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                          THE RECLAIMERS

                     BY MARGARET HILL McCARTER

               _Author of_ "VANGUARDS OF THE PLAINS"


    HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
    NEW YORK AND LONDON

    The Reclaimers

    Copyright, 1918, by Harper & Brothers

    Printed in the United States of America

    Published October, 1918


                  TO
         MAY BELLEVILLE BROWN
    CRITIC, COUNSELLOR, COMFORTER


[Illustration]




CONTENTS


PART I

JERRY

I. THE HEIR APPARENT

II. UNCLE CORNIE'S THROW

III. HITCHING THE WAGON TO A STAR

IV. BETWEEN EDENS

V. NEW EDEN'S PROBLEM

VI. PARADISE LOST


PART II

JERRY AND JOE

VII. UNHITCHING THE WAGON FROM A STAR

VIII. IF A MAN WENT RIGHT WITH HIMSELF

IX. IF A WOMAN WENT RIGHT WITH HERSELF

X. THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER

XI. AN INTERLUDE IN "EDEN"

XII. THIS SIDE OF THE RUBICON


PART III

JERRY AND EUGENE--AND JOE

XIII. HOW A GOOD MOTHER LIVES ON

XIV. JIM SWAIM'S WISH

XV. DRAWING OUT LEVIATHAN WITH A HOOK

XVI. A POSTLUDE IN "EDEN"

XVII. THE FLESH-POTS OF THE WINNWOC

XVIII. THE LORD HATH HIS WAY IN THE STORM

XIX. RECLAIMED




THE RECLAIMERS




I

JERRY




I

THE HEIR APPARENT


Only the good little snakes were permitted to enter the "Eden" that
belonged to Aunt Jerry and Uncle Cornie Darby. "Eden," it should be
explained, was the country estate of Mrs. Jerusha Darby--a wealthy
Philadelphian--and her husband, Cornelius Darby, a relative by marriage,
so to speak, whose sole business on earth was to guard his wife's wealth
for six hours of the day in the city, and to practise discus-throwing
out at "Eden" for two hours every evening.

Of course these two were never familiarly "Aunt" and "Uncle" to this
country neighborhood, nor to any other community. Far, oh, far from
that! They were Aunt and Uncle only to Jerry Swaim, the orphaned and
only child of Mrs. Darby's brother Jim, whose charming girlish presence
made the whole community, wherever she might chance to be. They were
cousin, however, to Eugene Wellington, a young artist of more than
ordinary merit, also orphaned and alone, except for a sort of cousinship
with Uncle Cornelius.

"Eden" was a beautifully located and handsomely appointed estate of two
hundred acres, offering large facilities to any photographer seeking
magazine illustrations of country life in America. Indeed, the place
was, as Aunt Jerry Darby declared, "summer and winter, all shot up by
camera-toters and dabbed over with canvas-stretchers' paints," much to
the owner's disgust, to whom all camera-toters and artists, except
Cousin Eugene Wellington, were useless idlers. The rustic little railway
station, hidden by maple-trees, was only three or four good
discus-throws from the house. But the railroad itself very properly
dropped from view into a wooded valley on either side of the station.
There was nothing of cindery ugliness to mar the spot where the dwellers
in "Eden" could take the early morning train for the city, or drop off
in the cool of the afternoon into a delightful pastoral retreat. Beyond
the lawns and buildings, gardens and orchards, the land billowed away
into meadow and pasture and grain-field, with an insert of leafy grove
where song-birds builded an Eden all their own. The entire freehold of
Aunt Jerry Darby and Uncle Cornie, set down in the middle of a Western
ranch, would have been a day's journey from its borders. And yet in it
country life was done into poetry, combining city luxuries and
conveniences with the dehorned, dethorned comfort and freedom of idyllic
nature. What more need be said for this "Eden" into which only the good
little snakes were permitted to enter?

In the late afternoon Aunt Jerry sat in the rose-arbor with her Japanese
work-basket beside her, and a pearl tatting-shuttle between her thumb
and fingers. One could read in a thoughtful glance all there was to know
of Mrs. Darby. Her alert air and busy hands bespoke the habit of
everlasting industry fastened down upon her, no doubt, in a far-off
childhood. She was luxurious in her tastes. The satin gown, the diamond
fastening the little cap to her gray hair, the elegant lace at her
throat and wrists, the flashing jewels on her thin fingers, all
proclaimed a desire for display and the means wherewith to pamper it.
The rest of her story was written on her wrinkled face, where the strong
traits of a self-willed youth were deeply graven. Something in the
narrow, restless eyes suggested the discontented lover of wealth. The
lines of the mouth hinted at selfishness and prejudice. The square chin
told of a stubborn will, and the stern cast of features indicated no
sense of humor whereby the hardest face is softened. That Jerusha Darby
was rich, intolerant, determined, unimaginative, self-centered,
unforgiving, and unhappy the student of character might gather at a
glance. Where these traits abide a second glance is unnecessary.

