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2 HAL ELLSWORTH’S SAVINGS SANK AY ELLSWORTH opened the door of the cozy kitchen where her mother was preparing supper; her cheeks were glow ing from the biting wind outside. “Cakes!” she sniffed happily. “How good they smell! But, oh, mother,” drawing off her coat and gloves excited ly, “I have the most wonderful news to tell you! What do you think! Miss [fl Hill is going to leave the store, and Mr. Bascom is having to find another bookkeeper, and today when he was telling us about it, he said to me, ‘May, don’t you know bookkeeping?’ Mother, you can’t think how I felt —I couldn’t say a word —I just shook my head, and I suppose he thought there was something the matter; for as he turned aw T ay he said, ‘Come into my office.’ And when I went, he asked me didn’t I take the bookkeeping course at school, and I told him only the first half —that after father’s death 1 couldn’t go back any more. I don’t know how I came to do it, but before I knew it I was telling him how dreadfully I wanted to go to school to finish that course more than anything else, so that I could help you to take care of the children, and —■ ’ ’ The mother’s hand shook as she examined the browning cakes, and a tear glistened on her cheek in the ruddy gleam of the firelight. • “My little girl!” she murmured. “But, oh, little mother, there’s no need to cry now, for listen to the wonderful news —you haven’t heard yet! —and say, if Mr. Bascom isn’t the best man in the world! He spoke of father and of you, and called me a good girl, and then he said Will had done very well in the store these two weeks that he has been trying him, and though he is so young he would take him regularly from this on at my salary so that I could go to school, ‘ And when you have finished,’ he said, ‘you shall be our bookkeeper’ —mother, do you know that means we shall have sixty dollars a month —that instead of seven and a half a week I shall earn fifteen! Why, w’e shall be rich! ’ ’ Mrs. Ellsworth looked at her daughter with shin ing eyes. “Heaven bless that good man!” she said. ‘‘ My dear child —my good little girl! ’ ’ It was a happy little family that gathered about that simple board, and when the meal was over and the table clear, mother and daughter sat down to talk over the good fortune. “Let me put on plenty of coal, mother,” said May; “I feel as if we will never have to stint so any more. ’' And she piled it up until the room was as warm and cheerful as prosperity itself. “There is the twenty dollars you have saved,” remarked Mrs. Ellsworth. “That will pay for your books and incidental expenses. How good it is you have it!” May laughed happily. “You remember how sleepy I would get over those ruches and collars, and how little it was each one brought; it didn’t seem worth sitting up for when I was so tired after being at the store all day. And you know, mother, I never would have saved a cent of it but for you. If you hadn’t started me at putting the nickels and dimes into that dear little bank, I wouldn’t have a penny now for books.” She got up and reaching to a hid-away corner in the closet brought it forth. How heavy it was, and so full the coins would scarcely jingle the least bit! It was pleasant to hold it, and she sat down with it in her lap. “Hist!” the mother held up her hand, an anxious look on her face. “Whose voices are those? I do wish Will would come in when night falls; here it is nine o’clock, and he has had no supper. I miss the father’s hand to help—” “It’s no use, Will,” some one was saying out side the window, “it’s a clear case. The money was there in the drawer, and there was no one else could have gotten it.” May looked at her mother’s face growing white and set as she scarcely seemed to breathe while she listened. “Now, it’s either to put it back tonight and have the matter hushed up,” the gruff, friendly voice went on, “or I must arrest you like any other thief.” The Golden Age for April 25, 1907. By Florence L. Tucker, “I tell you I didn’t get the money”—they recognized the boyish treble, subdued and sullen. May sprang to the door and threw it open. “What is this?” she cried; “Will, what is the matter?” The stalwart form of the policeman advanced in to the patch of light that streamed out; he had the slinking boy by the arm. “Come in!” commanded the girl as the wind nearly took her off her feet, and they entered the room where the trembling mother sat too weak to rise. “Will!” —she tried to say, but it was only a faint, dry sob. “I’m sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Ellsworth,” said the officer. “We wanted the boy to give up the money and have the whole affair hushed up without you and Miss May knowin’ nothin’ about it. It was six o’clock before the theft was discov ered, and I’ve been these three hours fiindin’ him, and tryin’ to get him to come across with the amount, but I reckon it’s as he says, he hain’t got it, for he had been with them pals of his two solid hours when I found him. Mr. Bascom will hate this; he didn’t want you —” ‘ ‘ Mr. Bascom! ’ ’ May stood erect in the middle of the floor, her slender figure tense, her eyes burn ing. Then the red crept to her lips; suffused her face. “How much was it?” she asked in a tone so dead the man regarded her curiously. “Twenty-six dollars, even,” he said, reluctantly. “Mother,” she turned mechanically, “the six dollars you had put away for the rent —and here is the twenty,” picking the little bank up from the chair where she had laid it on going to the door. “Mr. Scruggs,” she said, putting it into his hands, “I had not expected to go to the store tomorrow. Mr. Bascom told me this morning he would give Will a place at my salary. I was to tell Will to night. But now’, will you do me the kindness to tell Mr. Bascom that I will be there tomorrow as usual ? ’ ’ The strain was too much, she reeled and would have fallen had not the kind-hearted man caugld