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IX.
HE shadows of the waning day were
mixed with the long golden slants of the
setting sun; transfiguring the marble
buildings of the Merrill Mission, with
the soft crayon-like magic of light and
shade. It was the week’s end. Dr.
Frederick Merrill sat in his private of
fice, with his notes for tomorrow’s ser
mon already finished. He had picked
T
up the evening paper to look over the head lines,
when a strong, cheery voice greeted him from the
open doorway.
“Hello!” *
“Good evening, Reece.” Dr. Merrill laid his pa
per on his knee, as he glanced at the handsome, fa
miliar figure that five days of absence had somehow
accentuated with a new sense of dearness.
“Dr. Men-ill,” the young man announced, as he
sat down with his Panama bat in his hands, “I have
come after you. I want you to go with me out
to Lyman Hale’s big bungalow tonight and sleep
in the hill country. You need pure oxygen, and, ac
cidentally, you might catch up with an inspiration
under the country stars; for you can see better out
there what the heavens declare.”
“Can you get me back in time for the morn
ing service?” the doctor enquired eagerly as a boy.
“By 8 a. m., if necessary, Padre.”
“'Give me five minutes, Reece,” Dr. Merrill said,
“with Ely Palmer, our business manager, and let
me tell my wife where I am going. ”
Reece picked up the discarded paper as Dr. Mer
rill left the room; but he did not read a line; for
his whole being was pulsing with the thought of
what he had in his power to bestow. Dr. Merrill
w T as a great man; but he had been heavily handi
capped in his work for humanity. And he had
fought so valiantly and so long, often alone, for
the darling of his heart, the Merrill Mission. His
emancipation would mean so much to the sick and
poor of the community. It would be a home se
cured to them through the oncoming years. Protec
tion, care, deliverance, at the critical time of need!
Surely, it was obliged to be everything to the man
who, like his Master, had carried the sorrows of oth
ers, and who could not be happy while he knew the
least of these was exposed to the storms of fate.
By some strange coincidence Reece was standing
by the window, with his hand on the very chair by
which Dr. Merrill had prayed that night when the
woes of the people had seemed to break his heart,
when the doctor returned to the room. The broad
shoulders were silhouetted in the soft splendor that
filled the window, and the fine face was raised mus
ingly toward a crayon portrait of the Christ, over
the study mantel.
Dr. Merrill sighed. He felt a' psychic vibration,
gentle as a summer breeze, which whispered: “Thy
burden has been transferred to the young man.”
But not yet could he believe.
“I feel strange,” Reece said irrelevantly, as he
and Dr. Merrill went down the marble steps which
led from the Mission terrace to the sidewalk.
“How?” his friend enquired.
“I don’t know, Padre,” he said quietly, “but
just as you came to the office door, I can’t describe
it, but something like I might have felt if the Mas
ter of men had come down from the wall and blessed
us.”
Dr. Merrill touched the young physician’s arm.
“And I also,” he said softly, “felt an indescrib
able awe as I entered the room.”
They climbed into the motor car then, and it was
perhaps characteristic of both men, that neither
spoke again until they reached the suburbs of the
city.
“Lyman ’phoned to his butler and cook,” Reece
'explained, as his machine climbed a hill, “that he
must be sure and give us a royal supper. The
butler and cook, is the cook and the butler.”
THZ MISSION GIRL
<
"8y Odessa Strickland Payne,
Author of "Psyche, ” "Esther FerraU’s Experiment, ” Etc.
The Golden Age for July 23, 1908.
“If I find more than one nigger in the woodpile,”
said Dr. Merrill, “I will be surprised, Son.” He
took a cigar from his coat pocket, and lighted it in
spite of the gale that the red motor was creating.
Reece’s eyes gleamed behind his goggles.
“Bless the considerate young man,” said Dr. Mer
rill, thinking of Lyman and the promised supper.
The tang of the wind was giving him an appetite.
“Wait till we see the menu, Padre,” warned
Reece, as his red motor began to circle other ma
chines, out for the pleasure of the spin.
“By the way,” continued the chauffeur, as he
flanked a carriage, “what do you consider a good
count ry s u pper ? ’’
“Fried chicken,” said Dr. Merrill.
“I am with you, Padre,” said the chauffeur, with
a smile, “I am that much of a preacher.”
Dr. Merrill blew an amused ring of smoke into the
keen, wholesome air.
“Light biscuits,” he continued, thoughtfully,
“sliced tomatoes, big and red, creamed potatoes,
pound cake and peaches, rice and red gravy. . . ”
“Ring off, Padre,” admonished the chauffeur,
whose mouth was beginning to water, “you take
my mind off my serious business.”
“Keep out of the ditch, Reece,” coached the
doctor, “keep out of the ditch,” as the red motor
gave three farm wagons a more than generous
margin.
“I hope that Jerry has not been working hard in
the truck farm today, and that he will feel like
playing host to his master’s guests,” Reece said.
“I have spent some glorious nights at the bunga
low. I tell Lyman that his invitations always come
at the right psychological moment. The bungalow
is really the best antidote I know for the scalpel.
