all gaily busy recalling what had happened in the old
times and telling what had happened in the new.
Edith recounted the successes of her concert tours;
Malcolm expatiated proudly on his plans for developing
his beloved college; Ralph described the country
through which his new railroad ran, and the
difficulties he had had to overcome in connection with
it. James, aside, discussed his orchard and his crops
with Margaret, who had not been long enough away from
the farm to lose touch with its interests. Aunt Isabel
knitted and smiled complacently on all, talking now
with one, now with the other, secretly quite proud of
herself that she, an old woman of eighty-five, who had
seldom been out of White Sands in her life, could
discuss high finance with Ralph, and higher education
with Malcolm, and hold her own with James in an
argument on drainage.
The White Sands school teacher, an arch-eyed, red-
mouthed bit a girl - a Bell from Avonlea - who boarded
with the James Monroes, amused herself with the boys.
All were enjoying themselves hugely, so it is not to be
wondered at that they did not miss Robert, who had gone
home early because his old housekeeper was nervous if
left alone at night.
He came again the next afternoon. From James, in the
barnyard, he learned that Malcolm and Ralph had driven
to the harbor, that Margaret and Mrs. James had gone to
call on friends in Avonlea, and that Edith was walking
somewhere in the woods on the hill. There was nobody in
the house except Aunt Isabel and the teacher.
"You'd better wait and stay the evening," said James,
indifferently. "They'll all be back soon."
Robert went across the yard and sat down on the rustic
bench in the angle of the front porch. It was a fine
December evening, as mild as autumn; there had been no
snow, and the long fields, sloping down from the
homestead, were brown and mellow. A weird, dreamy
stillness had fallen upon the purple earth, the
windless woods, the rain of the valleys, the sere
meadows. Nature seemed to have folded satisfied hands
to rest, knowing that her long, wintry slumber was
coming upon her. Out to sea, a dull, red sunset faded
out into somber clouds, and the ceaseless voice of many
waters came up from the tawny shore.
Robert rested his chin on his hand and looked across
the vales and hills, where the feathery gray of
leafless hardwoods was mingled with the sturdy,
unfailing green of the conebearers. He was a tall, bent
man, with thin, gray hair, a lined face, and deeply-
set, gentle brown eyes - the eyes of one who, looking
through pain, sees rapture beyond.
He felt very happy. He loved his family clannishly, and
he was rejoiced that they were all again near to him.
He was proud of their success and fame. He was glad
that James had prospered so well of late years. There
was no canker of envy or discontent in his soul.
He heard absently indistinct voices at the open hall
window above the porch, where Aunt Isabel was talking
to Kathleen Bell. Presently Aunt Isabel moved nearer to
the window, and her words came down to Robert with
startling clearness.
"Yes, I can assure you, Miss Bell, that I'm real proud
of my nephews and nieces. They're a smart family.
They've almost all done well, and they hadn't any of
them much to begin with. Ralph had absolutely nothing
and to-day he is a millionaire. Their father met with
so many losses, what with his ill-health and the bank
failing, that he couldn't help them any. But they've
all succeeded, except poor Robert - and I must admit
that he's a total failure."
"Oh, no, no," said the little teacher deprecatingly.
"A total failure!" Aunt Isabel repeated her words
emphatically. She was not going to be contradicted by
anybody, least of all a Bell from Avonlea. "He has been
a failure since the time he was born. He is the first
Monroe to disgrace the old stock that way. I'm sure his
brothers and sisters must be dreadfully ashamed of him.
He has lived sixty years and he hasn't done a thing
worth while. He can't even make his farm pay. If he's
kept out of debt it's as much as he's ever managed to
do."
"Some men can't even do that," murmured the little
school teacher. She was really so much in awe of this
imperious, clever old Aunt Isabel that it was positive
heroism on her part to venture even this faint protest.
"More is expected of a Monroe," said Aunt Isabel
majestically. "Robert Monroe is a failure, and that is
the only name for him."
Robert Monroe stood up below the window in a dizzy,
uncertain fashion. Aunt Isabel had been speaking of
him! He, Robert, was a failure, a disgrace to his
blood, of whom his nearest and dearest were ashamed!
Yes, it was true; he had never realized it before; he
had known that he could never win power or accumulate
riches, but he had not thought that mattered much. Now,
through Aunt Isabel's scornful eyes, he saw himself as
the world saw him - as his brothers and sisters must
see him. There lay the sting. What the world thought of
him did not matter; but that his own should think him a
failure and disgrace was agony. He moaned as he started
to walk across the yard, only anxious to hide his pain
and shame away from all human sight, and in his eyes
was the look of a gentle animal which had been stricken
by a cruel and unexpected blow.
Edith Monroe, who, unaware of Robert's proximity, had
been standing on the other side of the porch, saw that
look, as he hurried past her, unseeing. A moment before
her dark eyes had been flashing with anger at Aunt
Isabel's words; now the anger was drowned in a sudden
rush of tears.
