e was out
of debt, but from Vienna, whither he had gone to live, came a laconic
cablegram nailing the optimistic impeachment:

Lie. Wrote no such letters. Still deeply in debt.

Nearly half of the original indebtedness needed to be paid, and here,
with scarcely an opposing voice in judgment, he might have waived the
claim upon himself for his firm's responsibilities, but he avowed that
he would pay dollar for dollar.

The time of accomplishment was not long in coming. When the
undertaking was begun, it was with the resolution to clear up the debt
in three years. Allowing for the unexpected, it was feared it would
take four, then at the age of sixty-four a new start in life would be
open to the author, who might point to a considerable occupancy of
space on library shelves and regard a life work accomplished. It took
but two years and a half to pay the debt. He began the effort the
latter part of 1895 and finished it in the early part of 1898.

His return to America and his home in 1900 was, in the unromantic
procedure of our self-conscious days, of the nature of a triumph. He
was formally welcomed by the Lotus Club, and, of course, as delicately
as might be, he was praised for his honesty. His reply to compliment
was a generous recognition of social virtue, which renders easier such
an effort as he made.

Said he:

Your president has referred to certain burdens which I was
weighted with. I am glad he did, as it gives me an opportunity
which I wanted. To speak of those debts--you all knew what he
meant when he referred to it, and to the poor bankrupt firm of
C.L. Webster and Company. No one has said a word about those
creditors. There were ninety-six creditors in all, and not by
a finger's weight did ninety-five out of the ninety-six add to
the burden of that time. They treated me well; they treated me
handsomely. I never knew I owed them anything; not a sign came
from them.

The story is one of simple elements, and suits the prosaic character
of our age. It does not match Sir Walter's for romance. There was no
such brain-racking work; no forcing of the phantasmal multitude of the
poet's brain to dance to pay the expenses of the funeral; no mediaeval
castle to sacrifice; no tragic failure of the ultimate goal. What
there is of real romance seems obscured by the facts of more or less
safe speculation upon assured futures. It was a safe business venture.

The hero was