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12 The TWILIGHT <yf OPPORTUNITY PART TWO. IV. In a remote village among the moorlands of Scot land, Sanderson and his wife found a cottage of very ancient build, which they leased for the sum mer. Their meals were to be furnished from the neighboring inn. All communication with the out side world was to cease entirely. Sanderson had come to Scotland as a last resort. It was the country of his ancestors; and he felt that there, if anywhere, the spirit of inspiration which had eluded him in Venice, in Paris, in the quietest suburb of London, might be coaxed into service. One morning he took a light lunch with him and started out on one of his rambles. As Esther watched him disappear over the low hilLcrest in front of the house, something in his manner warned her that lie was going out to face the crisis; that if this time he came back empty-handed, he need never search again. The hours dragged along, one leaden link following another until the chain became almost black. The summer twilight lingered late on the downs and in the red southwest; but at last it faded into a purp lish gray. The clock on the rough mantel struck ten. She lit the lamp and waited. At half past he appeared, shuffling slowly over the crest of the hill. His cap was drawn over his eyes, his head bent forward. She caught one distinct silhouette of him before he plunged into the gloom of the descent; a few minutes later, he was at the door. She knew, even before she saw his face, ■what he had to tell her. She went forward and put her anrs about his neck. He received her caresses with passive thankful ness, but returned them mechanically. He sank into a chair and passed his hands over his eyes with a queer smile. “Were you worried about me?” he inquired, in a voice that strove to be commonplace. “Not much, dear. Just a little. It was so late, and you had been gone twelve hours. . . . Sit right here, now, and rest yourself while I get you a little supper. I kept it on the oil-stove for you.” “I don’t want anything,” he remarked; but she went ahead as if he had not spoken. He sat there in silence, his arm hanging lax at his side. Every now and then the middle finger would twitch conclusively. 'She poured his coffee and sat the buttered toast in order on the little table. “Esther,” he said at length, “suppose we sail for home next week.” She did not answer. “Because,” he pursued, “there’s no use in staying here any longer—that is, on my account. I give up. It’s gone.” “Gone—what?” she asked; though it was plain thnt she knew. “The—the Message,” he replied, dully. “I can’t remember it. I waited so long. . . .You see, it’s this way, Esther. I buried my talent, and He who gave it to me has taken it away.” He sat with his head sunk forward. The food lay untasted before him. She passed her cool fingers gent ly through his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. It was the old, sweet touch—more tender, more thrilling with sympathy, than ever before. It soothed him, body and mind and soul, like a benign galvanism. When she spoke—Sanderson never could tell how long the silence lasted—it was as if another Self were voicing his own thoughts. “Let’s make the best of what we have left, dear,” she said. “We are not old, yet. You have half your life—more than half of it, perhaps—before you. Your great world-Message may be gone, as you say; but don’t you believe that there are little messages little heart-messages for people all around you— that you can give without putting pen to paper? Isn’t there a cheerless life somewhere that you could brighten? Isn’t there somebody who needs a again. The Golden Age for March 29, 1906. B y William Hurd Hillyer kind word now and then? Every day, isn’t there somebody? . . . Don’t let’s think any more about what we can’t do, but let’s think of what we can do —you and I; because I can help you with that kind of a message. Come, now; let the old schemes go; and let’s begin all over again. Won’t you, Richard?” He made no answer in words. He drew her close to him until her cheek touched his own. Like hers, it was wet with tears. V. When people heard that Richard Sanderson had bought back the business that he had sold but the year before, they wagged their heads and remarked, “I thought as much. I knew he could not stay out of the game.” And when they saw how his manner had sobered and how gray he was about the temples, they surmised that he had found the business a much poorer one than when he left it. They were mistaken. The business was as pros perous as ever, the causes of the change in the millionaire’s face lay far deeper than gross profits. Conway could have told them that Sanderson called Conway into the office about a month after the former’s return, and kept him a full minute without speaking. He stood in his usual mute attitude, did Conway, not a muscle moving. “Mr. Conway,” began Sanderson. The foreman started. For only once before had he been thus addressed by his employer—who al ways omitted the prefix—and that was on the oc casion of the only reprimand that he had ever received in that office. “Mr. Conway, how would you like a vacation?” The question was an awkward one. Possibly if iSanderson had taken time to think he would not have made it thus direct. During the nine years of his service in Sanderson & Company’s fac tory, Conway had never, in the true sense of the word, boasted such a thing as a vacation. Sander son’s question was the result of momentary