tention to start for
New York the following week.

"Don't you think you could do as well here?" said Mrs. Stirling.

"Up to a certain point, better. But New York has a big beyond," said
Peter. "I'll try it there first, and if I don't make my way, I'll come
back here"

Few mothers hope for a son's failure, yet Mrs. Stirling allowed herself
a moment's happiness over this possibility. Then remembering that her
Peter could not possibly fail, she became despondent. "They say New
York's full of temptations," she said.

"I suppose it is, mother," replied Peter, "to those who want to be
tempted."

"I know I can trust you, Peter," said his mother, proudly, "but I want
you to promise me one thing."

"What?"

"That if you do yield, if you do what you oughtn't to, you'll write and
tell me about it?" Mrs. Stirling put her arms about Peter's neck, and
looked wistfully into his face.

Peter was not blind to what this world is. Perhaps, had his mother known
it as he did, she might have seen how unfair her petition was. He did
not like to say yes, and could not say no.

"I'll try to go straight, mother," he replied, "but that's a good deal
to promise."

"It's all I'm going to ask of you, Peter," urged Mrs. Stirling.

"I have gone through four years of my life with nothing in it I couldn't
tell her," thought Peter. "If that's possible, I guess another four is."
Then he said aloud, "Well, mother, since you want it, I'll do it."

The reason of Peter's eagerness to get to New York, was chiefly to have
something definite to do. He tried to obtain this distraction of
occupation, at present, in a characteristic way, by taking excessively
long walks, and by struggling with his mother's winter supply of wood.
He thought that every long stride and every swing of the axe was working
him free from the crushing lack of purpose that had settled upon him. He
imagined it would be even easier when he reached New York. "There'll be
plenty to keep me busy there," was his mental hope.

All his ambitions and plans seemed in a sense to have become
meaningless, made so by the something which but ten days before had been
unknown to him. Like Moses he had seen the promised land. But Moses
died. He had seen it, and must live on without it. He saw nothing in the
future worth striving for, except a struggle to forget, if possible, the
sweetest and dearest memory he had ever known. He thought of the
epigram: "Most men can die well, but few can live