News and citizen. [volume] (Morrisville, Vt. ;) 1881-current, 1903-01-07
By CHARLES M. SHELDON.
uthOr Of n His Steps," Robert ardyS Seven Days. Etc.

z (
-s.4sts4.. X ~ ~ ..'.+s
She smiled to herself and then stared
at her brother, and then carelessly
turned about and began to sing:
"Oh, the sadness that grows with the
years."
John Gordon turned toward the other
zoom, but before he had gone out Mary
Eose and came quickly up to him.
'This is not goodby, John"
eyes" He turned and looked at her
earnestly.
"Of course" - she hestated - "of
course the reason I don't show more
feeling is because | cannot believe you
are really going to leave us for good.
You will try the reforming business a
little while, and after YOU have learned
that You cannot do anything you will
come back and let father work out his
plan for YOU which, must say, is far
more sensible than what you propose.
So l don't intend to say gQodby, John,
and | hope Lucia Will be as good to
you as ! am
She instantly went back to the piano,
sat down and began to sing and play
gayly. John Gordon looked at her for
q moment then went into the other
Toom and found his father still writing
there. He went up to the desk and
waited until his father laid down his
pen.
well" he said as he lifted his head
and looked up at his son. You have
something more to say?"
There was not q hint in the tone or
manner to suggest to John Gordon any
affection or feeling. He was not sur
prised. He had not expected anything.
But he put out his hand toward his
father almost like one who is sinking
and sees some floating object swept out
Of reach on a receding wave.
"You understand, father, that l do
not ask anything Of You. Grand
mothers share of the Waller estate is
due me next year. l will take care of
myself until them
Rufus Gordon did not speak, and
John Gordon continued:
"-All this--my action is and always
will be strange to you, father. The re-
ligious experience through which |
passed while abroad makes any other
course impossible for me. AS | said to
you before, the life we have been liv-
ing in this city seems now to be
monstrous life for civilized people to
live. The term Christian has no mean
ing at all unless it means service sac
rifice, sharing in some real sense with
the worlds needs. The civilization
which means simply getting all it can
cut of the world instead of putting all
it can into it is a civilization that can
not be called Christian. My soul is un-
able to rest my life cannot go on with
such contradictions torturing it. That
is the reason. father that our ways di-
vide. Would to God that we could see
and walk tOgetherI
The cry was wrung from him by
sharp and sudden pain that took ac
count of the fact of blood kinship. 1t
was the cry of human fellowship, the
exclamation of a personality that had
always placed great stress on the value
of companionship. But there was no
cry from the man who sat coldly lock-
ing at him. Rufus Gordon was a father,
but he was also that personificatiOn
of the net product of our un-Christian
methOds-he was crystalliZed selfish
aess-none the less selfish because civ
ilized, all the more selfish because it
was more effective in civilized form.
Ignorant self is not so destructive as
educated self.
SIS there anything more?" Rufus
Gordon asked the question as a bust
ness proposition to close an interview
that was taking valuable time needed
for more important transactions
Nothing more except that | hope
you will-you will not bear any hard
feelings toward me- Oh, father!' John
Gordon suddenly exclaimed, taking
step toward the impressive figure. You
said you loved me. Cannot you believe
m me and the life have chosen"
For a moment over the hard face
there swept a tremOr. 1t was gone in
a moment and Rufus Gordon answere'
slowly:
"You have chosen. When you change
your mind, you may come and see me
about it."
Il shall never change my mind"
"That is all, thcn?"
eyes. except that my love for you
and Mary is still the same. Some
time, when you have felt what have,
you will believe as | do"
Rufus Gordon made no answer, and
John Gordon slowly turned to leave
the room.
II will arrange to have my things
taken over to Barton's. | am going to
stay with him until | arrange for my
permanent quarters"
He left the room and went upstairs,
where he busted himself with packing
the few possessions he had brought
home with him from abroad. During
it all his highly imaginative and even
Woetical nature took account of the
prosaic and matter of fact way in
which he was taking leave of the
house where he was born and of the
home in which he had been reared.
There had been no melodramatic dis
inheritance of him by his father, al
though he knew him well enough to
know that the life he had chosen, di-
rectly contrary to his fathers lifelong
LII Nnsf 10