She took a quick step after Robert, but checked the
impulse. Not then - and not by her alone - could that
deadly hurt be healed. Nay, more, Robert must never
suspect that she knew of any hurt. She stood and
watched him through her tears as he went away across
the low-lying shore fields to hide his broken heart
under his own humble roof. She yearned to hurry after
him and comfort him, but she knew that comfort was not
what Robert needed now. Justice, and justice only,
could pluck out the sting, which otherwise must rankle
to the death.
Ralph and Malcolm were driving into the yard. Edith
went over to them.
"Boys," she said resolutely, "I want to have a talk
with you."
The Christmas dinner at the old homestead was a merry
one. Mrs. James spread a feast that was fit for the
halls of Lucullus. Laughter, jest, and repartee flew
from lip to lip. Nobody appeared to notice that Robert
ate little, said nothing, and sat with his form
shrinking in his shabby "best" suit, his gray head bent
even lower than usual, as if desirous of avoiding all
observation. When the others spoke to him he answered
deprecatingly, and shrank still further into himself.
Finally all had eaten all they could, and the remainder
of the plum pudding was carried out. Robert gave a low
sigh of relief. It was almost over. Soon he would be
able to escape and hide himself and his shame away from
the mirthful eyes of these men and women who had earned
the right to laugh at the world in which their success
gave them power and influence. He - he - only - was a
failure.
He wondered impatiently why Mrs. James did not rise.
Mrs. James merely leaned comfortably back in her chair,
with the righteous expression of one who has done her
duty by her fellow creatures' palates, and looked at
Malcolm.
Malcolm rose in his place. Silence fell on the company;
everybody looked suddenly alert and expectant, except
Robert. He still sat with bowed head, wrapped in his
own bitterness.
"I have been told that I must lead off," said Malcolm,
"because I am supposed to possess the gift of gab. But,
if I do, I am not going to use it for any rhetorical
effect to-day. Simple, earnest words must express the
deepest feelings of the heart in doing justice to its
own. Brothers and sisters, we meet to-day under our own
roof-tree, surrounded by the benedictions of the past
years. Perhaps invisible guests are here - the spirits
of those who founded this home and whose work on earth
has long been finished. It is not amiss to hope that
this is so and our family circle made indeed complete.
To each one of us who are here in visible bodily
presence some measure of success has fallen; but only
one of us has been supremely successful in the only
things that really count - the things that count for
eternity as well as time - sympathy and unselfishness
and self-sacrifice.
"I shall tell you my own story for the benefit of those
who have not heard it. When I was a lad of sixteen I
remember that old Mr. Blair of Avonlea offered me a
place in his store for the summer, at wages which would
go far towards paying my expenses at the country
academy the next winter. I went to work, eager and
hopeful. All summer I tried to do my faithful best for
my employer. In September the blow fell. A sum of money
was missing from Mr. Blair's till. I was suspected and
discharged in disgrace. All my neighbors believed me
guilty; even some of my own family looked upon me with
suspicion - nor could I blame them, for the
circumstantial evidence was strongly against me."
Ralph and James looked ashamed; Edith and Margaret, who
had not been born at the time referred to, lifted their
faces innocently. Robert did not move or glance up. He
hardly seemed to be listening.
"I was crushed in an agony of shame and despair,"
continued Malcolm. "I believed my career was ruined. I
was bent on casting all my ambitions behind me, and
going west to some place where nobody knew me or my
disgrace. But there was one person who believed in my
innocence, who said to me, 'You shall not give up - you
shall not behave as if you were guilty. You are
innocent, and in time your innocence will be proved.
Meanwhile show yourself a man. You have nearly enough
to pay your way next winter at the Academy. I have a
little I can give to help you out. Don't give in -
never give in when you have done no wrong.'
"I listened and took his advice. I went to the Academy.
My story was there as soon as I was, and I found myself
sneered at and shunned. Many a time I would have given
up in despair, had it not been for the encouragement of
my counselor. He furnished the backbone for me. I was
determined that his belief in me should be justified. I
studied hard and came out at the head of my class. Then
there seemed to be no chance of my earning any more
money that summer. But a farmer at Newbridge, who cared
nothing about the character of his help, if he could
get the work out of them, offered to hire me. The
prospect was distasteful but, urged by the man who
believed in me, I took the place and endured the
hardships. Another winter of lonely work passed at the
Academy. I won the Farrell Scholarship the last year it
was offered, and that meant an Arts course for me. I
went to Redmond College. My story was not openly known
there, but something of it got abroad, enough to taint
my life there also with its suspicion. But the year I
graduated, Mr. Blair's nephew, who, as you know, was
the real culprit, confessed his guilt, and I was
cleared before the world. Since then my career has been
what is called a brilliant one. But" - Malcolm turned
and laid his hand on Robert's thin shoulder - "all of
my success I owe to my brother Robert. It is his
success - not mine - and here to-day, since we have
agreed to say what is too often left to be said over a
coffin lid, I thank him for all he did for me, and tell
him that there is nothing I am more proud of and
thankful for than such a brother."
