me.

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that I should still be so governed by these habits of feeling and thought. But they are of almost lifelong growth with And even yet sometimes the consciousness that I am an object of curiosity and ridicule overcomes me and drives me almost frantic. I shrink from meeting strangers, from going into society, from taking up a calling that will bring me into public notice. The social side of my nature has been warped and stunted till I fear-indeed, I am sure that it is no longer capable of such development as would have been possible under normal, healthy conditions. Feeling and action that ought to be habitual with me, so much so as to control me without necessity for deliberation, or even consciousness, on my part, are possible to me only through' constant, conscious effort. I am afraid it must always be So. And yet if I could get rid of this thing that continually haunts me, I know it would help me to correct some of these wrong mental tendencies, and would have a deeper effect than you can know. I have intended to have an operation performed sometime; but when and where and with what hope of success, I had hardly begun to consider."

It was the first time Paul had ever unburdened himself of the mental load which had grown with his growth, and of the hopes and fears and struggles of later years. And what a sense of relief the outpouring brought him. To Ned it was an unlooked-for revelation. He had thought that he understood Paul and his troubles pretty well already; and he said to himself that the recital to which he had listened was but one more reminder how little we know those whom we think we know best.

Before Paul left Ned's office the time for the operation was set, and a few weeks later it was performed. As soon thereafter as Ned thought safe, Paul went home and staid till he had Ned's permission to go his winter's work. The operation had been completely successful. Paul felt, as well as looked, like a different person. It would have been hard to tell whether he or his mother was the happier over the result.

CHAPTER 21

SORROW AND CONSOLATION

AFTER his winter's work in the lumber woods, Paul returned home, and soon hired out on a farm for the summer. Just before beginning work he called on Ned Gardner and informed him that he had determined to act on his advice in regard to entering one of the leading universities the next fall. Paul was not a little pleased to learn that he and Ned were agreed as to the institution he had best enter. Paul also informed Ned that he had decided to study architecture; a decision which Ned, knowing the natural bent of Paul's mind, looked upon as a temporary freak, but one that must be indulged until he had worn it out and returned to his proper mental channel. Ned understood that the chief thing was to get Paul into the university.

Paul worked on the farm until the middle of August, and then went home to spend a month with his father and mother, brush up in his books, and get back into the spirit of study after his year's vacation, before the entrance examinations for admission to the University. The principal object which he had in view, however, was a long stay with his mother. His visits home had been few during the last four years. He had occasionally received a little money from his father when hard pinched, more in the nature of a loan than a gift, and had occasionally sent a few dollars to his mother; on the whole sending home rather more than he received from there. Both Joshua and Mary were anxious that he should continue in school as long as he wished to, and more than willing to do all they could for him; but he always felt that he must not ask, or even allow, them to do much. His farm work during his academic course had all been done on the river valley faims, both because he found the work there easier than on the hill farms, and because of the depressing influence of the Sugar Hill atmosphere.

Mary had been failing steadily in health, and for the last few months rapidly. On Paul's return from the lumber woods Aunt Sue Willett had said to him significantly:

"Ye'd better come up an' stay awhile with yer mother

"IN HEAVEN, MY BOY!"

afore ye go away ag'in fer good. chance ye'll ever hev."

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It may be the last

Paul was startled by this warning. He had not realized that his mother was so far gone. To his unpracticed eye she did not look seriously worse than for years back, indeed ever since he could remember; but he resolved to devote himself to her for a few weeks anyhow, though he felt sure that Aunt Sue must be mistaken in her fears. And how happy Mary was at the thought of having her boy with her for a whole month. How she looked forward all summer to his coming, and planned to make his stay so pleasant.

But alas! Less than two weeks after his arrival she was taken suddenly and alarmingly ill. Four days later Paul held her in his arms while she gave up that life to which she had seemed to cling for his sake alone. Her last words, her last look, her last token of recognition were for him. To the grief-stricken son it seemed providential that, if she must die, it should be while he was with her. Aunt Sue said to the Deacon the night after Mary's death:

And

"Poor critter! It looks 's ef, knowin' she must die afore long, she'd picked out her time when Paul could be with her. I ain't at all sure but it's best all round as 'tis."

