s old mother and the little sister. They sprang forward at his
entrance; the sister ran to support him to the homely old sofa. He was
weak, emaciated, his face an agony of repentance, as he mutely pled
forgiveness for his flight.

His old mother had risen, had seemed about to embrace him fondly when
he knelt at her feet, but then had drawn herself sternly up and pointed
commandingly to the door. The prodigal, anguished anew at this repulse,
fell weakly back upon the couch with a cry of despair. The little sister
placed a pillow under his head and ran to plead with the mother. A long
time she remained obdurate, but at last relented. Then she, too, came to
fall upon her knees before the wreck who had returned to her.

Not many rehearsals were required for this scene, difficult though
it was. Merton Gill had seized his opportunity. His study of agony
expressions in the film course was here rewarded. The scene closed with
the departure of the little sister. Resolutely, showing the light of
some fierce determination, she put on hat and wraps, spoke words of
promise to the stricken mother and son, and darted out into the night.
The snow whirled in as she opened the door.

"Good work," said Baird to Merton. "If you don't hear from that little
bit you can call me a Swede."

Some later scenes were shot in the same little home, which seemed to
bring the drama to a close. While the returned prodigal lay on the
couch, nursed by the forgiving mother, the sister returned in company
with the New York society girl who seemed aghast at the wreck of him
she had once wooed. Slowly she approached the couch of the sufferer,
tenderly she reached down to enfold him. In some manner, which Merton
could not divine, the lovers had been reunited.

The New York girl was followed by her father--it would seem they had
both come from the hotel--and the father, after giving an order for
more of Mother's grape juice, examined the son's patents. Two of them
he exclaimed with delight over, and at once paid the boy a huge roll of
bills for a tenth interest in them.

Now came the grasping man who held the mortgage and who had counted upon
driving the family into the streets this stormy Christmas eve. He was
overwhelmed with confusion when his money was paid from an ample hoard,
and slunk, shame-faced, out into the night. It could be seen that
Christmas day would dawn bright and happy for the little group.

To Merton's eye there was but one discord in