—with broader ideas of human brotherhood and destiny. Then he spoke of the rise of charity and popular education, and particularly of the spread of wealth and work. The question was, then, he added reflectively, looking at the low discolored ceiling, what part the Negroes of this land would take in the striving of the new century. He sketched in vague outline the new Industrial School that might rise among these pines, he spoke in detail of the charitable and philanthropic work that might be organized, of money that might be saved for banks and business. Finally he urged unity, and deprecated especially religious and denominational bickering. “To-day,” he said, with a smile, “the world cares little whether a man be Baptist or Methodist, or indeed a churchman at all, so long as he is good and true. What difference does it make whether a man be baptized in river or washbowl, or not at all? Let’s leave all that littleness, and look higher.” Then, thinking of nothing else, he slowly sat down. A painful hush seized that crowded mass. Little had they understood of what he said, for he spoke an unknown tongue, save the last word about baptism; that they knew, and they sat very still while the clock ticked. Then at last a low suppressed snarl came from the Amen corner, and an old bent man arose, walked over the seats, and climbed straight up into the pulpit. He was wrinkled and black, with scant gray and tufted hair; his voice and hands shook as with palsy; but on his face lay the intense rapt look of the religious fanatic. He seized the Bible with his rough, huge hands; twice he raised it inarticulate, and then fairly burst into words, with rude and awful eloquence. He quivered, swayed, and bent; then rose aloft in perfect majesty, till the people moaned and wept, wailed and shouted, and a wild shrieking arose from the corners where all the pent-up feeling of the hour gathered itself and rushed into the air. John never knew clearly what the old man said; he only felt himself held up to scorn and scathing denunciation for trampling on the true Religion, and he realized with amazement that all unknowingly he had put rough, rude hands on something this little world held sacred. He arose silently, and passed out into the night. Down toward the sea he went, in the fitful starlight, half conscious of the girl who followed timidly after him. When at last he stood upon the bluff, he turned to his little sister and looked upon her sorrowfully, remembering with sudden pain how little thought he had given her. He put his arm about her and let her passion of tears spend itself on his shoulder.

The welcome meeting at the Baptist Church was a failure. Rain spoiled the barbecue, and thunder soured the milk in the ice cream. When the speeches began that night, the church was filled to overflowing. The three preachers had made special preparations, but somehow John’s manner seemed to dampen everything. He seemed so cold and distracted, and held himself back so strangely, that the Methodist preacher could not get going. His sermon drew not a single “Amen”. The Presbyterian prayer received only a weak response. Even the Baptist preacher, though he stirred some faint enthusiasm, got tangled up in his favorite sentence. He could only finish it by stopping a full fifteen minutes earlier than he had intended. The people shifted uneasily in their seats as John rose to respond. He spoke slowly and methodically. The age, he said, demanded new ideas. We were very different from those men of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Our ideas about human brotherhood and destiny were broader. Then he spoke about the growth of charity and education for all, especially the spread of wealth and work. He paused thoughtfully, looking at the low, stained ceiling. The question, he added, was what part this country’s Negroes would play in the struggles of the new century. He gave a rough outline of the new Industrial School that might rise among these pines. He spoke in detail about the charitable and philanthropic work that might be organized. He spoke of money that might be saved for banks and businesses. Finally, he urged unity and especially discouraged religious arguments and quarrels between denominations. “Today,” he said with a smile, “the world cares little whether a man is Baptist or Methodist. It even cares little whether he belongs to a church at all, as long as he is good and true. What difference does it make whether a man is baptized in a river or a washbowl, or not at all? Let’s leave all that pettiness behind and look higher.” Then, thinking of nothing else, he slowly sat down. A painful silence fell over the crowded congregation. They had understood little of what he said, for he spoke a language unfamiliar to them. Only his final words about baptism were clear. Baptism they understood, and they sat very still while the clock ticked. At last, a low, muffled snarl came from the Amen corner. A bent old man stood up, stepped across the seats, and climbed straight into the pulpit. He was black and wrinkled, with sparse tufts of gray hair. His voice and hands shook as if he had a palsy. But his face wore the intense, spellbound expression of a religious fanatic. He seized the Bible in his huge, rough hands. Twice he raised it, unable to speak. Then words burst from him with a rough and terrible eloquence. He trembled, swayed, and bent down. Then he rose to his full height with perfect majesty, until the people moaned and wept, wailed and shouted. Wild shrieks rose from the corners. All the feelings held back during that hour seemed to gather there and rush into the air. John never clearly knew what the old man said. He only felt himself exposed to scorn and fiercely condemned for trampling on the true Religion. With amazement, he realized that, without knowing it, he had laid rough, careless hands on something this little world held sacred. He rose silently and went out into the night. He walked down toward the sea beneath the flickering starlight, barely aware of the girl following timidly behind him. When he finally stood on the bluff, he turned to his little sister and looked at her sorrowfully. With sudden pain, he remembered how little thought he had given her. He put his arm around her and let her sob against his shoulder until her tears were spent.

