nothing but the knowledge that the boy was drunk had kept him from striking back there and then. his temper was a hot one. it came in fierce gusts, which stormed off quickly. the quickness saved him now. before he was home in bed he had reconciled himself to bearing this thing too. it was bigger to bear it, more masculine, more civilized. he would never forget his racking remorse after the last fight.

he didn't lose his eye, but he was obliged to see an oculist. the oculist pronounced it a close shave.

"where in thunder did you get that?" guy demanded, a day or two after the occurrence.

tom thought it an opportunity to learn whether or not the boy had been conscious of what he did. "ask tad whitelaw."

"what? you don't mean to say you've had another row with him! gee whiz!"

"no, i haven't had another row with him; but all the same, ask him."

guy asked him, with no information but that the mucker would get another if he didn't keep out of the way. it was all tom needed to know. he had not been too drunk to strike with deliberate intention, and to remember that he had struck.

guy must have told hildred, because she wrote

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begging tom to come to see her. he wasn't to mind his black eye, because she knew all about it. she was tender, consoling.

"i don't believe he's a cad any more than i believe that of lily," she said, while giving him a cup of tea, "but they're both spoiled with money and a sense of self-importance. you see, losing the other child has made their mother foolish about them. she's lavished everything on them, more than anyone, not a born saint, could stand. it would have been a great deal better if they'd had to fight their way—some of their way at any rate—like you."

"oh, i'm another breed."

"another figurative breed—yes. as to the breed in your blood—"

"oh, but, hildred, you don't believe that poppy-cock."

her eyes were on the teapot from which she was pouring. "i don't believe it exactly because i don't know. it only strikes me as being very queer."

"queer in what way?"

"oh, in every way. they think so too."

"then why do they seem to hate me so?"

"i shouldn't say they did that. they're afraid of you. you disturb them. they're—what do they call it in the bible?—kicking against the pricks. that's all there is to it. when they'd buried the whole thing you come along and make them dig it up again. they don't want to do that. they feel it's too late. you can see for yourself that for tad and lily it would be awkward. when you've been the only two children, and such spoiled ones at that, to have an

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elder brother you didn't know anything about suddenly hoisted over you—"

"of course! i understand that."

"mr. whitelaw feels the same, only he feels it differently. he'd accept him, however hard it was."

"and mrs. whitelaw?"

"oh, poor dear, she's suffered so much that all she asks is not to be made to suffer any more. i don't believe it matters to her now whether he's found or not, so long as she isn't tortured."

"and does she think i'd torture her?"

"they haven't come to that. it isn't what you may do, but what they themselves ought to do that troubles them."

"i wish if you get a chance you'd tell them that they needn't do anything."

"they wouldn't take my word for it, or yours either. it rests with themselves and their own consciences."

"a good deal of it rests with me."

"yes, if you were willing to take the first step; but since you're not—"

mrs. ansley took him as an affliction

they dropped it at that because mrs. ansley lilted in, greeting tom with that outward welcome and inward repugnance he had had to learn to swallow. he knew exactly where he stood with her. she took him as an affliction. affliction could visit the best families and ignore the highest merits. guy, dear boy, was extravagant, and this was the proof of his extravagance. he was infatuated with this young man, who had neither means, antecedents, nor connections. she had heard the whitelaw baby theory, of course; but so long as the whitelaws themselves

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rejected it, she rejected it too. the best she could do was to be philanthropic. philip, guy, hildred, were all convinced that this young man was to make his mark. very well! it was in her tradition, it was in the whole tradition of old boston, to help those who were likely to get on. it was part of what you owed to your standing in the world, a kind of public duty. you couldn't slight it any more than royalty can slight the opening of bazaars. an aunt of her own had helped a poor girl to take singing lessons; and the girl became one of the great prima donnas of the world. whenever she sang in opera in boston it was always a satisfaction to the family to exhibit her as their protégée. so it might one day be with this young man. she hoped so, she was sure. she didn't like him; she thought the fuss made over him by hildred and guy, more or less abetted by their father, an absurdity; but since she was obliged to play up to the family standard of beneficence, up to it she would play. she bore with tom, therefore, wisely and patiently, never snubbing him except when they chanced to be alone, and hurting him only as a jellyfish hurts a swimmer, by clamminess of contact.

