{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_20983/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_20983","id":"gutenberg_20983","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20983","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Christian fiction"],"text":"E-text prepared by Al Haines\n\n\n\nNote: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this\n      file which includes the original illustration.\n      See 20983-h.htm or 20983-h.zip:\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/0/9/8/20983/20983-h/20983-h.htm)\n      or\n      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/0/9/8/20983/20983-h.zip)\n\n\n\n\n\nROBERT HARDY'S SEVEN DAYS.\n\nA Dream and Its Consequences.\n\nby\n\nCHARLES M. SHELDON,\n\nAuthor of\n\"In His Steps,\" \"The Crucifixion of Phillip Strong,\"\n\"His Brother's Keeper,\" Etc.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Frontispiece: \"He continued kneeling there.\"]\n\n\n\n\nLondon:\nWard, Lock & Co., Limited,\nWarwick House, Salisbury Square, E.C.\nNew York and Melbourne.\n1899\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\nThis story was first read by the author to his Sunday evening\ncongregation in the spring of 1892.  The chapters were given one at a\ntime on consecutive Sundays, and the way in which the story was\nreceived encouraged the pastor in his attempt to solve the problem of\nthe Sunday evening service in this manner.\n\nCHARLES M. SHELDON.\n\nCentral Church, TOPEKA, Kansas.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n   THE DREAM\n\n   MONDAY--THE FIRST DAY\n\n   TUESDAY--THE SECOND DAY\n\n   WEDNESDAY--THE THIRD DAY\n\n   THURSDAY--THE FOURTH DAY\n\n   FRIDAY--THE FIFTH DAY\n\n   SATURDAY--THE SIXTH DAY\n\n   SUNDAY--THE SEVENTH DAY\n\n\n\n\nROBERT HARDY'S SEVEN DAYS.\n\n\nTHE DREAM.\n\nIt was Sunday night, and Robert Hardy had just come home from the\nevening service in the church at Barton.  He was not in the habit of\nattending the evening service, but something said by his minister in\nthe morning had impelled him to go out.  The evening had been a little\nunpleasant, and a light snow was falling, and his wife had excused\nherself from going to church on that account.  Mr. Hardy came home\ncross and fault-finding.\n\n\"Catch me going to evening service again!  Only fifty people out, and\nit was a sheer waste of fuel and light.  The sermon was one of the\ndullest I ever heard.  I believe Mr. Jones is growing too old for our\nchurch.  We need a young man, more up with the times.  He is\neverlastingly harping on the necessity of doing what we can in the\npresent to save souls.  To hear him talk you would think every man who\nwasn't running round to save souls every winter was a robber and an\nenemy of society.  He is getting off, too, on this new-fangled\nChristian Sociology, and thinks the rich men are oppressing the poor,\nand that church members ought to study and follow more closely the\nteachings of Christ, and be more brotherly and neighbourly to their\nfellow men.  Bah!  I am sick of the whole subject of humanity.  I shall\nwithdraw my pledge to the salary if the present style of preaching\ncontinues.\"\n\n\"What was the text of the sermon tonight?\" asked Mrs. Hardy.\n\n\"Oh, I don't remember exactly!  Something about 'This night thy soul\nshall be demanded,' or words like that.  I don't believe in this\nattempt to scare folks into heaven.\"\n\n\"It would take a good many sermons to scare you, Robert.\"\n\n\"Yes, more than two a week,\" replied Mr. Hardy, with a dry laugh.  He\ndrew off his overcoat and threw himself down on the lounge in front of\nthe open fire.  \"Where are the girls?\"\n\n\"Alice is upstairs reading the morning paper; Clara and Bess went over\nto call on the Caxtons.\"\n\n\"How did they happen to go over there?\"\n\nMrs. Hardy hesitated.  Finally she said, \"James came over and invited\nthem.\"\n\n\"And they know I have forbidden them to have anything to do with the\nCaxtons!  When they come in I will let them know I mean what I say.  It\nis very strange the girls do not appear to understand that.\"\n\nMr. Hardy rose from the lounge and walked across the room, then came\nback and lay down again, and from his recumbent position poked the fire\nsavagely with the shovel.\n\nMrs. Hardy bit her lips and seemed on the point of replying, but said\nnothing.\n\nAt last Mr. Hardy asked, \"Where are the boys?\"\n\n\"Will is getting out his lessons for to-morrow up in his room.  