But the final great
belief of all, that there is a wise Creator back of things, and that we
owe Him at least as much loyal courtesy as we give to the best of our
brother men: that is something it is in the hands of any man to hold on
to, if he chooses. Brenton, I hate to lecture you," and, with a sudden
gesture brimful of appealing for forgiveness, for loyal comprehension,
Reed stretched out his hand; "but you have got to bring yourself up
with a round turn. In some way or other, you have missed your chances.
You have gone rushing off for shiny butterflies, when you ought to have
stopped at home and milked the cows. Something," he smiled; "Whittenden
says it was my downfall, set you to asking questions that you were too
nearsighted to answer. Instead of sticking to a few fundamental bits of
faith, you made yourself a ladder out of theological catchwords,
clambered up it and kicked out all the rungs, one after another, as you
climbed. Then you turned dizzy, and lost your grip, and fell all in a
heap. Brenton, we've had about the same experience, one way or another,
out of life."

"But you have braced up again and gone ahead," Brenton said slowly.

"So will you, man. That's why I am harrying you now, to start you up
again. We neither one of us are half through our allotted term of
years. In simple decency, we've got to play out the game."

"If we can," Brenton interrupted.

"No _if_ about it. We've got it to do. Of course, we can't do it in
quite the same old way. Be plucky as we can, it's impossible for us to
deny that we've been scarred--badly; that the scars, some of them, can
never really heal. Still, as long as we've a year ahead of us and a
drop of fighting blood inside us--Brenton, it isn't easy; but it's our
one way to prove we're game."

Then, for a while, the room was very still. At last, Reed spoke once
more.

"Scott," he said slowly, and the old name held a note of great love;
"once on a time, you didn't resent it when I told you that old
Mansfield asked me to take you in hand and show you a few things out of
my own experience. Don't resent it now. We've been too good friends
for too many years for that."

Ramsdell's steady step came up the stairs, and Reed went on quite
simply.

"Then you've heard from Whittenden?"

Brenton, pulling himself back to the present, looked up sharply at the
question.

"How did you know?"

"He wrote me. What does he suggest?"

"Didn't he tell you that? He wants me