Sometimes my subjects haunt me —when they die
under the knife —(it has occurred twice) ; then I
vow I never will perform another operation. ’ ’
“And yet,” Dr. Merrill said in a musing tone,
some surgeons seem totally devoid of human sym
pathy.”
“They are, Dr. Merrill,” Reece replied. “I
know a few who are as callous as country butchers.
I sometimes think they would cut out your immortal
soul, if they could find it, for the money.”
“Reece!”
“I beg your pardon,” the young man answered,
“but however shocked you are, it is simply the
truth. Commercialism of the horrifying variety is
not confined to the business marts of trade; but has
its unholy ramifications in all professions.”
“Keep your heart, Reece,” Dr. Merrill said with
gracious tenderness, “for out of it indeed are the
issues of life.”
“No man can respect himself,” his companion
replied, “who does not make the effort. But it
is difficult, Padre, sometimes, very difficult.”
They had left the city far behind, and had
flashed through green valleys and forest-covered
hills, before they turned off into a white, settle
ment road, that led them to “The Bungalow,” as
the country home of Lyman Hale was designated.
The machine slowed up near a little rustic arbor
and bridge; and Reece, jumping out, took a long
handled gourd from a large oak tree and flourished
it around his head.
“The country, Padre!” he said with the delight
of a boy. “And water as limpid and cool as the
hills and dews of heaven can make it.”
He handed Dr. Merrill a drink, and then pointed
up a broad avenue which led to the top of a pine
crested hill, on which the bungalow, with its wide
veranda, log-pillared, was picturesquely perched.
The moon was just rising over the encircling hills;
and the sylvan picture presented an entrancing out
look to their tired city eyes. The avenue was grad
ed, but it was a stiff climb for the red motor. Dr.
Men’ill and Reece sighed with relief as the car
reached the veranda.
“That was a hill test.” said the chauffeur as he
whistled shrilly. A negro wearing a white cap and
apron came out of a side door.
“Hello, Jerry,” Reece said cordially.
“Howdy, Marse Reece,” the man returned with
a grin, “I sho is glad ter see yer, an’ yer frien’.
Marse Lyman foamed yer wus er cumin’ an’ their
aint bin anybody ter this bungaloo in so long. I
wus almos’ tired of th’ birds.”
He took their hand bags, and ushered them hospi
tably into the great living room.
“Marse Lyman settin’ room,” he said, with a ges
ture that included everything. “Make yerselves ter
home for yer sho is welcome to Camp Log.”
“Camp Log,” mused Dr. Redmond. He had
thought that the place was known as “The Bunga
low.” But it was not an essential point.
“Supper is ready to serve, suh, when yu all is
ready fur it,” said Jerry, as he retired to the
kitchen.
Reece ushered Dr. Merrill into an adjoining bed
room, which was simply furnished with two white
iron beds and a maple wood dressing case and wash
stand. The curtains at the window were of green
and white creton, the floors were of unpainted pine,
and the whole aspect of the room was clean and
inviting. When they had made their ablutions, they
went back to the sitting room.
The logs denuded of the bark, and about two
feet apart, were under the ceiling in this room. The
book shelves were of the same natural wood and
also unpainted; the vari-colors of the book backs
showing conspicuously in the scheme of things. A
table made of white wood rested on four gnarled
posts; and a green lounge and white oak rocking
chairs, completed the original furniture. The wide
fireplace held brass dogs, that were polished until
they shone like gold above the unlit oak logs. Over
the high pine mantel were hung two football pen
nants of blue and yellow, under a water color study
of half bare autumnal woods, with a glimp.se of a
lake with gray-green banks in the foreground, and
a dim far-off horizon that was like a dream of
rest. The curtains of the living room were of plain
cream net, and the glory of the star-shine was visible
through the meshes. A quaint Persian lamp was
suspended from the center of the room, and over
the door was a gun rack which held a musket and
a powder horn, swinging by a cord of scarlet.
“How restful,” Dr. Merrill said as he sank down
in a deep chair, “it looks like the Simple Life,
Reece, and it lavs our complex existence entirely in
the background.”
“I feel that way about it,” Reece answered.
“But wait, Doctor, until we get out on the front
veranda, and then you will realize that the half has
not been told.”
The supper menu proved to be wonderfully like
the one they had discussed on the way, and Jerry
served it as only Jerry could serve. As they came
from the dining rom and crossed the threshold of
the living room, Reece turned to Dr. Merrill and
said in a careless tone:
“I wish you to take a look at my bank book, Doc
tor, under this Persian lamp; then we will go out
on the front porch, and smoke and talk like free
American citizens.”
Dr. Merrill smiled, curious and amused.
“Reece,” he enquired genially, after he had
taken in the figures, $115,000, “how does it feel to
be really rich ? I never had that much money to my
personal credit in my life.”
“Come outside, and I’ll tell you,” Reece ans
wered.
When they were seated in the great rocking chairs
on the veranda, they were silent for awhile, taking
in the picture made by the ample theater of the
hills, rising one above the other to the starlit hea
vens. The peace of the scene was perfect, the
moon swung low in a silver crescent on the horizon,
and there was no sound to disturb the silence, except
(Continued on Page 7.)