George\nwent out about eight o'clock.  He didn't say where he was going.\"\n\n\"It's a nice family.  Is there one night in the year, Mary, when all\nour children are at home?\"\n\n\"Almost as many as there are when you are at home!\" retorted Mrs.\nHardy.  \"What with your club and your lodge and your scientific society\nand your reading circle and your directors' meeting, the children see\nabout as much of you as you do of them.  How many nights in a week do\nyou give to us, Robert?  Do you think it is strange that the children\ngo outside for their amusements?  Our home\"--Mrs. Hardy paused and\nlooked around at the costly interior of the room where the two\nwere--\"our home is well furnished with everything but our own children.\"\n\nThe man on the lounge was silent.  He felt the sharpness of the thrust\nmade by his wife, and knew it was too true to be denied.  But Mr. Hardy\nwas, above all things else, selfish.  He had not the remotest intention\nof giving up his club or his scientific society or his frequent cosy\ndinners with business men down town because his wife spent so many\nlonely deserted evenings at home, and because his children were almost\nstrangers to him.  But it annoyed him, as a respectable citizen, to\nhave his children making acquaintances that he did not approve, and it\ngrated on his old-fashioned, inherited New England ideas that his boys\nand girls should be away from home so often in the evening, and\nespecially on Sunday evening.  The maxim of Robert Hardy's life was\n\"Self-interest first.\"  As long as he was not thwarted in his own\npleasures he was as good-natured as the average man.  He provided\nliberally for the household expenses, and his wife and children were\nsupplied with money and the means to travel as they requested it.  But\nthe minute he was crossed in his own plans, or anyone demanded of him a\nservice that compelled some self-denial, he became hard, ill-natured,\nand haughty.\n\nHe had been a member of the church at Barton for twenty-five years, one\nof the trustees, and a liberal giver.  He prided himself on that fact.\nBut so far as giving any of his time or personal service was concerned,\nhe would as soon have thought of giving all his property away to the\nfirst poor man he met.  His minister had this last week written him an\nearnest, warm-hearted letter, expressing much pleasure at the service\nhe had rendered so many years as a trustee, and asking him if he would\nnot come to the Wednesday evening meeting that week and take some part,\nwhatever he chose, to help along.  It was a season of anxious interest\namong many in the church, and the pastor earnestly desired the presence\nand help of all the members.\n\nRobert had read the letter through hastily and smiled a little\nscornfully.  What! _he_ take part in a prayer meeting!  He couldn't\nremember when he had attended one--they were too dull for him.  He\nwondered at Mr. Jones for writing such a letter, and almost felt as\nthough he had been impertinent.  He threw the letter in the waste\nbasket and did not even answer it.  He would not have been guilty of\nsuch a lack of courtesy in regard to a business letter, but a letter\nfrom his minister was another thing.  The idea of replying to a letter\nfrom him never occurred to Mr. Hardy.  And when Thursday night came he\nwent down to a meeting of the chess club and had a good time with his\nfavourite game: for he was a fine player, and was engaged in a series\nof games which were being played for the State championship.\n\nThe superintendent of the Sunday-school had lately timidly approached\nMr. Hardy and asked him if he would not take a class of boys in the\nSunday-school.  What! _he_ take a class of boys!  He, the influential,\nwealthy manager of one of the largest railroad shops in the world--_he_\ngive his time to the teaching of a Sunday-school class!  He excused\nhimself on the score of lack of time, and the very same evening of his\ninterview with the superintendent he went to the theatre to hear a\nroaring farce, and after he reached home spent an hour in his favourite\nstudy of chemistry in his laboratory at the top of his house: for Mr.\nHardy was a man of considerable power as a student, and he had an\nadmirable physical constitution, capable of the most terrible strain.\nAnything that gave him pleasure he was willing to work for.  