Outside, the arbor was aglow with early June roses; within, the
cushioned willow seats invite to restful enjoyment. But Jerusha Darby
was not there for pleasure. While her pearl shuttle darted in and out
among her fingers like a tiny, iridescent bird, her mind and tongue were
busy with important matters.

Opposite to her was her husband, Cornelius. It was only important
matters that called him away from his business in the city at so early
an hour in the afternoon. And it was only on business matters that he
and his wife ever really conferred, either in the rose-arbor or
elsewhere. The appealing beauty of the place indirectly meant nothing to
these two owners of all this beauty.

The most to be said of Cornelius Darby was that he was born the son of a
rich man and he died the husband of a rich woman. His life, like his
face, was colorless. He fitted into the landscape and his presence was
never detected. He had no opinions of his own. His father had given him
all that he needed to think about until he was married. "Was married" is
well said. He never courted nor married anybody. He was never courted,
but he was married by Jerusha Swaim. But that is all dried stuff now.
Let it be said, however, that not all the mummies are in Egyptian tombs
and Smithsonian Institutions. Some of them sit in banking-houses all day
long, and go discus-throwing in lovely "Edens" on soft June evenings.
And one of them once, just once, broke the ancient linen wrappings from
his glazed jaws and spoke. For half an hour his voice was heard; and
then the bandages slipped back, and the mummy was all mummy again. It
was Jerry Swaim who wrought that miracle. But then there is little in
the earth, or the waters under the earth, that a pretty girl cannot work
upon.

"You say you have the report on the Swaim estate that the Macpherson
Mortgage Company of New Eden, Kansas, is taking care of for us?" Mrs.
Darby asked.

"The complete report. York Macpherson hasn't left out a detail. Shall I
read you his description?" her husband replied.

"No, no; don't tell me a thing about it, not a thing. I don't want to
know any more about Kansas than I know already. I hate the very name of
Kansas. You can understand why, when you remember my brother. I've known
York Macpherson all his life, him and his sister Laura, too. And I never
could understand why he went so far West, nor why he dragged that lame
sister of his out with him to that Sage Brush country."

"That's because you won't let me tell you anything about the West. But
as a matter of business you ought to understand the conditions
connected with this estate."

"I tell you again I won't listen to it, not one word. He is employed to
look after the property, not to write about it. None of my family ever
expects to see it. When we get ready to study its value we will give due
notice. Now let the matter of description, location, big puffing up of
its value--I know all that Kansas talk--let all that drop here." Jerusha
Darby unconsciously stamped her foot on the cement floor of the arbor
and struck her thin palm flat upon the broad arm of her chair.

"Very well, Jerusha. If Jerry ever wants to know anything about its
extent, agricultural value, water-supply, crop returns, etc., she will
find them on file in my office. The document says that the land in the
Sage Brush Valley in Kansas is now, with title clear, the property of
the estate of the late Jeremiah Swaim and his heirs and assigns forever;
that York Macpherson will, for a very small consideration, be the Kansas
representative of the Swaim heirs. That is all I have to say about it."

"Then listen to me," Mrs. Darby commanded. And her listener--listened.
"Jerry Swaim is Brother Jim and Sister Lesa's only child. She's been
brought up in luxury; never wanted a thing she didn't get, and never
earned a penny in her life. She couldn't do it to save her life. If I
outlive you she will be my heir if I choose to make my will in her
favor. She can be taken care of without that Kansas property of hers.
That's enough about the matter. We will drop it right here for other
things. There's your cousin Eugene Wellington coming home again. He's a
real artist and hasn't any property at all."

A ghost of a smile flitted across Mr. Darby's blank face, but Mrs. Darby
never saw ghosts.

"Of course Jerry and Gene, who have been playmates in the same game all
their lives, will--will--" Mrs. Darby hesitated.

"Will keep on playing the same game," Cornelius suggested. "If that's
all about this business, I'll go and look after the lily-ponds over
yonder, and then take a little exercise before dinner. I'm sorry I
missed Jerry in the city. She doesn't know I am out here."

