old Mexican hairless right under his eyes;
but it had been made by tears of pride, not sorrow. Maw was right! A
hero's folks hadn't ought to cry. And he wouldn't. Nat was better off
than ever--safe and honored. He had trod the path of glory. A line out
of the boy's old Reader sprang to his mind: "The paths of glory lead but
to the grave." Oh, but it wasn't true! Nat's path led to life--to hope;
to help for all of them, for Nat's own. In his death, if not in his
life, he had rehabilitated them. And Nat--who loved them--would look
down and call it good.

In spite of himself the boy sobbed, visioning his brother's face.

"Oh, Nat!" he whispered. "I knew you'd do it! I always said you'd do
somethin' big for us all."

CHING, CHING, CHINAMAN[20]

[Note 20: Copyright, 1917, by The Pictorial Review Company.
Copyright, 1918, by Wilbur Daniel Steele.]

BY WILBUR DANIEL STEELE

From _The Pictorial Review_

How gaily we used to chant it over Yen Sin's scow when I was a boy on
Urkey water-front, and how unfailingly it brought the minister charging
down upon us. I can see him now, just as he used to burst upon our
vision from the wharf lane, face paper-white, eyes warm with a holy
wrath, lips moving uncontrollably. And I can hear his voice trembling at
our heels as we scuttled off:

"For shame, lads! Christ died for him, lads! For shame! Shame!"

And looking back I can see him there on the wharf above the scow, hands
hanging, shoulders falling together, brooding over the unredeemed.

Minister Malden had seen "the field" in a day of his surging youth--seen
it, and no more. He had seen it from the deck of the steamer by which he
had come out, and by which he had now to return, since his seminary
bride had fallen sick on the voyage. He perceived the teeming harbor
clogged with junks and house-boats, the muddy river, an artery out of
the heart of darkness, the fantastic, colored shore-lines, the vast,
dull drone of heathendom stirring in his ears, the temple gongs calling
blindly to the blind, the alluring and incomprehensible accents of the
boatmen's tongue which he was to have made his own and lightened with
the fierce sweet name of the Cross--and now could not.

Poor young Minister Malden, he turned his face away. He gave up "the
field" for the bride, and when the bride went out in mid-ocean, he had
neither bride nor field. He drifted back to New England, somehow or
other, and found Yen Sin.

He found another b