Long they stood together, peering over the gray unresting water.

They stood together for a long time, peering out over the gray, restless water.

“John,” she said, “does it make every one—unhappy when they study and learn lots of things?”

“John,” she said, “does studying and learning a lot make everyone unhappy?”

He paused and smiled. “I am afraid it does,” he said.

He paused and smiled. “I’m afraid it does,” he said.

“And, John, are you glad you studied?”

“And, John, are you glad you studied?”

“Yes,” came the answer, slowly but positively.

“Yes,” came the reply, slowly but firmly.

She watched the flickering lights upon the sea, and said thoughtfully, “I wish I was unhappy,—and—and,” putting both arms about his neck, “I think I am, a little, John.”

She watched the flickering lights on the sea and said thoughtfully, “I wish I were unhappy, and, and…” She put both arms around his neck. “I think I am, a little, John.”

It was several days later that John walked up to the Judge’s house to ask for the privilege of teaching the Negro school. The Judge himself met him at the front door, stared a little hard at him, and said brusquely, “Go ’round to the kitchen door, John, and wait.” Sitting on the kitchen steps, John stared at the corn, thoroughly perplexed. What on earth had come over him? Every step he made offended some one. He had come to save his people, and before he left the depot he had hurt them. He sought to teach them at the church, and had outraged their deepest feelings. He had schooled himself to be respectful to the Judge, and then blundered into his front door. And all the time he had meant right,—and yet, and yet, somehow he found it so hard and strange to fit his old surroundings again, to find his place in the world about him. He could not remember that he used to have any difficulty in the past, when life was glad and gay. The world seemed smooth and easy then. Perhaps,—but his sister came to the kitchen door just then and said the Judge awaited him.

Several days later, John walked up to the Judge’s house to ask permission to teach at the Negro school. The Judge himself met him at the front door, stared at him rather hard, and said sharply, “Go around to the kitchen door, John, and wait.” Sitting on the kitchen steps, John stared at the corn, completely puzzled. What on earth had come over him? Every step he took offended someone. He had come to save his people, and before he left the train station, he had hurt them. He had tried to teach them at the church and had outraged their deepest feelings. He had trained himself to be respectful to the Judge, then made the mistake of approaching his front door. And all along he had meant well. And yet, and yet, somehow he found fitting back into his old surroundings so hard and strange. Finding his place in the world around him was just as difficult. He could not remember having any trouble in the past, when life was happy and carefree. The world had seemed smooth and easy then. Perhaps, but just then his sister came to the kitchen door and said the Judge was waiting for him.

