closed.

But Lester could not dismiss the thought that matters were getting in a

bad way. His father had pointed it out to him rather plainly at the last

interview, and now this newspaper notoriety had capped the climax. He

might as well abandon his pretension to intimacy with his old world. It

would have none of him, or at least the more conservative part of it would not. There were a few bachelors, a few gay married men, some

sophisticated women, single and married, who saw through it all and

liked him just the same, but they did not make society. He was virtually

an outcast, and nothing could save him but to reform his ways; in other

words, he must give up Jennie once and for all.

But he did not want to do this. The thought was painful to him—

objectionable in every way. Jennie was growing in mental acumen. She

was beginning to see things quite as clearly as he did. She was not a

cheap, ambitious, climbing creature. She was a big woman and a good

one. It would be a shame to throw her down, and besides she was good-

looking. He was forty-six and she was twenty-nine; and she looked

twenty-four or five. It is an exceptional thing to find beauty, youth,

compatibility, intelligence, your own point of view—softened and

charmingly emotionalised—in another. He had made his bed, as his father

had said. He had better lie on it.

It was only a little while after this disagreeable newspaper incident that Lester had word that his father was quite ill and failing; it might be

necessary for him to go to Cincinnati at any moment. Pressure of work

was holding him pretty close when the news came that his father was

dead. Lester, of course, was greatly shocked and grieved, and he returned to Cincinnati in a retrospective and sorrowful mood. His father had been

a great character to him—a fine and interesting old gentleman entirely

aside from his relationship to him as his son. He remembered him now

dandling him upon his knee as a child, telling him stories of his early life in Ireland, and of his subsequent commercial struggle when he was a little older, impressing the maxims of his business career and his commercial

wisdom on him as he grew to manhood. Old Archibald had been radically

honest. It was to him that Lester owed his instincts for plain speech and direct statement of fact. "Never lie," was Archibald's constant, reiterated statement. "Never try to make a thing look different from what it is to you. It's the breath of life—truth—it's the basis of real worth, while

commercial success—it will make a notable character of any one who

will stick to it." Lester believed this. He admired his father intensely for his rigid insistence on truth, and now that he was really gone he felt sorry.

He wished he might have been spared to be reconciled to him. He half

fancied that old Archibald would have liked Jennie if he had known her.

He did not imagine that he would ever have had the opportunity to

straighten things out, although he still felt that Archibald would have

liked her.

When he reached Cincinnati it was snowing, a windy, blustery snow. The

flakes were coming down thick and fast. The traffic of the city had a

muffled sound. When he stepped down from the train he was met by

Amy, who was glad to see him in spite of all their past differences. Of all the girls she was the most tolerant. Lester put his arms about her, and

kissed her.

"It seems like old times to see you, Amy," he said, "your coming to meet me this way. How's the family? I suppose they're all here. Well, poor

father, his time had to come. Still, he lived to see everything that he

wanted to see. I guess he was pretty well satisfied with the outcome of his efforts."

"Yes," replied Amy, "and since mother died he was very lonely."

They rode up to the house in kindly good feeling, chatting of old times

and places. All the members of the immediate family, and the various

relatives, were gathered in the old family mansion. Lester exchanged the

customary condolences with the others, realising all the while that his

father had lived long enough. He had had a successful life, and had fallen like a ripe apple from the tree. Lester looked at him where he lay in the great parlour, in his black coffin, and a feeling of the old-time affection swept over him. He smiled at the clean-cut, determined, conscientious

face.

"The old gentleman was a big man all the way through," he said to Robert, who was present. "We won't find a better figure of a man soon."

"We will not," said his brother, solemnly.

After the funeral it was decided to read the will at once. Louise's husband was anxious to return to Buffalo; Lester was compelled to be in Chicago.

A conference of the various members of the family was called for the

second day after the funeral, to be held at the offices of Messrs. Knight, Keatley and O'Brien, counsellors of the late manufacturer.

As Lester rode to the meeting he had the feeling that his father had not

acted in any way prejudicial to his interests. It had not been so very long since they had had their last conversation; he had been taking his time to think about things, and his father had given him time. He always felt that he had stood well with the old gentleman, except for his alliance with

Jennie. His business judgment had been valuable to the company. Why

should there be any discrimination against him? He really did not think it possible.

When they reached the offices of the law firm, Mr. O'Brien, a short, fussy, albeit comfortable-looking little person, greeted all the members of the

family and the various heirs and assigns with a hearty handshake. He had

been personal counsel to Archibald Kane for twenty years. He knew his

whims and idiosyncrasies, and considered himself very much in the light

of a father confessor. He liked all the children, Lester especially.

"Now I believe we are all here," he said, finally, extracting a pair of large horn reading-glasses from his coat pocket and looking sagely about.

"Very well. We might as well proceed to business. I will just read the will without any preliminary remarks."

He turned to his desk, picked up a paper lying upon it, cleared his throat, and began.

It was a peculiar document, in some respects, for it began with all the

minor bequests; first, small sums to old employees, servants, and friends.

It then took up a few institutional bequests, and finally came to the

immediate family, beginning with the girls. Imogene, as a faithful and

loving daughter was left a sixth of the stock of the carriage company and a fourth of the remaining properties of the deceased, which roughly

aggregated (the estate— not her share) about eight hundred thousand

dollars. Amy and Louise were provided for in exactly the same

proportion. The grandchildren were given certain little bonuses for good

conduct, when they should come of age. Then it took up the cases of

Robert and Lester.

"Owing to certain complications which have arisen in the affairs of my son Lester," it began, "I deem it my duty to make certain conditions which shall govern the distribution of the remainder of my property, to

wit: One-fourth of the stock of the Kane Manufacturing Company and

one-fourth of the remainder of my various properties, real, personal,

moneys, stocks and bonds, to go to my beloved son Robert, in recognition

of the faithful performance of his duty, and one-fourth of the stock of the Kane Manufacturing Company and the remaining fourth of my various