rrowfully. "Why didn't you get one of Otto's boys?"

"I didn't want anybody to know I was in need of a boy," said Mrs.
Ericson bitterly. She looked straight in front of her and her mouth
tightened. "I always meant to give you the home farm," she added.

The boy started and slid closer. "Oh, Mother," he faltered, "I don't
care about the farm. I came back because I thought you might be
needing me, maybe." He hung his head and got no further.

"Very well," said Mrs. Ericson. Her hand went out from her suddenly
and rested on his head. Her fingers twined themselves in his soft,
pale hair. His tears splashed down on the boards; happiness filled
his heart.

_McClure's_, August 1912

_Consequences_

Henry Eastman, a lawyer, aged forty, was standing beside the
Flatiron building in a driving November rainstorm, signaling
frantically for a taxi. It was six-thirty, and everything on wheels
was engaged. The streets were in confusion about him, the sky was in
turmoil above him, and the Flatiron building, which seemed about to
blow down, threw water like a mill-shoot. Suddenly, out of the
brutal struggle of men and cars and machines and people tilting at
each other with umbrellas, a quiet, well-mannered limousine paused
before him, at the curb, and an agreeable, ruddy countenance
confronted him through the open window of the car.

"Don't you want me to pick you up, Mr. Eastman? I'm running directly
home now."

Eastman recognized Kier Cavenaugh, a young man of pleasure, who
lived in the house on Central Park South, where he himself had an
apartment.

"Don't I?" he exclaimed, bolting into the car. "I'll risk getting
your cushions wet without compunction. I came up in a taxi, but I
didn't hold it. Bad economy. I thought I saw your car down on
Fourteenth Street about half an hour ago."

The owner of the car smiled. He had a pleasant, round face and round
eyes, and a fringe of smooth, yellow hair showed under the rim of
his soft felt hat. "With a lot of little broilers fluttering into
it? You did. I know some girls who work in the cheap shops down
there. I happened to be down-town and I stopped and took a load of
them home. I do sometimes. Saves their poor little clothes, you
know. Their shoes are never any good."

Eastman looked at his rescuer. "Aren't they notoriously afraid of
cars and smooth young men?" he inquired.

Cavenaugh shook his head. "They know which cars are safe