They buried her in the cemetery at the The Forks. Then Paul and his father returned to their desolate home, packed what household effects they wanted to keep and stored them in the loft over Deacon Willett's woodhouse, and sold the rest for what they would bring. Joshua was still working for Deacon Willett, and now went there to sleep as well as to board.

66 Here's your home, Paul, my boy, f'm this on," said Aunt Sue to the young man as he handed her the key to the cottage that held the last memories of his mother. 66 Whenever ye wan' to rest an' be 'mongst folks thet loves

ye, come here."

66 Thank you, thank you, Aunt Sue," exclaimed Paul, his voice choked with emotion and tears streaming from his eyes. "You have always been so good to mother, to both of us; and there's nothing I can do in return for it." “I've hed my returns already fer all I've ever done fer you an' yer poor mother," answered Aunt Sue very tenderly. But ef you wan' to add so'thin' to 'em, jes' come an' see me once in a while."

66

"I will, I will, Aunt Sue. This will always seem like home to me as no other place can."

And so Paul staid at Deacon Willett's for the few days that still remained before he left for the University.

The death of Mary drew Paul and his father closer together than they had ever been before. Not that they had been wanting in mutual affection, but there had always been a lack of harmony and sympathy. From early boyhood Paul had felt instinctively that somehow his father did not treat his mother just right, while the mode of life which his father's disposition and ministerial work had forced upon the family had mortified and irritated the boy and kept him in a spirit of mild rebellion toward his father. But now Paul had grown beyond the power of his father's influence to depress him. Filial love and sense of duty were asserting themselves, and the death of the mother and wife completed the softening and reshaping and reconciling process already well under way.

"In heaven, my boy!" had been the mother's last words to her son.

"Yes, mother, dear mother, I will try to meet you there," he had sobbed.

And he prayed and continued to pray, oh so earnestly, that he might be found worthy to rejoin that sainted mother in the happy world to which she had gone. And how consoling in his sorrow was the thought that after a few years he would go to be with her again, never again to part from her, in a life free from all the hardship and distress of earth. He felt sure that the death of his mother had drawn him nearer to God and made him a truer, better Christian than ever before. Ties that had bound him to earth now drew him to heaven.

Upon Ned's invitation Paul spent the last Sunday with him before starting for the University. After they had discussed a variety of topics, Ned said:

"I want to give you a word of advice in regard to your course of study in the University. If, as I think more than probable, you drop architecture in a year or so and return to languages, literature, and history, be cautious about giving too much time to the study of dead languages. I believe that in the atmosphere of the institution which you are about to enter you will find less of that blind, unreason

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able devotion to the languages and literatures of Greece and Rome than in the great majority of small colleges. It's a shame and a disgrace to our civilization that a young man of to-day should be led on to spend the best part of his time and energy on a curriculum that might have been in some degree reasonable in the sixteenth century, but is so antiquated as to be ridiculous after the last three centuries of progress in science, literature, and general social and political conditions. One is reminded of Macaulay's remark: 'The fact seems to be, that the Greeks admired only themselves, and that the Romans admired only themselves and the Greeks.' From the average college curriculum one might conclude that the Americans admired the Greeks and Romans only, and themselves and their English and German forefathers not at all.

66

Happily for the future, however, some of the new universities are starting out on broader lines, shaping their courses to the needs of the times; and some of the older institutions are already taking the cue from their younger sisters. And so I have advised you to go to one of these larger universities that represent the new spirit, rather than to a small, narrow college where a word whispered against the hoary menu of dead languages is rank intellectual treason. I saw a good deal of the German universities during my three years of knocking about in the Old World; and it is German influence that is shaking up our American college curriculum-makers and pulling them out of their ruts.

"Finally, one word about your historical reading, which I think will gradually crowd to the front of your list of college studies. Don't bother your head with the musty trash piled up by the writers who tell nothing and know nothing but tales of battles and of intrigues of princes. Go to the men who tell you about the life of the people, the rise of social and political institutions, the progress of knowledge, the causes and effects that are of universal character and always and everywhere of timely value-guideboards that point out for all succeeding nations and generations the right way and the wrong way. And don't be afraid to read or hear a man merely because he is under the theological ban."

Paul was not a little surprised at the force, even vehemence, with which Ned had delivered himself of this pro