e done in the right spirit,
with respect for the memory of their father, with consideration for
their mother.

"You had better not see mother again until you come back," she suggested.

His face shadowed and shame came into it that was from the real Arthur
Ranger, the son of Hiram and Ellen. "I wish I hadn't burst out as I did,
Del," he said. "I forgot everything in my own wrongs. I want to try to
make it all right with mother. I can't believe that I said what I
remember I did say before her who'd be glad to die for us."

"Everything'll be all right when you come back, Artie," she assured him.

As they passed the outbuilding where the garden tools were kept they both
glanced in. There stood the tools their father had always used in
pottering about the garden, above them his old slouch and old straw hats.
Arthur's lip quivered; Adelaide caught her breath in a sob. "O Artie,"
she cried brokenly, "He's gone--gone--gone for ever." And Artie sat on
the little bench just within the door and drew Del down beside him, and,
each tightly in the other's arms, they cried like the children that they
were, like the children that we all are in face of the great tragedy.

A handsome and touching figure was Arthur Ranger as he left his cab and
slowly ascended the lawn and the steps of the Whitney palace in the Lake
Drive at eleven the next morning. His mourning garments were most
becoming to him, contrasting with the fairness of his hair, the blue of
his eyes, and the pallor of his skin. He looked big and strong and sad,
and scrupulously fashionable, and very young.

The Whitneys were leading in Chicago in building broad and ever broader
the barriers, not between rich and poor, but between the very, very rich
and all the rest of the world. Mrs. Whitney had made a painstaking and
reverent study of upper-class life in England and on the Continent, and
was endeavoring to use her education for the instruction of her
associates, and for the instilling of a proper awe into the multitude. To
enter her door was at once to get the impression that one was receiving a
high privilege. One would have been as greatly shocked as was Mrs.
Whitney herself, could one have overheard "Charley" saying to her, as he
occasionally did, with a grin which he strove to make as "common" as he
knew how, "Really, Tillie, if you don't let up a little on this putting
on dog, I'll have to take to sneaking in by the back way. The butler's a
sight more of a gent tha