The Judge sat in the dining-room amid his morning’s mail, and he did not ask John to sit down. He plunged squarely into the business. “You’ve come for the school, I suppose. Well John, I want to speak to you plainly. You know I’m a friend to your people. I’ve helped you and your family, and would have done more if you hadn’t got the notion of going off. Now I like the colored people, and sympathize with all their reasonable aspirations; but you and I both know, John, that in this country the Negro must remain subordinate, and can never expect to be the equal of white men. In their place, your people can be honest and respectful; and God knows, I’ll do what I can to help them. But when they want to reverse nature, and rule white men, and marry white women, and sit in my parlor, then, by God! we’ll hold them under if we have to lynch every Nigger in the land. Now, John, the question is, are you, with your education and Northern notions, going to accept the situation and teach the darkies to be faithful servants and laborers as your fathers were,—I knew your father, John, he belonged to my brother, and he was a good Nigger. Well—well, are you going to be like him, or are you going to try to put fool ideas of rising and equality into these folks’ heads, and make them discontented and unhappy?”

The Judge sat in the dining room with his morning mail around him. He did not ask John to sit down. He went straight to business. “You’ve come about the school, I suppose. Well, John, I want to speak plainly to you. You know I’m a friend to your people. I’ve helped you and your family. I would have done more if you hadn’t gotten the idea of going away. Now, I like colored people, and I sympathize with all their reasonable ambitions. But you and I both know, John, that in this country the Negro must remain beneath white men. Black people can never expect to be equal to white men. If your people stay in their place, they can be honest and respectful. And God knows, I’ll do what I can to help them. But when they want to go against nature, rule white men, marry white women, and sit in my parlor, then, by God! We’ll keep them down, even if we have to lynch every Nigger in the country. Now, John, here’s the question. With your education and Northern ideas, are you going to accept the situation? Will you teach the darkies to be faithful servants and laborers, as your fathers were? I knew your father, John. My brother owned him, and he was a good Nigger. Well, well, are you going to be like him? Or will you try to fill these folks’ heads with foolish ideas about getting ahead and being equal? Will you make them dissatisfied and unhappy?”

“I am going to accept the situation, Judge Henderson,” answered John, with a brevity that did not escape the keen old man. He hesitated a moment, and then said shortly, “Very well,—we’ll try you awhile. Good-morning.”

“I’m going to accept the situation, Judge Henderson,” John answered briefly. His brief reply did not escape the observant old man’s notice. Judge Henderson hesitated a moment, then said curtly, “Very well. We’ll try you for a while. Good morning.”

It was a full month after the opening of the Negro school that the other John came home, tall, gay, and headstrong. The mother wept, the sisters sang. The whole white town was glad. A proud man was the Judge, and it was a goodly sight to see the two swinging down Main Street together. And yet all did not go smoothly between them, for the younger man could not and did not veil his contempt for the little town, and plainly had his heart set on New York. Now the one cherished ambition of the Judge was to see his son mayor of Altamaha, representative to the legislature, and—who could say?—governor of Georgia. So the argument often waxed hot between them. “Good heavens, father,” the younger man would say after dinner, as he lighted a cigar and stood by the fireplace, “you surely don’t expect a young fellow like me to settle down permanently in this—this God-forgotten town with nothing but mud and Negroes?” “I did,” the Judge would answer laconically; and on this particular day it seemed from the gathering scowl that he was about to add something more emphatic, but neighbors had already begun to drop in to admire his son, and the conversation drifted.

A full month after the Negro school opened, the other John came home, tall, cheerful, and headstrong. His mother wept, and his sisters sang. The whole white town was glad. The Judge was a proud man. The two made a fine sight as they strode down Main Street together. Yet not everything went smoothly between them. The younger man could not and did not hide his contempt for the little town. He clearly had his heart set on New York. The Judge’s one cherished ambition was to see his son become mayor of Altamaha, then a state legislator. And, who could say? Perhaps he might become governor of Georgia. So their arguments often grew heated. “Good heavens, father,” the younger man would say after dinner, lighting a cigar and standing by the fireplace. “Surely you don’t expect a young fellow like me to settle down permanently in this, this God-forgotten town? There’s nothing here but mud and Negroes!” “I did,” the Judge would reply bluntly. On this particular day, his deepening scowl suggested he was about to add something more forceful. But neighbors had already begun dropping in to admire his son, and the conversation moved on.