her in his arms and laid her on the couch. It was no longer any place for him. He looked at the half swooning girl, the sorrow-stricken mother leaning over her, and the youth, shame-faced and defiant, sulking in the shadow; and at eleven o’clock the merchant, seated in his private office, was hav ing a detailed account of the whole pitiable affair. “Scruggs,” said the rich man, “you remember when you and Ellsworth and I went to our first school together. That was a long time ago, and since then the most of us fellows that were in that grade have come to the present time by different and divergent paths, or dropped out. Poor Ells worth’s career was not to be long, nor, as the world counts it, successful. But he was a good fellow’, we all remember that, and married one of the finest girls in town. That boy of his is not bad; he is only weak, and since his father is gone has gotten in with a crowd that will be his ruin if he is not rescued. We must keep an eye on him, Scruggs—• you can, maybe, save him from going too far; a friendly officer is sometimes the best friend a fool boy can have. As for the girl, I will stand by her! ’ ’ You look after the boy and I’ll take care of the girl. ’ ’ When the man had gone he sat looking at the childish bank and the little pile of silver. “Their rent,” he muttered, “and not half enough, either. Poor child! Her savings to go for that young scamp, to shield him from disgrace, and the family name from dishonor! Gad, but things are not fair, and what’s the use to try to even ’em up?” But May was not back in the store on the morrow’, though the merchant did not know it, being sud denly called away for several days. There was little sleep in the Ellsworth home that night; wide eyed and stricken to the heart the mother lay gaz ing into darkness hardly darker to her than seem ed the future of her and her children, and May, the child who was her comfort and her hope, May lay tossing in a fever which rose higher and higher as the night wore on. The morning found her de lirious, talking wildly of school and the store, and once throwing her hands over her face, as she cried: “Oh, no, not a thief! Take my money, but don’t let my brother be called a thief! Oh. I did want so to go to school! Sixty dollars —it was too much! ’ ’ The mother hung over her, ministering and weep ing, and the little children sat around silent and awed; for three days the doctor came and went, and consciousness returned not to the sick girl; the brother, unable to endure longer the misery he had wrought, had slunk away, no one knew whither. On the evening of that day, Mr. Bascom had just returned from his trip and sat m conference with his head clerk. “It looks, sir,” said the clerk, “as though there will have to be another sales-girl. May Ellsworth has not reported since Monday. Some of the girls are saying that she was taken suddenly and vio lently ill on Monday night, and has been delirious ever since. Nor has her brother been to the store. No word has come, and I see no use in holding places for people who are too indifferent even to report. ’ ’ “That will do,” said Mr. Bascom, sternly, get ting into his top-coat as he spoke, “w T e will talk over matters further tomorrow.” Making all the time that he could, and reproach ing himself as he went, it was nine o’clock before he was seated with Mrs. Ellsworth in her tiny sit ting-room. The widow’, with patiently folded hands and grief-laden eyes, answered his questions. He knew her poverty and the shame her son had brought on her; and with the agonizing anxiety for her sick child, words would not come —he had to ask to learn what he would know. “So,” he said, holding the little bank in his hand, “this she made working nights, after being on her feet in the store from eight till six o’clock? Months she w’as saving it, and now it becomes mine, not for value received, but mine to pay a debt she had nothing to do with incurring. Mrs. Ellsworth, if I were not a man I could shed tears over this little toy. Yes, it is mine, to do with as I will, and I want to ask you to give it to May to have just as she had it before this unfortunate occur rence, and to spend as she would have spent it. I would like to give her the books, but she will prefer to buy them with her own money. And I have a proposition to make to you for her. It is only business, and I, as w’ell as she, will be the gainer in the end. I have offered your daughter the position of bookkeeper with a salary of sixty dollars per month when she shall have equipped herself to fill the place. Suppose, now, instead of beginning six months hence to draw sixty dollars, we let her have her usual thirty per month while she is at school, and for the first six months after her return to us in the capacity of bookkeeper, give her only thirty instead of the sixty she W’ould have drawn? It is merely an advance, and at the end of the year, we are repaid. “I don’t mind saying that if May proves as com petent as I believe she will, and our business con tinues to grow, at the beginning of next year she will be entitled to an advance. “I will take it for granted the proposition w’ill meet with acceptance, and have a check for the current month mailed her tomorrow.” And with expressions of sympathy and interest the merchant took his leave. “Mother,” called a faint voice from the sick chamber, whose door stood ajar; “Mother,” whis pered May as Mrs. Ellsworth softly approached the bed, “what does all this mean? Have I been sick? I heard what Mr. Bascom was saying.” “I thought you were asleep,” replied the mother gently. “Yes, my little girl has been sick, but will soon be well again. Go to sleep, now.” “Yes, I can go to school, now,” she murmured, and closing her eyes like a tired child, sank into beautiful slumber. “Dear God,” breathed the mother, as she slipped silently to her knees, “I thank thee for all thy goodness, and, oh, I bless thee for mv good, good child!”