Ward was working on the
books of his office, he was called to the telephone.

"Is this you, Nealie Ward?" asked a woman's voice--the strong, clear,
deep voice of an old woman. And when he had answered, the voice went
on: "Well, Nealie, I wish to thank you for that editorial about John
to-night in the paper; I'm Mary Barclay. It isn't more than half true,
Nealie; and if it was all true, it isn't a fraction of what the truth
ought to be if John did what he could, but it will do him a lot of
good--right here in the home paper, and--Why, Jennie, I'm speaking
with Nealie Ward,--why, do you think I am not old enough to talk with
Nealie without breeding scandal?--as I was saying, my dear, it will
cheer John up a little, and heaven knows he needs something.
I'm--Jennie, for mercy sakes keep still; I know Nealie Ward and I
knew his father when he wasn't as old as Nealie--did his washing for
him; and boarded his mother four winters, and I have a right to say
what I want to to that child." The boy and the grandmother laughed
into the telephone. "Jennie is so afraid I'll do something improper,"
laughed Mrs. Barclay. "Oh, yes, by the way--here's a little item for
your paper to-morrow: Jennie's mother is sick; I think it's typhoid,
but you can't get John to admit it. So don't say typhoid." Then with a
few more words she rang off.

When the _Banner_ printed the item about Mrs. Barclay's illness, the
town, in one of those outbursts of feeling which communities often
have, seemed to try to show John Barclay the affection that was in
their hearts for the man who had grown up among them, and the family
that had been established under his name. Flowers--summer
flowers--poured in on the Barclays. Children came with wild flowers,
prairie flowers that Jane Barclay had not seen since she roamed over
the unbroken sod about Minneola as a girl; and Colonel Culpepper came
marching up the walk through the Barclay grounds, bearing his
old-fashioned bouquet, as grandly as an ambassador bringing a king's
gift. Jane Barclay sent word that she wished to see him.

"My dear," said the colonel, as he held the flowers toward her,
"accept these flowers from those who have shared your bounty--from
God's poor, my dear; these are God's smiles that they send you from
their hearts--from their very hearts, my dear, from their poor hearts
wherein God's smiles come none too often." She saw through glistening
eyes the broken old figure, with his coat tightly butt