“Heah that John is livenin’ things up at the darky school,” volunteered the postmaster, after a pause.

“I hear John is livening things up at the darky school,” the postmaster offered after a pause.

“What now?” asked the Judge, sharply.

“What now?” the Judge asked sharply.

“Oh, nothin’ in particulah,—just his almighty air and uppish ways. B’lieve I did heah somethin’ about his givin’ talks on the French Revolution, equality, and such like. He’s what I call a dangerous Nigger.”

“Oh, nothing in particular, just his high-and-mighty attitude and stuck-up ways. I believe I did hear something about him giving talks on the French Revolution, equality, and things like that. He’s what I call a dangerous Nigger.”

“Have you heard him say anything out of the way?”

“Have you heard him say anything inappropriate?”

“Why, no,—but Sally, our girl, told my wife a lot of rot. Then, too, I don’t need to heah: a Nigger what won’t say ‘sir’ to a white man, or—”

“Why, no, but Sally, our girl, told my wife a lot of nonsense. Besides, I don’t need to hear. A nigger who won’t say ‘sir’ to a white man, or...”

“Who is this John?” interrupted the son.

“Who is this John?” the son interrupted.

“Why, it’s little black John, Peggy’s son,—your old playfellow.”

“Why, it’s little black John, Peggy’s son, your old childhood playmate.”

The young man’s face flushed angrily, and then he laughed.

The young man’s face turned red with anger, and then he laughed.

“Oh,” said he, “it’s the darky that tried to force himself into a seat beside the lady I was escorting—”

“Oh,” he said, “it’s the darky who tried to force his way into a seat beside the lady I was escorting...”

But Judge Henderson waited to hear no more. He had been nettled all day, and now at this he rose with a half-smothered oath, took his hat and cane, and walked straight to the schoolhouse.

But Judge Henderson did not wait to hear any more. He had been irritated all day, and now he stood up with a half-muffled curse. He took his hat and cane and walked straight to the schoolhouse.

For John, it had been a long, hard pull to get things started in the rickety old shanty that sheltered his school. The Negroes were rent into factions for and against him, the parents were careless, the children irregular and dirty, and books, pencils, and slates largely missing. Nevertheless, he struggled hopefully on, and seemed to see at last some glimmering of dawn. The attendance was larger and the children were a shade cleaner this week. Even the booby class in reading showed a little comforting progress. So John settled himself with renewed patience this afternoon.

For John, getting his school started in the shaky old shack had been a long, hard struggle. The Black community was split into groups for and against him. The parents were careless, the children attended irregularly and were dirty, and books, pencils, and slates were mostly missing. Still, he struggled on with hope and seemed at last to see a faint glimmer of dawn. Attendance was up, and the children were a little cleaner this week. Even the reading class for the slowest learners showed a little encouraging progress. So John settled down that afternoon with renewed patience.

“Now, Mandy,” he said cheerfully, “that’s better; but you mustn’t chop your words up so: ‘If—the-man—goes.’ Why, your little brother even wouldn’t tell a story that way, now would he?”

“Now, Mandy,” he said cheerfully, “that’s better. But you mustn’t break up your words like this: ‘If, the, man, goes.’ Why, even your little brother wouldn’t tell a story that way, would he?”

“Naw, suh, he cain’t talk.”

“No, sir, he can’t talk.”

“All right; now let’s try again: ‘If the man—’

“All right. Now let’s try again: ‘If the man...’

“John!”

“John!”

The whole school started in surprise, and the teacher half arose, as the red, angry face of the Judge appeared in the open doorway.

The whole school jumped in surprise. The teacher half rose as the Judge’s red, angry face appeared in the open doorway.

“John, this school is closed. You children can go home and get to work. The white people of Altamaha are not spending their money on black folks to have their heads crammed with impudence and lies. Clear out! I’ll lock the door myself.”

“John, this school is closed. You children can go home and get to work. The white people of Altamaha aren’t spending their money on black folks to fill their heads with disrespect and lies. Get out! I’ll lock the door myself.”