impulse, guiltless of any posible sarcasm. He had sum moned Conway on a matter of business, and what he had meant to say, up to the instant that the foreman came, was something quite different. It was in that instant, as the tired, toil-worn face appeared in the doorway, the honest eyes a trifle more feverish than usual, that Sanderson remem bered the promise he had made to Esther there in 'Scotland, on the evening when he had given up all hope of finding his lost Message. “Some cheerless life that you can brighten!” Her words shot through him with a new meaning. He had indeed made a few perfunctory efforts to fulfill them, but those beginnings had been soon overwhelmed by the huge absorbing tide of business. And here it was, at his very door, within his own factory—here it had been for nine years and every working day in the year; the story of hope deferred, of ambi tions crumbled, of long and faithful toil with only a bare living for the loved ones. Sanderson had long ago advanced the foreman’s pay to a respect able figure—that is, in the estimation of himself and his fellow-employers—and took it for granted that on SIOO per month Conway could support his family in comfort and lay aside a goodly amount for old age. The millionaire had never troubled to inquire why it was—even this much he had learned by accident—that when it came Conway’s turn to avail himself of the annual seven days’ “vacation” allowed to all regular employees, he never left town at all, but usually did some special drafting work in an engineeer’s office. “A vacation?” echoed the astonished foreman, “Why, I’ve already had mine this year, sir.” “I don’t mean that,” retutrned the other man, with a deprecating gesture. “I mean a regular out ing—a month or so.” Conway’s pale cheeks flushed just a little as he answered: “I should certainly like one, Mr, Sanderson, if— if it could be arranged.” moving. (IN TWO PUKTS) “No trouble about that. Barton can take your place while you are gone; the dull season will be on in a few days. As for the money part of it, you can leave that to me. I will give you trans portation to any point within five hundred miles, and you can draw on me up to three hundred dol lars for your other expenses.” “I hardly know how to thank you, sir,— ” began the foreman, with quiet dignity. “No thanks are required,” cut in his employer. “You have done some good work for the company, that’s all.” . . Let me know tomorrow where you want a ticket to—or tickets, rather, —I believe that you would like to have Mrs. Conway ” “Yes, sir,” assented the foreman, with a dubious ness that Sanderson did not understand. “I would be glad if Mrs. Conway could go with me. I think it would do her good.” He twisted a button on his shirt-front. “But it’s just this way. You see, our little Amy . . . The boys could stay with their grandfather, but Amy . . . I’m afraid her mother couldn’t leave her. How would it do,” he added hastily, “for us to stay only three weeks, and take her along, too?” “Is Amy your little girl ? Has she been sick?” “Yes, sir, she’s been worse, here lately. She has never been well, you know.” Sanderson did not know, but he kept this fact to himself. “'She never did walk much,” continued the other man, “and last winter she got worse. We have to lift her into her chair. I got a rolling chair for her last fall, and Tom rolls her out on the porch,— and on the sidewalk, too, when the weather is fine. But I have to help him with that. We’ve had so much rain recently, though, that she hasn’t been out at all for two months. Doctor says that’s why she’s worse. He’s afraid now that she’ll never . .” During this recital, Sanderson’s lips had been drawing closer and closer together, as with a kind of an inverted avarice. He now pursed them into a whistling attitude, and drew a piece of paper from a pigeonhole in his desk. He scribbled a few words with his fountain pen and handed the paper to Conway. “Take that to Dr. Sachard,” he said, quietly. “You know where to find him—in the Globe Trust Building. Tell him to do what he can for your little girl. Tell him to spare no expense—charge it to my account. Get out of this factory as soon as the whistle blows, and take her wherever he advises. Draw on me up to a thousand dollars. If you need more, let me know.” “You are certainly kind, Mr. Sanderson,” said the foreman, his voice curiously choked. “I don’t know how I can ever repay ” \on can repay it without any trouble—every dollar of it. I expect to advance your salary 50 per cent when you get back, and you can pay me 25 per cent of the increase until you square your account.” He wheeled around to his desk, thus signifying that the interview was closed. “Thank you, sir,” said the foreman, slowly. Deep down in his eyes burned a wonderful new fire, un quenched by the tears that overflowed them as he turned to the door. Two weeks later, Conway returned. He entered the office very quietly, and stood with colorless face before his employer. “Back already?” inquired Sanderson, looking up in surprise. “Your little girl is not worse?” ° “She is dead,” answered the foreman. “She hadn t been there but a few days. The doctor said if she could only have gone last year . . . But she enjoyed the trees and flowers. She told me to thank you, sir.” He stopped, unable to say more. He stared ahead of him with dry, suffering eyes while listening to his employer’s futile words of condolence. M hen he was gone Richard Sanderson sat think ing—bitterly thinking—of the wasted daylight,