He was not\nlazy; but the idea of giving his personal time and service and talents\nto bless the world had no place in his mind.\n\nAnd so, as he lay on the lounge that evening and listened to his wife's\nplain statement concerning his selfishness, he had no intention of\ngiving up a single thing that gratified his tastes and fed his pride.\n\nAfter a silence just about long enough for someone to make the\nexplanation just given, Mrs. Hardy said, speaking coldly, as if it were\na matter of indifference to her:\n\n\"Mr. Burns, the foreman, called while you were out.\"\n\n\"He did?  What did he want?\"\n\n\"He said four of the men in the casting room were severely injured this\nafternoon by the bursting of one of the retorts, and the entire force\nhad quit work and gone home.\"\n\n\"Couldn't Burns supply the place of the injured men?  He knows where\nthe extras are.\"\n\n\"That was what he came to see you about.  He said he needed further\ndirections.  The men flatly refused to work another minute, and went\nout in a body.  I don't blame them much.  Robert, don't you believe God\nwill punish you for keeping the shops open on Sunday?\"\n\n\"Nonsense, Mary,\" replied Mr. Hardy; yet there was a shadow of\nuneasiness in his tone.  \"The work has got to go on.  It is a work of\nnecessity.  Railroads are public servants; they can't rest Sundays.\"\n\n\"Then when God tells the world that it must not work on Sundays, He\ndoes not mean railroad men?  The Fourth Commandment ought to read,\n'Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy, except all ye men who work\nfor railroads.  Ye haven't any Sunday.'\"\n\n\"Mary, I didn't come from one sermon to listen to another.  You're\nworse than Mr. Jones.\"\n\nMr. Hardy half rose on the lounge and leaned on his elbow, looking at\nhis wife with every mark of displeasure on his face.  Yet as he looked,\nsomehow there stole into his thought the memory of the old New England\nhome back in the Vermont Hills, and the vision of that quiet little\ncountry village where Mary and he had been brought up together.  He\nseemed to see the old meeting-house on the hill, at the end of a long,\nelm-shaded street that straggled through the village, and he saw\nhimself again as he began to fall in love with Mary, the beauty of the\nvillage; and he had a vision of one Sunday when, walking back from\nchurch by Mary's side, he had asked her to be his wife.  It seemed to\nhim that a breath of the meadow just beyond Squire Hazen's place came\ninto the room, just as it was wafted up to him when Mary turned and\nsaid the happy word that made that day the gladdest, proudest day he\nhad ever known.  What, memories of the old times!  What!\n\nHe seemed to come to himself, and stared around into the fire as if\nwondering where he was, and he did not see the tear that rolled down\nhis wife's cheek and fell upon her two hands clasped in her lap.  She\narose and went over to the piano, which stood in the shadow, and\nsitting down, with her back to her husband, she played fragments of\nmusic nervously.  Mr. Hardy lay down on the lounge again.  After a\nwhile Mrs. Hardy wheeled about on the piano stool and said:\n\n\"Robert, don't you think you had better go over and see Mr. Burns about\nthe men who were hurt?\"\n\n\"Why, what can I do about it?  The company's doctor will see to them.\nI should only be in the way.  Did Burns say they were badly hurt?\"\n\n\"One of them had his eyes put out, and another will have to lose both\nfeet.  I think he said his name was Scoville.\"\n\n\"What, not Ward Scoville?\"\n\n\"I think Burns said that was the name.\"\n\nMr. Hardy rose from the lounge, then lay down again.  \"Oh, well, I can\ngo there the first thing in the morning.  I can't do anything now,\" he\nmuttered.\n\nBut there came to his memory a picture of one day when he was walking\nthrough the machine shops.  A heavy piece of casting had broken from\nthe end of a large hoisting derrick and would have fallen upon him and\nprobably killed him if this man, Scoville, at the time a workman in the\nmachine department, had not pulled him to one side, at the risk of his\nown life.  As it was, in saving the life of the manager, Scoville was\nstruck on the shoulder, and rendered useless for work for four weeks.\nMr. Hardy had raised his wages and advanced him to a responsible\nposition in the casting room.  Mr. Hardy was not a man without\ngenerosity and humane feeling; but as he lay on the lounge that evening\nand thought of the cold snow outside and the distance to the shop\ntenements, he readily excused himself from going out to see the man who\nhad once saved him, and who now lay maimed for life.  