Up at the great pillared house the tall young son wandered aimlessly about after his father’s abrupt departure. In the house there was little to interest him; the books were old and stale, the local newspaper flat, and the women had retired with headaches and sewing. He tried a nap, but it was too warm. So he sauntered out into the fields, complaining disconsolately, “Good Lord! how long will this imprisonment last!” He was not a bad fellow,—just a little spoiled and self-indulgent, and as headstrong as his proud father. He seemed a young man pleasant to look upon, as he sat on the great black stump at the edge of the pines idly swinging his legs and smoking. “Why, there isn’t even a girl worth getting up a respectable flirtation with,” he growled. Just then his eye caught a tall, willowy figure hurrying toward him on the narrow path. He looked with interest at first, and then burst into a laugh as he said, “Well, I declare, if it isn’t Jennie, the little brown kitchen-maid! Why, I never noticed before what a trim little body she is. Hello, Jennie! Why, you haven’t kissed me since I came home,” he said gaily. The young girl stared at him in surprise and confusion,—faltered something inarticulate, and attempted to pass. But a wilful mood had seized the young idler, and he caught at her arm. Frightened, she slipped by; and half mischievously he turned and ran after her through the tall pines.

Up at the large house with pillars, the tall young son wandered aimlessly after his father’s abrupt departure. Little in the house interested him. The books were old and dull, the local newspaper lifeless. The women had gone to their rooms with headaches and sewing. He tried to nap, but the heat kept him awake. So he strolled out into the fields, complaining miserably, “Good Lord! How long will this imprisonment last!” He was not a bad fellow, just a little spoiled and self-indulgent, and as headstrong as his proud father. He looked pleasant enough, sitting on the large black stump at the edge of the pines, swinging his legs and smoking. “Why, there isn’t even a girl worth having a decent flirtation with,” he grumbled. Just then he noticed a tall, slender figure hurrying toward him along the narrow path. At first he watched with interest. Then he burst out laughing and said, “Well, I declare, if it isn’t Jennie, the little brown kitchen maid! Why, I never noticed before what a neat little figure she has. Hello, Jennie! Why, you haven’t kissed me since I came home,” he said cheerfully. The young girl stared at him in surprise and confusion. She stammered something he could not make out and tried to pass. But the idle young man had become bent on having his way, and he grabbed at her arm. Frightened, she slipped past him. With a partly mischievous impulse, he turned and ran after her through the tall pines.

Yonder, toward the sea, at the end of the path, came John slowly, with his head down. He had turned wearily homeward from the schoolhouse; then, thinking to shield his mother from the blow, started to meet his sister as she came from work and break the news of his dismissal to her. “I’ll go away,” he said slowly; “I’ll go away and find work, and send for them. I cannot live here longer.” And then the fierce, buried anger surged up into his throat. He waved his arms and hurried wildly up the path.

There, toward the sea, at the end of the path, John came slowly, his head down. He had turned wearily toward home from the schoolhouse. Then, hoping to spare his mother the shock, he set out to meet his sister as she returned from work. He would tell her he had been dismissed. “I’ll go away,” he said slowly. “I’ll go away and find work, and send for them. I can’t live here any longer.” And then the fierce anger he had buried surged up into his throat. He waved his arms and hurried wildly up the path.

The great brown sea lay silent. The air scarce breathed. The dying day bathed the twisted oaks and mighty pines in black and gold. There came from the wind no warning, not a whisper from the cloudless sky. There was only a black man hurrying on with an ache in his heart, seeing neither sun nor sea, but starting as from a dream at the frightened cry that woke the pines, to see his dark sister struggling in the arms of a tall and fair-haired man.

The great brown sea lay silent. The air barely stirred. The fading daylight bathed the twisted oaks and mighty pines in black and gold. No warning came from the wind, not a whisper from the cloudless sky. There was only a black man hurrying along with an ache in his heart, noticing neither sun nor sea. But a frightened cry rang through the pines, startling him as if from a dream. He saw his dark sister struggling in the arms of a tall, fair-haired man.