"What difference if you did? She and Eugene will be coming out on the
train pretty soon," Mrs. Darby declared.

"She doesn't know he's there, maybe. They may miss each other," her
husband replied.

Then he left the arbor and effaced himself, as was his custom, from his
wife's presence, and busied himself with matters concerning the
lily-ponds on the far side of the grounds where pink lotuses were
blooming.

Meantime Jerusha Darby's fingers fairly writhed about her tatting-work,
as she waited impatiently for the sound of the afternoon train from the
city.

"It's time the four-forty was whistling round the curve," she murmured.
"My girl will soon be here, unless the train is delayed by that bridge
down yonder. Plague on these June rains!"

Mrs. Darby said "my girl" exactly as she would have said "my bank
stock," or "my farm." Hers was the tone of complete possession.

"She could have come out in the auto in half the time, the four-forty
creeps so, but the roads are dreadfully skiddy after these abominable
rains," Mrs. Darby continued.

The habit of speaking her thoughts aloud had grown on her, as it often
does on those advanced in years who live much alone. The little vista of
rain-washed meadows and growing grain that lay between tall lilac-trees
was lost to her eyes in the impatience of the moment's delay. What
Jerusha Darby wanted for Jerusha Darby was vastly more important to her
at any moment than the abstract value of a general good or a common
charm.

As she leaned forward, listening intently for the rumble of the train
down in the valley, a great automobile swung through the open gateway of
"Eden" and rounded the curves of the maple-guarded avenue, bearing down
with a birdlike sweep upon the rose-arbor.

"Here I am, Aunt Jerry," the driver's girlish voice called. "Uncle
Cornie is coming out on the train. I beat him to it. I saw the old
engine huffing and puffing at the hill beyond the third crossing of the
Winnowoc. It is bank-full now from the rains. I stopped on that high
fill and watched the train down below me creeping out on the trestle
above the creek. When it got across and went crawling into the cut on
this side I came on, too. I had my hands full then making this big gun
of a car climb that muddy, slippery hill that the railroad cuts through.
But I'd rather climb than creep any old day."

"Jerry Swaim," Mrs. Darby cried, staring up at her niece in amazement,
"do you mean to say you drove out alone over that sideling, slippery
bluff road? But you wouldn't be Lesa Swaim's daughter if you weren't
taking chances. You are your mother's own child, if there ever was one."

"Well, I should hope I am, since I've got to be classified somewhere. I
came because I wanted to," Jerry declared, with the finality of complete
excuse in her tone. All her life what Jerry Swaim had wanted was
abundant reason for her having. "It was dreadfully hot and sticky in the
city, and I knew it would be the bottom deep of mugginess on that
crowded Winnowoc train. The last time I came out here on it I had to sit
beside a dreadful big Dutchman who had an old hen and chickens in a
basket under his feet. He had had Limburger cheese for his dinner and
had used his whiskers for a napkin to catch the crumbs. Ugh!" Jerry gave
a shiver of disgust at the recollection. "An old lady behind us had
'_sky_-atick rheumatiz' and wouldn't let the windows be opened. I'd
rather have any kind of 'rheumatiz' than Limburger for the same length
of time. The Winnowoc special ought to carry a parlor coach from the
city and set it off at 'Eden' like it used to do. The agent let me play
in it whenever I wanted to when I was a youngster. I'm never going to
ride on any train again unless I go in a Pullman."

The girl struck her small gloved fist, like a spoiled child, against the
steering-wheel of her luxuriously appointed car, but her winsome smile
was all-redeeming as she looked down at her aunt standing in the doorway
of the rose-arbor.

"Come in here, Geraldine Swaim. I want to talk to you." Mrs. Darby's
affectionate tones carried also a note of command.

"Means business when she 'Geraldine Swaims' me," Jerry commented,
mentally, as she gave the car to the "Eden" man-of-all-work and followed
her aunt to a seat inside the blossom-covered retreat, where the pearl
shuttle began to grow tatting again beneath the thin, busy fingers.

It always pleased Jerusha Darby to be told that there was a resemblance
between these two. But, although the older woman's countenance was an
open book holding the story of inherited ideas, limited and intensified,
and the young face unmistakably perpetuated the family likeness, yet
Jerry Swaim was a type of her own, not easy to forejudge. In the shadows
of the rose-arbor her hair rippled back from her forehead in dull-gold
waves. One could picture what the sunshine would do for it. Her big,
dark-blue eyes were sometimes dreamy under their long lashes, and
sometimes full of sparkling light. Her whole atmosphere was that of
easeful, dependent, city life; yet there was something contrastingly
definite in her low voice, her firm mouth and square-cut chin. And
beyond appearances and manner, there was something which nobody ever
quite defined, that made it her way to walk straight into the hearts of
those who knew her.

