t the damn people are here to be skinned." He laughed
viciously and went on: "Sometimes I think we filthy rich are divided
into two classes: those of us who keep mistresses, and those of us who
have harmless little entanglements with preachers and college
presidents. Neither the lemon-haired women nor the college presidents
interfere with our business; they don't hamper us--not the slightest.
They just take our money, and for a few idle hours amuse us, and make
us feel that we are good fellows. As for me, I'll have neither women
nor college presidents purring around my ankles. I'm going to cut out
the philanthropy appropriation to-day."

And he was as good as his word. But that did not help. The truth kept
wrenching his soul, and his feet blindly kept trying to find a path to
peace.

It was late one night in August, and a dead moon was hanging in the
south, when, treading the terrace before his house, he saw a shadow
moving down the stairway in the hall. At first his racked nerves
quivered, but when he found that it was his mother, he went to meet
her, exclaiming as he mounted the steps to the veranda, "Why, mother,
what is it--is anything wrong?"

Though it was past midnight, Mary Barclay was dressed for the day. She
stood in the doorway with the dimmed light behind her, a tall, strong
woman, straight and gaunt as a Nemesis. "No, John--nothing is
wrong--in the house." She walked into the veranda and began as she
approached a chair, "Sit down, John; I wish to talk with you."

"Well, mother--what is it?" asked the son, as he sat facing her.

She paused a moment looking earnestly at his face and replied, "The
time has come when we must talk this thing out, John, soul to soul."

He shrank from what was coming. His instinct told him to fight away
the crisis. He began to palaver, but his mother cut him short, as she
exclaimed:--

"Why don't you let Him in, John?"

"Let who in?" asked her son.

"You know Whom, John Barclay; that was your grandfather speaking then,
the old polly foxer. You know, my boy. Don't you remember me bending
over the town wash-tub when you were a child, Johnnie? Don't you
remember the old song I used to sing--of course you do, child--as I
rubbed the clothes on the board: 'Let Him in, He is your friend, let Him
in, He is your friend; He will keep you to the end--let--Him--in!' Of
course you remember it, boy, and you have been fighting Him with all
your might for six months now, and since Jane