The Guarded Heights & The Straight Path. Charles Wadsworth Camp

figure, or the features, lovely and intolerant, that had brought about this revolution in his life. He acknowledged now that he had looked forward each day to those hours of proximity and contemplation; and there had been from the first, he guessed, adoration in his regard.

      It was no time to dwell on the sentimental phase of his situation. He despised himself for still loving her. His approaching departure he must accept gladly, since he designed it as a means of coming closer—close enough to hurt.

      He wondered if he would have one more glimpse of her, perhaps in the house. He glanced at his watch. He could go at last. He started for the lights. Would he see her?

      At the corner of the building he hesitated before a fresh dilemma. His logical entrance lay through the servants' quarters, but he squared his shoulders and crossed the terrace. It was impossible now that he should ever enter the house in which she lived by the back door.

      It was a warm night, so the door stood open. The broad spaces of the hall, the rugs, the hangings, the huge chairs, the portraits in gilt frames against polished walls, the soft, rosy light whose source he failed to explore, seemed mutely to reprove his presumption.

      He rang. He did not hear the feet of the servant who answered. The vapid man that had trotted for his father that afternoon suddenly shut off his view.

      "You must wear rubbers," George said.

      "What you doing here? Go 'round to the back."

      "Mr. Planter," George explained, patiently, "sent for me."

      "All right. All right. Then go 'round to the back where you belong."

      George reached out, caught the other's shoulder, and shoved him to one side. While the servant gave a little cry and struggled to regain his balance, George walked in. A figure emerged painfully from an easy chair in the shadows by the fireplace.

      "What's all this, Simpson?"

      The polished voice gave the impression of overcoming an impediment, probably a swollen lip.

      "It's young Morton, Mr. Lambert," Simpson whined. "I told him to go to the back door where he belongs."

      "What an idea!" Lambert drawled. "Enter, Mr. Morton. My dear Mr. Morton, what is the occasion? What can we do for you? I must beg you to excuse my appearance. I had a trifling argument with my new hunter this afternoon."

      George grinned.

      "Must be some horse."

      None the less, he felt a bruise. It would have been balm to destroy Lambert's mocking manner by a brusque attack even in this impressive hall.

      "Your father sent for me."

      "Shall I put him out, sir?" Simpson quavered.

      Lambert burst into a laugh.

      "I shouldn't try it. We can't afford too many losses in one day. Go away, Simpson, and don't argue with your betters. You might not be as clever as I at explaining the visible results. I'll take care of Mr. Morton."

      Simpson was bewildered.

      "Quite so, sir," he said, and vanished.

      "My father," Lambert said, "is in the library—that first door. Wait. I'll see if he's alone."

      Painfully he limped to the door and opened it, while George waited, endeavouring not to pull at his cap.

      "Father," Lambert said, smoothly, "Mr. Morton is calling."

      A deep voice, muffled by distance, vibrated in the hall.

      "What are you talking about?"

      Lambert bowed profoundly.

      "Mr. Morton from the lodge."

      George stepped close to him.

      "Want me to thrash you again?"

      Lambert faced him without panic.

      "I don't admit that you could, but, my dear—George, I'm too fatigued to-night to find out. Some day, if the occasion should arise, I hope I may. I do sincerely."

      He drew the door wide open, and stepped aside with a bow that held no mockery. A white-haired, stately woman entered the hall, and, as she passed, cast at George a glance curiously lacking in vitality. In her George saw the spring of Sylvia's delicacy and beauty. Whatever Old Planter might be this woman had something from the past, not to be acquired, with which to endow her children. George resented it. It made the future for him appear more difficult. Her voice was in keeping, cultured and unaffected.

      "Mr. Planter is alone, Morton. He would like to see you."

      She disappeared in a room opposite. George took a deep breath.

      "On that threshold," Lambert said, kindly, "I've often felt the same way, though I've never deserved it as you do."

      George plunged through and closed the door.

      The room was vaster than the hall, and darker, impressing him confusedly with endless, filled book-shelves; with sculpture; with a difficult maze of furniture. The only light issued from a lamp on a huge and littered table at the opposite end.

      At first George glanced vainly about, seeking the famous man.

      "Step over here, Morton."

      There was no denying that voice. It came from a deep chair whose back was turned to the light. It sent to George's heart his first touch of fear. He walked carefully across the rugs and around the table until he faced the figure in the chair. He wanted to get rid of his cap. He couldn't resist the temptation to pull at it; and only grooms and stable boys tortured caps.

      The portly figure in evening clothes was not calculated to put a culprit at ease. Old Planter sat very straight. The carefully trimmed white side whiskers, the white hair, the bushy brows above inflamed eyes, composed a portrait suggestive of a power relentless and not to be trifled with. George had boasted he was as good as any one. He knew he wasn't as good as Old Planter; their disparity of attainment was too easily palpable. No matter whether Old Planter's success was worthy, he had gone out into the world and done things. He had manipulated railroads. He had piled up millions whose number he couldn't be sure of himself. He had built this house and all it stood for. What one man had done another could. George stopped pulling at his cap. He threw it on the table as into a ring. His momentary fear died.

      "You sent for me, sir."

      The mark of respect flowed naturally. This old fellow was entitled to it, from him or any one else.

      The bass voice had a dynamic quality.

      "I did. This afternoon you grossly and inexcusably insulted my daughter. It will be necessary to speak of her to you just once more. That's why I told your father to send you. If I were younger it would give me pleasure to break every bone in your body."

      The red lips opened and shut with the precision of a steel trap. They softened now in a species of smile.

      "I see, Morton, you had a little argument with a horse this afternoon."

      George managed to smile back.

      "Nothing to speak of, sir."

      "I wish it had been. I take a pleasure in punishing you. It isn't biblical, but it's human. I'm only sorry I can't devise a punishment to fit the crime."

      "It was no crime," George said bravely, "no insult."

      "Keep your mouth shut. Unfortunately I can't do much more than run you away from here, for I don't care to evict your parents from their home for your folly; and they do not support you. Mr. Evans will pay you off in the morning with a month's extra wages."

      "I won't take a cent I haven't earned," George said.

      Old Planter studied him with more curiosity.

      "You're a queer livery stable boy."

      "I'm banking on that," George said, willing the other should make what he would of it.

      "It's there if you wish it,"