If anyone thinks\nit impossible that one man calling himself a Christian could be thus\nindifferent to another, then he does not know the power that\nselfishness can exercise over the actions of men.  Mr. Hardy had one\nsupreme law which he obeyed, and that law was self.\n\nAgain Mrs. Hardy, who rarely ventured to oppose her husband's wishes,\nturned to the piano and struck a few chords aimlessly.  Then she\nwheeled about and said abruptly:\n\n\"Robert, the cook gave warning tonight that she must go home at once.\"\n\nMr. Hardy had begun to doze a little, but at this sudden statement he\nsat up and exclaimed:\n\n\"Well, you _are_ the bearer of bad news to-night, Mary!  What's the\nmatter with everybody?  I suppose the cook wants more pay.\"\n\nMrs. Hardy replied quietly:  \"Her sister is dying.  And do you know, I\nbelieve I have never given the girl credit for much feeling.  She\nalways seemed to me to lack there, though she is certainly the most\nfaithful and efficient servant we ever had in the house.  She came in\njust after Mr. Burns left, and broke down, crying bitterly.  It seems\nher sister is married to one of the railroad men here in town, and has\nbeen ailing with consumption for some months.  She is very poor, and a\nlarge family has kept her struggling for mere existence.  The cook was\nalmost beside herself with grief as she told the story, and said she\nmust leave us and care for her sister, who could not live more than a\nweek at the longest.  I pitied the poor girl.  Robert, don't you think\nwe could do something for the family?  We have so much ourselves.  We\ncould easily help them and not miss a single luxury.\"\n\n\"And where would such help end?  If we give to every needy person who\ncomes along we shall be beggars ourselves.  Besides, I can't afford it.\nThe boys are a heavy expense to me while they are in college, and the\ncompany has been cutting down salaries lately.  If the cook's sister is\nmarried to a railroad man, he is probably getting good wages and can\nsupport her all right.\"\n\n\"What if that railroad man were injured and made a cripple for life?\"\ninquired Mrs. Hardy quietly.\n\n\"Then the insurance companies or the societies can help them out.  I\ndon't see how we can make every case that comes along our care.  There\nwould be no end of it if we once began.\"\n\n\"As nearly as I can find out,\" continued Mrs. Hardy, without replying\nto her husband's remarks, \"cook's sister is married to one of the men\nwho was hurt this afternoon.  She talks so brokenly in our language\nthat I could not make out exactly how it is; and she was much excited.\nSuppose it was Scoville: couldn't you do something for them then,\nRobert?\"\n\n\"I might,\" replied Mr. Hardy briefly.  \"But I can tell you, I have more\ncalls for my money now than I can meet.  Take the church expenses for\nexample.  Why, we are called upon to give to some cause or other every\nweek, besides our regular pledges for current expenses.  It's a\nconstant drain.  I shall have to cut down on my pledge.  We can't be\ngiving to everything all the time, and have anything ourselves.\"\n\nMr. Hardy spoke with a touch of indignation.  His wife glanced around\nthe almost palatial room and smiled; then her face grew a little stern\nand almost forbidding, as she remembered that only last week her\nhusband had spent $150 for a new electrical apparatus to experiment\nwith in his laboratory.  And now he was talking hard times, and\ngrudging the small sums he gave to religious objects in connection with\nhis church, and thinking he could not afford to help the family of a\nman who had once saved his life.\n\nAgain she turned to the piano and played a while, but she could not be\nrested by the music as sometimes she had been.  When she finally arose\nand walked over by the table near the end of the lounge, Mr. Hardy was\nasleep, and she sat down by the table gazing into the open fire\ndrearily, a look of sorrow and unrest on the face still beautiful but\nworn by years of disappointment and the loss of that respect and\nadmiration she once held for the man who had vowed at the altar to make\nher 'happy.'  She had not wholly lost her love for him, but she was\nfast losing the best part of it, the love which has its daily source in\nan inborn respect.  