"Where were you in the city to-day?" Mrs. Darby asked, abruptly, looking
keenly at the fair-faced girl much as she would have looked at any other
of her goodly possessions.

"Let me see," Jerry Swaim began, meditatively. "I was shopping quite a
while. The stores are gorgeous this June."

"Yes, and what else?" queried the older woman.

"Oh, some more shopping. Then I lunched at _La Senorita_, that beautiful
new tea-house. Every room represents some nationality in its decoration.
I was in the Delft room--Holland Dutch--whiskers and Limburger"--there
was a gleam of fun in the dark-blue eyes--"but it is restful and
charming. And the service is perfect. Then I strolled off to the Art
Gallery and lost myself in the latest exhibit. Cousin Gene would like
that, I'm sure. It was so cool and quiet there that I stayed a long
time. The exhibit is mostly of landscapes, all of them as beautiful as
'Eden' except one."

There was just a shade of something different in the girl's tone when
she spoke her cousin's name.

"And that one?" Mrs. Darby inquired. She did not object to shopping and
more shopping, but art was getting outside of her dominion.

"It was a desert-like scene; just yellow-gray plains, with no trees at
all. And in the farther distance the richest purples and reds of a
sunset sky into which the land sort of diffused. No landscape on this
earth was ever so yellow-gray, or any sunset ever so like the Book of
Revelation, nor any horizon-line so wide and far away. It was the
hyperbole of a freakish imagination. And yet, Aunt Jerry, there was a
romantic lure in the thing, somehow."

Jerry Swaim's face was grave as she gazed with wide, unseeing eyes at
the vista of fresh June meadows from which the odor of red clover,
pulsing in on the cool west breeze of the late afternoon, mingled with
the odor of white honeysuckle that twined among the climbing rose-vines
above her.

"Humph! What else?" Aunt Jerry sniffed a disapproval of unpleasant
landscapes in general and alluring romances in particular. Love of
romance was not in her mental make-up, any more than love of art.

"I went over to Uncle Cornie's bank to tell him to take care of my
shopping-bills. He wasn't in just then and I didn't wait for him. By
the way"--Jerry Swaim was not dreamy now--"since all the legal
litigations and things are over, oughtn't I begin to manage my own
affairs and live on my own income?"

Sitting there in the shelter of blossoming vines, the girl seemed far
too dainty a creature, too lacking in experience, initiative, or
ability, to manage anything more trying than a big allowance of
pin-money. And yet, something in her small, firm hands, something in the
lines of her well-formed chin, put the doubt into any forecast of what
Geraldine Swaim might do when she chose to act.

Aunt Jerry wrapped the lacy tatting stuff she had been making around the
pearl shuttle and, putting both away in the Japanese work-basket,
carefully snapped down the lid.

"When Jerusha Darby quits work to talk it's time for me to put on my
skid-chains," Jerry said to herself as she watched the procedure.

"Jerry, do you know why I called you your mother's own child just now?"
Mrs. Darby asked, gravely.

"From habit, maybe, you have said it so often." Jerry's smile took away
any suggestion of pertness. "I know I am like her in some ways."

"Yes, but not altogether," the older woman continued. "Lesa Swaim was a
strange combination. She was made to spend money, with no idea of how to
get money. And she brought you up the same way. And now you are grown,
boarding-school finished, and of age, you can't alter your bringing up
any more than you can change your big eyes that are just like Lesa's,
nor your chin that you inherited from Brother Jim. I might as well try
to give you little black eyes and a receding chin as to try to reshape
your ways now. You are as the Lord made you, and Providence molded you,
and your mother spoiled you."

"Well, I don't want to be anything different. I'm happy as I am."

"You won't need to be, unless you choose. But being twenty-one doesn't
make you too old to listen to me--and your uncle Cornie."

In all her life Jerry had never before heard her uncle's name brought in
as co-partner of Jerusha Darby's in any opinion, authority, or advice.
It was an unfortunate slip of the tongue for Uncle Cornie's wife, one of
those simple phrases that, dropped at the right spot, take root and grow
and bear big fruit, whether of sweet or bitter taste.

