the resolution helped him through the summer. it was a pleasant summer, and yet a trying one. it was the first time he had ever done work of which the essence lay in satisfying individuals. in his market jobs the job had been the thing. even if done at somebody's order, it was judged by its success, or by its lack of it. his work at the inn-club brought him hourly into contact with men and women to whom it was his duty to be specially, and outwardly deferential. he sprang to open the door for them when they entered or left the car; he touched his hat to them whenever they gave him an order. his bearing, his manner of address, formed a part of his equipment only second to his capacity to drive.

to this he had no objection. it only seemed odd that while it was his business to be courteous to others it was nobody's business to be courteous to him. some people were. they used toward him those little formalities of "please" and "thank you" which were a matter of course toward one another. they didn't command; they requested. others, on the contrary, never requested. if their nerves or their digestions were not in good order, they felt at liberty to call him a damn fool, or if they were ladies, to find fault foolishly. whatever the injustice, it was his part to keep himself schooled to the apologetic atti

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tude, ready to be held in the wrong when he knew he was in the right. though he had never heard of the english principle that you may be rude if you choose to your equals, but never rude to those in a position lower than your own, he felt its force instinctively. his humble place in the world's economy entitled him to a courtesy which few people thought it worth their while to show.

apart from this he had nothing to complain of. he made good money, as the phrase went, his wages augmented by his tips. he took his tips without shame, since he did much to please his clients beyond what he was paid for. his relation with them being personal, he could see well enough that only in tips could they make him any recognition. with the staff in the house he got on very well, especially with the waitresses, all six of them girls working their way through radcliffe, wellesley, or vassar. they chaffed him in an easy-going way, one of them calling him her hercules, another her charlemagne because of his height, while to a third he was her siegfried. when he had no work in the evenings, and their dining-room duties were over, he took them for drives among the mountains. writing to honey, he said that what with the air, the food, the fun, and the outdoor life, he was never before in such splendid shape.

honey was his one anxiety, though an anxiety which troubled him only now and then.

"go to it, lad," had been his response when tom had told him of mr. ansley's proposition. "with eighty dollars a month for all summer, and yer keep throwed in, yer ought to save two hundred."

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"you're sure you won't be lonesome, honey?"

honey made a scornful exclamation. "lord love yer, kid, if i was ever goin' to be lonesome i'd 'a begun before now. lonesome! me! that's a good 'un!"

and yet on the sunday of his departure tom noticed a forced strain in honey's gayety. it was a sunday because tom was to drive the car up to new hampshire in the afternoon to begin his first week on the monday. honey was in clamorous spirits, right up to an hour before the boy left.

then he seemed to go flat. pump up his humor as he would, it had no zest in it. when it came to the last handshake he grinned feebly, but couldn't, or didn't, speak. tom drove away with a question in his mind as to whether or not, in honey's professions of a steeled heart, there was not some bravado.

in driving through nashua he saw maisie. it had been agreed that she should meet him by the roadside, at the end of the town toward lowell, and go on with him till he struck the country again. they not only did this, but got out at a druggist's to spend a half hour over ice-cream sodas.

picking up the dropped threads of intercourse was not so easy as they had expected. it was hard for tom to make himself believe that in this pretty little thing, all in white with pink roses in her hat, he was talking to his future wife. since the fervor of his first love letter there had been a slight shift in his point of view. without being able to locate the change, he felt that the new interests—the car, the inn-club, the variety of experience—had to some small

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degree crowded maisie out. she was not quite so essential as she had seemed on the afternoon when he had learned of her departure. neither was she quite so pretty. he thought with a pang that honey's predictions might be coming true. because they might be coming true, his pity was so great that he told her she was looking lovelier than ever.

"gee, that's something," maisie accepted, complacently. "with four brats to look after, and all the cooking and washing, and everything—if my father don't marry again soon i'll pass away." she glanced at his chauffeur's uniform. "you look swell."

he felt swell, and told her so. he told her of his wages, of the economies he hoped to make.

"gee, and you talk of goin' to college, a fellow that can pull in all that money just by bein' a shofer. why, if you were to go on bein' a shofer we could get married as soon as i got the family off my hands."

he explained to her that it was not the present, but the future for which he was working. a chauffeur had only a chauffeur's possibilities, whereas a man with an education....

"just my luck to get engaged to a nut," maisie commented, with forced resignation. "gee, i got to laff."

some half dozen times that summer, when errands took him to boston, they met in the same way. growing more accustomed to their new relation to each other, he also grew more tender as he realized her limitations and domestic cares. with his first month's wages in his hand, he could bring her little presents on each return from boston, so helping out her never-

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failing joy in the flash of her big diamond. that at least she had, when every other blessing was put off to a vague future.

in august, the ansleys came flying back, driven by the war. it had caught them at munich, where their french chauffeur, pierre, had been interned as a prisoner. while taking driving lessons tom had made pierre's acquaintance, and that he should now be a prisoner in germany made the war a reality. for the first few weeks it had been like a battle among giants in the clouds; now it came down to earth as a convulsion among men.

the ansleys had come to the inn-club because their own house was closed. with guy and hildred tom found his relations changed by the fact that he was a chauffeur. guy talked to him freely enough, as one young fellow to another, but hildred had plainly received a hint to mark the distance between them. if she passed him in the grounds, or if he opened the car door for her, she gave him a faint, self-conscious smile, but never spoke to him. mrs. ansley freely used the car and him, always calling him whitelaw.