When respect is gone, love is not long in following\nafter.\n\nShe sat thus for half an hour, and was at last aroused by the two\ngirls, Clara and Bess, coming in.  They were laughing and talking\ntogether, and had evidently parted with someone at the door.  Mrs.\nHardy went out into the hallway.\n\n\"Hush, girls, your father is asleep!  You know how he feels to be\nawakened suddenly by noise.  But he has been waiting up for you.\"\n\n\"Then I guess we'll go upstairs without bidding him good-night,\" said\nClara abruptly.  \"I don't want to be lectured about going over to the\nCaxtons'.\"\n\n\"No; I want to see you both and have a little talk with you.  Come in\nhere.\"  Mrs. Hardy drew the two girls into the front room and pulled\nthe curtains together over the arch opening into the room where Mr.\nHardy lay.  \"Now tell me, girls, why did your father forbid your going\nover to the Caxtons'?  I did not know of it until to-night.  Has it\nsomething to do with James?\"\n\nNeither of the girls said anything for a minute.  Then, Bess, who was\nthe younger of the two and famous for startling the family with very\nsensational remarks, replied, \"James and Clara are engaged; and they\nare going to be married tomorrow.\"\n\nMrs. Hardy looked at Clara, who grew very red in the face, and then, to\nthe surprise of her mother and Bess, the girl burst out into a violent\nfit of crying.  Mrs. Hardy gathered her into her arms as in the olden\ntimes when she was a little child and soothed her into quietness.\n\n\"Tell me all about it, dear.  I did not know you cared for James in\nthat way.\"\n\n\"But I do,\" sobbed Clara.  \"And father guessed something and forbade us\ngoing there any more.  But I didn't think he would mind it if Bess and\nI went just this one night.  I couldn't help it, anyway.  Mother, isn't\nit right for people to love each other?\"\n\n\"Tisn't proper to talk about such things on Sunday,\" said Bess,\nsolemnly.\n\n\"Clara,\" said Mrs. Hardy, \"why, you're only a child yet!  Is it true\nthat James is--why, he is only a boy!\"\n\n\"He is twenty-one and I am eighteen, and he's earning forty dollars a\nmonth in the office and is one of the best stenographers in the State.\nWe've talked it over, and I wish we could be married to-morrow, so!\"\nClara burst out with it all at once, while Bess remarked quietly:--\n\n\"Yes, they're real sensible, and I think James is nice; but when I\nmarry I want more than forty dollars a month for candy alone.  And then\nhe isn't particularly handsome.\"\n\n\"He is too!\" cried Clara.  \"And he's good and brave and splendid, and\nI'd rather have him than a thousand such men as Lancey Cummings!\nMother, I don't want money.  It hasn't made you happy!\"\n\n\"Hush, dear!\"  Mrs. Hardy felt as if a blow had smitten her in the\nface.  She was silent then.\n\nClara put her arms around her mother and whispered: \"Forgive me,\nmother!  I didn't mean to hurt you.  But I am so unhappy.\"\n\nUnhappy!  And yet the girl was just beginning to blossom out towards\nthe face of God under the influence of that most divine and tender and\ntrue feeling that ever comes to a girl who knows that a true, brave man\nloves her with all his soul.  And some people would have us leave this\nsubject to the flippant novelist instead of treating it as Christ did\nwhen He said, \"For this cause [that is, for love] shall a man leave his\nfather and mother, and shall cleave unto his wife.\"\n\nMrs. Hardy was on the point of saying something when the sound of\npeculiar steps on the stairs was heard, and shortly after Alice pushed\nthe curtains aside and came in.  Alice was the oldest girl in the\nfamily.  She was a cripple, the result of an accident when a child, and\nshe carried a crutch, using it with much skill and even grace.  The\nminute she entered the room she saw something was happening, but she\nsimply said:--\n\n\"Mother, isn't it a little strange father sleeps so soundly?  I went up\nto him and spoke to him just now, thinking he was just lying there, and\nhe didn't answer, and then I saw he was asleep.  But I never knew him\nto sleep so Sunday night.  He usually reads up in the study.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he is sick; I will go and see.\"\n\nMrs. Hardy rose and went into the other room; and just then the younger\nboy, Will, came downstairs.  He said something to his mother as he\npassed through the room, carrying one of his books in his hand and then\ncame in where the girls were.