clamminess of contact being in itself a weapon of offense, tom ran away from it, but only to fall into contact of another kind.

it was a cloudy afternoon with christmas in the near future. all over town there were notes of christmas, in the shop windows, in the christmas trees exposed for sale, in the way people ran about with parcels. he never approached this season without going back to that fatal christmas eve when he

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and his mother had been caught shop-lifting. he could still feel as he felt at the minute when he turned his face to the angle of the police-station wall, and wept silently. he wondered what hildred would think of him if he were to tell her that tale. he wondered if he ever should.

partly for the exercise, partly to find space to breathe and to think, he followed the boston embankment of the charles, making his way to the harvard bridge, and so toward cambridge. in big quietly dropping flakes it had begun to snow. presently it was snowing faster. the few pedestrians fled from the esplanade. he tramped on alone, enjoying the solitude.

the embankment lamps had been lit when he noticed, coming toward him, two young men, their collars turned up about their ears. they were laughing and smoking cigarettes. drawing nearer, he recognized them as tad whitelaw and the fellow who had slapped the table at the dance. it was not hard to guess that they were on their way to see hildred. he hoped that under cover of the darkness and the snow he might slip by unobserved.

but tad stopped squarely in front of him. "let's look at your eye."

the tone was so easy and friendly that tom thought he might be going to apologize. he let him look.

"well, you got that," tad went on. "another time you'll get worse. by god, if you don't keep away from me i'll shoot you."

tom was surprised, but it was the sort of situation

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in which he could be cool. he smiled into the arrogant young face turned up toward his.

"what's the good of that line of talk? you know you wouldn't shoot me; you wouldn't have the nerve. besides, you haven't anything to shoot me for. i'll leave it to this fellow." he turned to tad's companion, who stood as a spectator, slightly to one side. "i found him dead drunk the other night. i took him home in a taxi, and put him to bed. that's no more than the common freemasonry among men. any man would do the same at a pinch for any other man."

the companion played up nobly. "that's the straight dope, tad. take it and gulp it down. this guy is a good guy or he wouldn't have—"

"go to hell," tad interrupted, insolently. "i'm only warning him. if he hangs round me any more—"

tom kept his temper by main force, addressing himself still to the companion.

"i've never hung round him. he knows i haven't. two or three times i've run into him, as i've done to-day. twice i've stepped in, to keep him from getting the gate, this time as a drunk, the other time as a damn fool. i'd do that for anyone. i'd do it for him, if i found him in the same mess again."

"that's fair enough, tad," the referee approved. "you can't kick against it."

tad tried to speak, but tom went on with quiet authority.

"so that since he likes warnings he can take that one. i shan't let him be chucked out of harvard if i can help it."

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tad sprang. "the devil you won't!"

tom continued to speak only to the third party. "no, the devil i won't! i don't know why i feel that way about him, but that's the way i feel. and anyhow, now he knows."

still addressing the companion only, he uttered a curt "good-night." the companion responded civilly with "good-night" on his side.

he neither looked at tad, nor flung a word at him. wheeling to face what had now blown into a snowstorm, he walked off into its teeth. but as he went he repeated the question he had put to hildred ansley.

"why do they seem to hate me so?"

he thought of lily, slippery, snake-like, perverted; he thought of the mother as he had seen her on that one day, in that one glimpse, a quivering bundle of agony; he thought of the father, human, sympathetic, with the iron in his soul.

then he saw them with their heaped up money, their luxuries, their pride, their domineering self-importance. he knew just enough of the lives they led, the exemptions they enjoyed, to feel honey's protest on behalf of the dispossessed.

near an arc-light he stopped abruptly. the snow made a tabernacle for him, so that he was all alone. as he looked upward and outward millions and millions of sweet soft white things flew silently across the light. out of his heart, up to his lips, there tore the kind of prayer which in times of temptation the tollivant habit sometimes wrung from him:

"o god, keep me from ever wanting to be one of them!"