Robert had looked up at last, amazed, bewildered,
incredulous. His face crimsoned as Malcolm sat down.
But now Ralph was getting up.
"I am no orator as Malcolm is," he quoted gaily, "but
I've got a story to tell, too, which only one of you
knows. Forty years ago, when I started in life as a
business man, money wasn't so plentiful with me as it
may be to-day. And I needed it badly. A chance came my
way to make a pile of it. It wasn't a clean chance. It
was a dirty chance. It looked square on the surface;
but, underneath, it meant trickery and roguery. I
hadn't enough perception to see that, though - I was
fool enough to think it was all right. I told Robert
what I meant to do. And Robert saw clear through the
outward sham to the real, hideous thing underneath. He
showed me what it meant and he gave me a preachment
about a few Monroe Traditions of truth and honor. I saw
what I had been about to do as he saw it - as all good
men and true must see it. And I vowed then and there
that I'd never go into anything that I wasn't sure was
fair and square and clean through and through. I've
kept that vow. I am a rich man, and not a dollar of my
money is 'tainted' money. But I didn't make it. Robert
really made every cent of my money. If it hadn't been
for him I'd have been a poor man to-day, or behind
prison bars, as are the other men who went into that
deal when I backed out.
I've got a son here. I hope
he'll be as clever as his Uncle Malcolm; but I hope,
still more earnestly, that he'll be as good and
honorable a man as his Uncle Robert."
By this time Robert's head was bent again, and his face
buried in his hands.
"My turn next," said James. "I haven't much to say -
only this. After mother died I took typhoid fever. Here
I was with no one to wait on me. Robert came and nursed
me. He was the most faithful, tender, gentle nurse ever
a man had. The doctor said Robert saved my life. I
don't suppose any of the rest of us here can say we
have saved a life."
Edith wiped away her tears and sprang up impulsively.
"Years ago," she said, "there was a poor, ambitious
girl who had a voice. She wanted a musical education
and her only apparent chance of obtaining it was to get
a teacher's certificate and earn money enough to have
her voice trained. She studied hard, but her brains, in
mathematics at least, weren't as good as her voice, and
the time was short. She failed. She was lost in
disappointment and despair, for that was the last year
in which it was possible to obtain a teacher's
certificate without attending Queen's Academy, and she
could not afford that. Then her oldest brother came to
her and told her he could spare enough money to send
her to the conservatory of music in Halifax for a year.
He made her take it. She never knew till long
afterwards that he had sold the beautiful horse which
he loved like a human creature, to get the money. She
went to the Halifax conservatory. She won a musical
scholarship. She has had a happy life and a successful
career. And she owes it all to her brother Robert - "
But Edith could go no further. Her voice failed her and
she sat down in tears. Margaret did not try to stand
up.
"I was only five when my mother died," she sobbed.
"Robert was both father and mother to me. Never had
child or girl so wise and loving a guardian as he was
to me. I have never forgotten the lessons he taught me.
Whatever there is of good in my life or character I owe
to him. I was often headstrong and willful, but he
never lost patience with me. I owe everything to
Robert."
Suddenly the little teacher rose with wet eyes and
crimson cheeks.
"I have something to say, too," she said resolutely.
"You have spoken for yourselves. I speak for the people
of White Sands. There is a man in this settlement whom
everybody loves. I shall tell you some of the things he
has done."
"Last fall, in an October storm, the harbor lighthouse
flew a flag of distress. Only one man was brave enough
to face the danger of sailing to the lighthouse to find
out what the trouble was. That was Robert Monroe. He
found the keeper alone with a broken leg; and he sailed
back and made - yes, made the unwilling and terrified
doctor go with him to the lighthouse. I saw him when he
told the doctor he must go; and I tell you that no man
living could have set his will against Robert Monroe's
at that moment.
"Four years ago old Sarah Cooper was to be taken to the
poorhouse. She was broken-hearted. One man took the
poor, bed-ridden, fretful old creature into his home,
paid for medical attendance, and waited on her himself,
when his housekeeper couldn't endure her tantrums and
temper. Sarah Cooper died two years afterwards, and her
latest breath was a benediction on Robert Monroe - the
best man God ever made.
"Eight years ago Jack Blewitt wanted a place. Nobody
would hire him, because his father was in the
penitentiary, and some people thought Jack ought to be
there, too. Robert Monroe hired him - and helped him,
and kept him straight, and got him started right - and
Jack Blewitt is a hard-working, respected young man to-
day, with every prospect of a useful and honorable
life. There is hardly a man, woman, or child in White
Sands who doesn't owe something to Robert Monroe!"
As Kathleen Bell sat down, Malcolm sprang up and held
out his hands.
"Every one of us stand up and sing Auld Lang Syne," he
cried.
Everybody stood up and joined hands, but one did not