\n\n\"Say, Alice, translate this passage for me, will you?  Confound the old\nRomans anyway!  What do I care about the way they fought their old\nbattles and built their old one-horse bridges!  What makes me angry is\nthe way Caesar has of telling a thing.  Why can't he drive right\nstraight ahead instead of beating about the bush so?  If I couldn't get\nup a better language than those old duffers used to write their books\nin, I'd lie down and die.  I can't find the old verb to that sentence\nanyway.  Maybe it's around on the other page somewhere, or maybe Caesar\nleft it out just on purpose to plague us boys.\"\n\nAnd Will shied the book over to Alice, who good-naturedly began to\nread, while that much suffering youth sat down by Bess and began to\ntease her and Clara.\n\n\"What are you and Clara doing at this time of day?  Time you youngsters\nwere going up stairs.  Play us a little tune, Bessie, will you?  What\nyou been crying for, Clara Vere de Vere?\"\n\n\"I should think you would be ashamed of yourself, Will, studying on\nSundays,\" said Bess reprovingly and with dignity.\n\n\"No worse than sparking Sunday nights,\" retorted the incorrigible Will.\n\n\"I haven't been,\" replied Bess, indignantly.  \"I've been with Clara.\"\n\n\"She doesn't need any help, does she?\" inquired Will, innocently.  And\ngoing over where Clara lay with her face hid in the pillow of a large\ncouch, Will tried to pull the pillow out from under her head.\n\n\"Let me alone, Will.  I don't feel well,\" said a muffled voice from the\npillow.\n\n\"Pshaw! you're fooling.\"\n\n\"No, I'm not.  Let me alone.\"\n\n\"Come here, or I won't read your sentence for you,\" called Alice.  And\nWill reluctantly withdrew, for he knew from experience that Alice would\nkeep her word.\n\n\"All right.  Now go ahead; not too fast.  Here!  Wait a minute!  Let me\nwrite her down.  I don't intend to miss to-morrow if I can help it.\nAnd old Romulus will call me up on this very passage, I know.  Be just\nlike him, though, to strike me on the review.\"\n\nAt that minute the door opened and in came George, the elder boy, and\nthe oldest of the group of children.  He hung up hat and coat, and\nstrolled into the room.\n\n\"Where's mother?\"\n\n\"She's in the other room,\" answered Bess.  \"Father's been asleep, and\nmother was afraid he was going to have a fever.\"\n\n\"That's one of your stories,\" said George, who seemed in a good-natured\nmood.  He sat down and drew his little sister towards him and whispered\nto her:\n\n\"Say, Bess, I want some money again.\"\n\n\"Awfully?\" whispered Bess.\n\n\"Yes, for a special reason.  Do you think you could let me have a\nlittle?\"\n\n\"Why, of course! you can have all my month's allowance.  But why don't\nyou ask father?\"\n\n\"No; I've asked him too much lately.  He refused point blank last time.\nI didn't like the way he spoke.\"\n\n\"Well, you can have all mine,\" said Bess, whispering.\n\nGeorge and she were great friends, and there was not a thing that\nBessie would not have done for her big brother, who was her hero.  What\nhe wanted with so much money she never asked.\n\nThey were still whispering together, and Clara had just risen to go\nupstairs, and Alice and Will had finished the translation, and Will was\njust on the point of seeing how near he could come to throwing the\nCommentaries of Caesar into an ornamental Japanese jar across the room,\nwhen Mrs. Hardy parted the curtains at the arch and beckoned her\nchildren to come into the next room.  Her face was exceedingly pale,\nand she was trembling as if with some great terror.\n\nThe children all cried out in surprise and hurried into the next room.\nBut before relating what happened there, we will follow Mr. Hardy into\nthe experience he had, just after falling asleep upon the lounge by the\nopen fire.\n\nIt seemed to him that he stepped at once from the room where he lay\ninto a place such as he had never seen before, where the one great idea\nthat filled his entire thought was that of the Present Moment.  Spread\nout before him as if reproduced by a phonograph and a magic lantern\ncombined was the moving panorama of the entire world.  He thought he\nsaw into every home, every public place of business, every  saloon and\nplace of amusement, every shop and every farm, every place of industry,\npleasure, and vice upon the face of the globe.  