"Your mother was a dreamer, a lover of romance, and all sorts of
adventures, although she never had a chance to get into any of them.
That's why you went skidding on that sideling bluff road to-day; that
and the fact that she brought you up to have your own way about
everything. But, as I say, we can't change that now, and there's no need
to if we could. Lesa was a pretty woman, but you look like the Swaims,
except right across here."

Aunt Jerry drew her bony finger across the girl's brows, unwilling to
concede any of the family likeness that could possibly be retained. She
could not see the gleam of mischief lurking under the downcast eyelashes
of Lesa Swaim's own child.

"Your father was a good business man, level-headed, shrewd, and
honest"--Mrs. Darby spoke rapidly now--"but things happened in the last
years of his life. Your mother took pneumonia and died, and you went
away to boarding-school. Jim's business was considerably involved. I
needn't bother to tell you about that. It doesn't matter now, anyhow.
And then one night he didn't come home, and the next morning your uncle
found him sitting in his office, just as he had left him the evening
before. He had been dead several hours. Heart failure was what the
doctor said, but I reckon everybody goes of heart failure sooner or
later."

A bright, hard glow came into Jerry Swaim's eyes and the red lips were
grimly pressed together. In the two years since the loss of her parents
the girl had never tried to pray. As time went on the light spirit of
youth had come back, but something went out of her life on the day of
her father's death, leaving a loss against which she stubbornly
rebelled.

"To be plain, Jerry," Mrs. Darby hurried on, "you have your inheritance
all cleared up at last, after two whole years of legal trouble."

"Oh, it hasn't really bothered me," Jerry declared, with seeming
flippancy. "Just signing my name where somebody pointed to a blank line,
and holding up my right hand to be sworn--that's all. I've written my
full name and promised that the writing was mine,'s'welp me Gawd,' as
the court-house man used to say, till I could do either one under the
influence of ether. Nothing really bothersome about it, but I'm glad
it's over. Business is so tiresome."

"It's not so large a fortune, by a good deal, as it would have been if
your father had listened to me." Mrs. Darby spoke vaguely. "But you will
be amply provided for, anyhow, unless you yourself choose to trifle with
your best interest. You and I are the only Swaims living now. Some day,
if I choose, I can will all my property to you."

The square-cut chin and the deep lines around the stern mouth told
plainly that obedience to this woman's wishes alone could make a
beneficiary to that will.

"You may be a dreamer, and love to go romancing around into new scrapes
like your mother would have done if she could. But she was as
soft-hearted as could be, with all that. That's why she never denied you
anything you wanted. She couldn't do a thing with money, though, as I
said, except spend it. You are a good deal like your father, too, Jerry,
and you'll value property some day as the only thing on earth that can
make life anything but a hard grind. If you don't want to be like that
bunch of everlasting grubs that ride on the Winnowoc train every
afternoon, or the poor country folks around here that never ride in
anything but a rickety old farm-wagon, you'll appreciate what I--and
Uncle Cornie--can do for you."

Uncle Cornie again, and he never had shared in any equal consideration
before. It was a mistake.

"There's the four-forty whistling for the curve at last. It's time it
was coming. I must go in and see that dinner is just right. You run down
and meet it. Cousin Eugene is coming out on it. Your uncle Cornie is
here on the place somewhere. He came out after lunch on some business we
had to fix up. No wonder you missed him. But, Jerry"--the stern-faced
woman put a hand on the girl's shoulder with more of command than caress
in the gesture--"Eugene is a real artist with genius, you know."

"Yes, I know," Jerry replied, a sudden change coming into her tone.
"What of that?"

"You've always known him. You like him very much?" Jerusha Darby was as
awkward in sentiment as she was shrewd in a bargain.

The bloom on the girl's cheek deepened as she looked away toward the
brilliantly green meadows across which the low sun was sending rays of
golden light.

"Oh, I like him as much as he likes me, no doubt. I'll go down to the
station and look him over, if you say so."

Beneath the words lay something deeper than speech--something new even
to the girl herself.

As Jerry left the arbor Mrs. Darby said, with something half playful,
half final, in her tone: "You won't forget what I've said about
property, you little spendthrift. You will be sensible, like my sensible
brother's child, even if you are as idealizing as your sentimental
mother."

"I'll not forget. I couldn't and be Jerry Darby's niece," the last added
after the girl was safely out of her aunt's hearing. "My father and
mother both had lots of good traits, it seems, and a few poor ones. I
seem to be really heir to all the faulty bents of theirs, and to have
lost out on all the good ones. But I can't help that now. Not till after
the train gets in, anyhow."