philip ansley was much preoccupied by the international situation. a small, dry man of slightly mongolian features, and a skin which looked like a parchment lampshade tinted with a little rose, he had made a specialty of international law as it affected the great corporations. new york and washington both had need of him. when he couldn't go there, those who wished his opinion came to him. not a little of tom's work lay in driving him to keene, the station

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for new york, to meet the important men seeking his advice. thus it happened that tom brought over from keene, so late one night that he got no more than a dim glimpse of the visitor, the man who was to leave on him the most disturbing impression of the summer.

having delivered his charge at the inn-club door, he drove his car to the garage, climbed the stairs to his room, and turned into bed. before six next morning he was up for a plunge in the lake, this being the only hour he could count on as his own.

it was one of those windless mornings late in summer which bring the first hint of fall. the lake was so still that each throw of his arms was like the smashing of a vast metallic mirror. only a metallic mirror could have had this shining dullness, faintly iridescent, hardly catching the rays of the newly risen sun. not leaden enough for night, nor silvery enough for day, it kept the aloofness from man, as well as from nature's smaller blandishments, of its mighty companion, monadnock. it was an awesome lake, beautiful, withdrawn, because it gave back the mountain's awesomeness, beauty, and remoteness.

tom's thrust, as he paddled the water behind him, broke for no more than a few seconds that which at once reformed itself. you would have said that the darting of his body, straight as a fish's, clave the water as a bird cleaves the air. after he had gone there was hardly a ripple to tell that he had passed. built to be a swimmer, loose limbed, loose muscled, and not too bonily spare, he breathed as a swimmer, deeply, gently, without spluttering or loss of his con

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trol. in the limpid medium through which another might have sunk like a stone he had that sense of natural support which helps man to his dominion. now on his right side, now on his left, he could skim like an arrow to its mark for the simple reason that he knew he could.

he turned over on his back and floated. the quiet was that of a world which might never have known the velocity of wind, the ferocity of war. above him the inviolate sky; around him the mountains nearly as inviolate! and everywhere the living stillness, vibrating, dramatic, with which nature alone can quicken a dead calm!

turning over again, he was abandoning the crawl for the forearm stroke, to make his way back to the bathing cabins, when over the water came a long "ahoy!" nearer the shore, and a little abeam, there was another man swimming toward him. tom gave back an "ahoy!" and made in the direction of the stranger. it was perhaps another chauffeur. even if it were a resident, or some resident's guest, the informality of sport would put them on a level.

the newcomer had the sun behind him; tom had it on his face. his features were, therefore, the first to become visible. a strong voice called out, in a tone of astonishment:

"why, tad! what are you doing up here in new hampshire?"

tom laughed. "tad—nothing! i'm tom!"

the other came nearer. "tom, are you? excuse me! took you for my son."

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"sorry i'm not," tom laughed again. "somebody else's."

coming abreast, they headed toward shore. each face was turned toward the other. adopting his companion's stroke, tom adjusted himself to his pace. though conversation was not easy, the one found it possible to ask questions, the other to answer them.

"look like my son. what's your name?"

"whitelaw."

a light came into the eyes, and went out again. "where do you live?"

"boston."

"lived there all your life?"

"only for the last three years or so."

"where'd you live before that?"

"new york some of the time."

"where were you born?"

"the bronx."

"what was your father's name?"

"theodore whitelaw."

there was again that spark in the eyes, flashing and then dying out. "how did he get that name?"

"don't know. just a name. suppose his mother gave it to him."

"lots of theodore whitelaws. have come across two or three. like the colin campbells and howard smiths you run into everywhere. what did your father do?"

"never heard. died when i was a kid." tom felt entitled to ask a question on his own side. "what do you want to know for?"

the other seemed on his guard. "oh, nothing!

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was just—was just struck by the resemblance to—to my boy."

the swerve which took them away from each other was as slight as that which a ship gets from her rudder. tom continued to play round in the water till he saw the older man reach the bathing cabins, dress, and go away.

that afternoon he was told to drive back to keene both mr. ansley and the guest whom he, tom, had brought over on the previous evening. as the latter came out to enter the car it was easy to recognize the swimmer of the morning.

tom held the door open, his hand to his cap. the gentleman gave him a swift, keen look.

"oh, so this is what you do!"

"yes, sir; this is what i do. mr. ansley got me the job."

"young fellow whom guy has befriended," mr. ansley explained, as he took his place beside his friend.

but in the pullman, when tom had carried in the gentleman's valise, there was another minute in which they were alone. the car was nearly empty; there were still some five minutes before the departure of the train. while the colored porter took the suitcase the traveler turned to tom. he was a tall man, straight and flexible like tom himself, but a little heavier.

"how old are you?"

"seventeen, sir."

a shadow flew across the face. "tad is seventeen, too. that settles any—" without stating what was

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settled by this coincidence of ages, he went on with his quick, peremptory questions. "what do you do when you leave here?"

"i go back for my last year in the latin school in boston."

"and then?"

"i go to harvard."

"putting yourself through?"

"only partly, sir."

"friends?"

"yes, sir."

the questions ceased. the face, which even a boy like tom could see to be that of a strong man who must have suffered terribly, grew pensive. when the eyes were bent toward the floor tom took note of a pair of bushy, outstanding, horizontal eyebrows, oddly like his own.

the reverie ended abruptly. some thought seemed to be dismissed. it seemed to be dismissed with both decision and relief. but the man held out his hand.

"good-by."

"good-by, sir."

it was not the questions, nor the interest, it was the last little act of farewell that gave tom a glowing feeling in the heart as he went back to his car and mr. ansley.