He said not a word, but, seizing a fallen limb, struck him with all the pent-up hatred of his great black arm, and the body lay white and still beneath the pines, all bathed in sunshine and in blood. John looked at it dreamily, then walked back to the house briskly, and said in a soft voice, “Mammy, I’m going away—I’m going to be free.”

He said nothing, but grabbed a fallen branch and struck him with all the pent-up hatred in his powerful black arm. The body lay white and still beneath the pines, bathed in sunshine and blood. John gazed dreamily at the body, then walked briskly back to the house and said softly, “Mammy, I’m going away. I’m going to be free.”

She gazed at him dimly and faltered, “No’th, honey, is yo’ gwine No’th agin?”

She gazed at him dimly and faltered, “North, honey, are you going North again?”

He looked out where the North Star glistened pale above the waters, and said, “Yes, mammy, I’m going—North.”

He looked out where the North Star shone faintly above the water. He said, “Yes, mammy, I’m going North.”

Then, without another word, he went out into the narrow lane, up by the straight pines, to the same winding path, and seated himself on the great black stump, looking at the blood where the body had lain. Yonder in the gray past he had played with that dead boy, romping together under the solemn trees. The night deepened; he thought of the boys at Johnstown. He wondered how Brown had turned out, and Carey? And Jones,—Jones? Why, he was Jones, and he wondered what they would all say when they knew, when they knew, in that great long dining-room with its hundreds of merry eyes. Then as the sheen of the starlight stole over him, he thought of the gilded ceiling of that vast concert hall, heard stealing toward him the faint sweet music of the swan. Hark! was it music, or the hurry and shouting of men? Yes, surely! Clear and high the faint sweet melody rose and fluttered like a living thing, so that the very earth trembled as with the tramp of horses and murmur of angry men.

Then, without another word, he went out into the narrow lane, past the straight pines, to the same winding path. He sat on the great black stump, looking at the blood where the body had lain. Long ago, in the dim past, he had played with that dead boy. They had romped together under the solemn trees. The night grew darker. He thought of the boys at Johnstown. He wondered how Brown had turned out, and Carey? And Jones, Jones? Why, he was Jones. He wondered what they would all say when they knew, when they knew, in that great long dining room. He pictured its hundreds of merry eyes. Then, as the starlight softly spread over him, he thought of the gilded ceiling of that vast concert hall. He heard the faint, sweet music of the swan drifting toward him. Listen! Was it music, or men rushing and shouting? Yes, surely! Clear and high, the faint, sweet melody rose and fluttered like a living thing. It made the very earth tremble, as if with the pounding of horses’ hooves and the murmur of angry men.

He leaned back and smiled toward the sea, whence rose the strange melody, away from the dark shadows where lay the noise of horses galloping, galloping on. With an effort he roused himself, bent forward, and looked steadily down the pathway, softly humming the “Song of the Bride,”—

He leaned back and smiled toward the sea, where the strange melody rose. He turned away from the dark shadows, where horses could be heard galloping, galloping on. With an effort, he roused himself, leaned forward, and gazed steadily down the path, softly humming the “Song of the Bride.”

Amid the trees in the dim morning twilight he watched their shadows dancing and heard their horses thundering toward him, until at last they came sweeping like a storm, and he saw in front that haggard white-haired man, whose eyes flashed red with fury. Oh, how he pitied him,—pitied him,—and wondered if he had the coiling twisted rope. Then, as the storm burst round him, he rose slowly to his feet and turned his closed eyes toward the Sea.

Among the trees in the dim light of early morning, he watched their shadows dance. He heard their horses thundering toward him until at last the riders swept in like a storm. At the front, he saw that worn, white-haired man, whose eyes flashed red with fury. Oh, how he pitied the man, pitied him, and wondered if the man had the coiled, twisted rope. Then, as the storm broke around him, he slowly rose to his feet. He turned his closed eyes toward the Sea.

And the world whistled in his ears.

And the world whistled in his ears.