Her aunt watched her till the shrubbery hid her at a turn in the walk.
Young, full of life, dainty as the June blossoms that showered her
pathway with petals, a spoiled, luxury-loving child, with an adventurous
spirit and a blunted and undeveloped notion of human service and divine
heritage, but with a latent capacity and an untrained power for doing
things, that was Jerry Swaim--whom the winds of heaven must not visit
too roughly without being accountable to Mrs. Jerusha Darby, owner and
manager of the universe for her niece.




II

UNCLE CORNIE'S THROW


Jerry was waiting at the cool end of the rustic station when the train
came in. How hot and stuffy it seemed to her as it puffed out of the
valley, and how tired and cross all the bunch of grubs who stared out of
the window at her. It made them ten times more tired and cross and hot
to see that girl looking so cool and rested and exquisitely gowned and
crowned and shod. The blue linen with white embroidered cuffs, the
rippling, glinting masses of hair, the small shoes, immaculately white
against the green sod--little wonder that, while the heir apparent to
the Darby wealth felt comfortably indifferent toward this uninteresting
line of nobodies in particular, the bunch of grubs should feel only envy
and resentment of their own sweaty, muscle-worn lot in life.

Jerry and Eugene Wellington were far up the shrubbery walk by the time
the Winnowoc train was on its way again, unconscious that the passengers
were looking after them, or that the talk, as the train slowly got under
way, was all of "that rich old codger of a Darby and his selfish old
wife"; of "that young dude artist, old Wellington's kid, too lazy to
work"; of "that pretty, frivolous girl who didn't know how to comb her
own hair, Jim Swaim's girl--poor Jim!" "Old Corn Darby was looking
yellow and thin, too. He would dry up and blow away some day if his
money wasn't weighting him down so he couldn't."

At the bend in the walk, the two young people saw Uncle Cornie crossing
the lawn.

"Going to get his discus. He'll have no appetite for dinner unless he
gets in a few dozen slings," the young man declared. "Let's turn in here
at the sign of the roses, Jerry. I'm too lazy to take another step."

"You should have come out with me in the car," Jerry replied as they sat
down in the cool arbor made for youth and June-time. "I didn't know you
were in the city."

"Well, little cousin girl, I'll confess I didn't dare," the young man
declared, boldly. "I've been studying awfully hard this year, and, now
I'm needed to paint The Great American Canvas, I can't end my useful
career under a big touring-car at the bottom of an embankment out on the
Winnowoc bluff road. So when I saw you coming into Uncle Cornie's office
in the bank I slipped away."

"And as to my own risk?" Jerry asked.

"Oh, Jerry Swaim, you would never have an accident in a hundred years.
There's nobody like you, little cousin mine, nobody at all."

Eugene Wellington put one well-formed hand lightly on the small white
hand lying on the wicker chair-arm, and, leaning forward, he looked down
into the face of the girl beside him. A handsome, well-set up, artistic
young fellow he was, fitted to adorn life's ornamental places. And if a
faint line of possible indecision of character might have suggested
itself to the keen-eyed reader of faces, other traits outweighed its
possibility. For his was a fine face, with a sort of gracious gentleness
in it that grows with the artist's growth. A hint of deeper
spirituality, too, that marks nobility of character, added to a winning
personality, put Eugene Wellington above the common class. He fitted the
rose-arbor, in "Eden" and the comradeship of good breeding. When a man
finds his element, all the rest of the world moves more smoothly
therefor.

"Nobody like me," Jerry repeated. "It's a good thing I'm the only one of
the kind. You'd say so if you knew what Aunt Jerry thinks of me. She has
been analyzing me and filing me away in sections this afternoon."

"What's on her mind now?" Eugene Wellington asked, as he leaned
easefully back in his chair.

"She says I am heir--" Jerry always wondered what made her pause there.
Years afterward, when this June evening came back in memory, she could
not account for it.

"Heir to what?" the young artist inquired, a faint, shadowy something
sweeping his countenance fleetly.

    "To all the sphere,
      To the seven stars and the solar year;

also to my father's entire estate that's left after some two years of
litigation. I hate litigations."

"So do I, Jerry. Let's forget them. Isn't 'Eden' beautiful? I'm so glad
to be back here again." Eugene Wellington looked out at the idyllic
loveliness of the place which the rose-arbor was built especially to
command. "Nobody could sin here, for there are no serpents busy-bodying
around in such a dream of a landscape as this. I'm glad I'm an artist,
if I never become famous. There's such a joy in being