And he thought he could\nhear the world's conversation, catch its sobs of suffering--nay, even\ncatch the meaning of unspoken thoughts of the heart.  With that absurd\nrapidity peculiar to certain dreams, he fancied that over every city on\nthe globe was placed a glass cover through which he could look, and\nthrough which the sounds of the city's industry came to him.  But he\nthought that he ascertained that by lifting off one of these covers he\ncould hear with greater distinctness the thoughts of the inhabitants,\nand see all they were doing and suffering, with the most minute\nexactness.  He looked for the place of his own town--Barton.  There it\nlay in its geographical spot on the globe, and he thought that, moved\nby an impulse he could not resist, he lifted off the cover and bent\ndown to see and hear.\n\nThe first thing he saw was his minister's home.  It was just after the\nSunday evening service, the one which Mr. Hardy had thought so dull.\nMr. Jones was talking over the evening with his wife.\n\n\"My dear,\" he said, \"I feel about discouraged.  Of what use is all our\npraying and longing for the Holy Spirit, when our own church members\nare so cold and unspiritual that all His influence is destroyed?  You\nknow I made a special plea to all the members to come out to-night, yet\nonly a handful were there.  I feel like giving up the struggle.  You\nknow I could make a better living in literary work, and the children\ncould be better cared for then.\"\n\n\"But, John, it was a bad night to get out: you must remember that.\"\n\n\"But only fifty out of a church membership of four hundred, most of\nthem living near by!  It doesn't seem just right to me.\"\n\n\"Mr. Hardy was there.  Did you see him?\"\n\n\"Yes; after service I went and spoke to him, and he treated me very\ncoldly.  And yet he is the most wealthy, and in some ways the most\ngifted, church member we have.  He could do great things for the good\nof this community, if\"--\n\nSuddenly Mr. Hardy thought the minister changed into the Sunday-school\nsuperintendent, and he was walking down the street thinking about his\nclasses in the school, and Mr. Hardy thought he could hear the\nsuperintendent's thoughts, as if his ear were at a phonograph.\n\n\"It's too bad!  That class of boys I wanted Mr. Hardy to take left the\nschool because no one could be found to teach them.  And now Bob Wilson\nhas got into trouble and been arrested for petty thieving.  It will be\na terrible blow to his poor mother.  Oh, why is it that men like Mr.\nHardy cannot be made to see the importance of work in the Sunday\nSchool?  With his knowledge of chemistry and geology, he could have\nreached that class of boys and invited them to his home, up into his\nlaboratory, and exercised an influence over them they would never\noutgrow.  Oh! it's a strange thing to me that men of such possibilities\ndo not realize their power!\"\n\nThe superintendent passed along shaking his head sorrowfully, and Mr.\nHardy, who seemed guided by some power he could not resist, and\ncompelled to listen whether he liked it or not, next found himself\nlooking into one of the railroad-shop tenements; where the man Scoville\nwas lying, awaiting amputation of both feet after the terrible\naccident.  Scoville's wife lay upon a ragged lounge, while Mrs. Hardy's\ncook kneeled by her side and in her native Swedish tongue tried to\ncomfort the poor woman.  So it was true that these two were sisters.\nThe man was still conscious, and suffering unspeakably.  The railroad\nsurgeon had been sent for, but had not arrived.  Three or four men and\ntheir wives had come in to do what they could.  Mr. Burns, the foreman,\nwas among them.  One of the men spoke in a whisper to him:\n\n\"Have you been to see Mr. Hardy?\"\n\n\"Yes; but he was at church.  I left word about the accident.\"\n\n\"At church!  So even the devil sometimes goes to church.  What for, I\nwonder?  Will he be here, think?\"\n\n\"Don't know!\" replied Mr. Burns curtly.\n\n\"Do you mind when he [pointing to Scoville] saved Mr. Hardy's life?\"\n\n\"Remember it well enough; was standing close by.\"\n\n\"What'll be done with the children when Scoville goes, eh?\"\n\n\"Don't know.\"\n\nJust then the surgeon came in and preparations were rapidly made for\nthe operation.  The last that Mr. Hardy heard was the shriek of the\npoor wife as she struggled to her feet and fell in a fit across the\nfloor where two of the youngest children clung terrified to her dress,\nand the father cried out, tears of agony and despair running down his\nface.  \"My God, what a hell this world is!\"\n\nThe next scene was a room where everything appeared confused at first,\nbut finally grew more distinct and terrible in its significance.  The\nfirst person Mr. Hardy recognised was his own oldest boy, George, in\ncompany with a group of young men engaged in--what!  He rubbed his eyes\nand stared, painfully.  Yes: they were gambling.  So here was where\nGeorge spent all his money, and Bessie's too!  Nothing that the\nmiserable father had seen so far cut him to the quick quite so sharply\nas this.  He had prided himself on his own freedom from vices, and had\nan honest horror of them: for Mr. Hardy was not a monster of iniquity,\nonly an intensely selfish man.  Gambling, drinking, impurity--all the\nphysical vices--were to Mr. Hardy the lowest degradation.\n\nThe thought that his own son had fallen into this pit was terrible to\nhim.  But he was compelled to look and listen.  All the young men were\nsmoking, and beer and wine, which stood on a buffet at one side of the\nroom, were plentifully partaken of.\n\n\"I say, George,\" said a very flashily-dressed youth, who was smoking\nthat invention of the devil, a cigarette, \"your old man would rub his\neyes to see you here, eh?\"\n\n\"Well, I should remark he would,\" replied George, as he shuffled the\ncards and then helped himself to a drink.\n\n\"I say, George,\" said the first speaker, \"your sister Bess is getting\nto be a beauty.  Introduce me, will you?\"\n\n\"No, I won't,\" said George shortly.  He had been losing all the\nevening, and he felt nervous and irritable.\n\n\"Ah!  We are too bad, eh?\"\n\nGeorge made some fierce reply, and the other fellow struck him.\nInstantly George sprang to his feet and a fight took place.  Mr. Hardy\ncould not bear it any longer.  He thought he broke away from the scene\nby the exercise of a great determination.\n\nNext he found himself looking into his own home.  It seemed to him it\nwas an evening when he and all the children had gone out and Mrs. Hardy\nsat alone, looking into the fire as she had been looking before he fell\nasleep.  She was thinking, and her thoughts were like burning coals as\nthey fell into Mr. Hardy's heart and scorched him, as no other scene,\nnot even the last, had done.\n\n\"My husband!\" Mrs. Hardy was saying to herself, \"how long it is since\nhe gave me a caress, kissed me when he went to his work, or laid his\nhand lovingly on my cheek as he used to do!  How brave, and handsome,\nand good I used to think him in the old Vermont days when we were\nstruggling for our little home, and his best thought was of the home\nand of the wife!  But the years have changed him; oh, yes! they have\nchanged him bitterly.  I wonder if he realises my hunger for his\naffection?  Of what value to me are all these baubles wealth brings\ncompared with a loving look, a tender smile, an affectionate caress!  O\nRobert!  Robert! come back to me! for I am so lonely, so lonely!  Would\nto God all our riches might be taken from us and our position in\nSociety be lost to us! for I am fast losing my love for him who is my\nhusband.  Great and long-suffering and forgiving God, help me!  I feel\nwicked sometimes.  I cannot bear this kind of a life.  It is killing\nme!  It is robbing me of all that life contains that is sweet and true.\nO Father of mercies, for Jesus' sake do not let me grow insane or\nwithout belief!  O Robert, Robert! my lover, my husband; I will, I will\nlove you!\"  And Mrs. Hardy fell on her knees by the side of the couch\nand buried her face in its cushions and sobbed and prayed.\n\nSuddenly the whole scene changed, and Mr. Hardy, who had stretched out\nhis arms to comfort his wife as in the old days when love was young,\nfelt himself carried by an irresistible power up away from the earth,\npast the stars and planets and suns and satellites that blazed like\ngems in space; on, on for what seemed to him like ages of time, until\neven the thought of time grew indistinct; on and up and into the\npresence of the most mighty Face he had ever looked into.  It was the\nFace of Eternity.  On its brow was written in words of blazing light\nthe one word \"Now.\"  And as he looked into that calm, awful Face and\nread that word, Mr. Hardy felt his soul crumble within him.  When the\nFace spoke it was the speech of a thousand oceans heaved by a million\ntempests, yet through the terror of it ran a thread of music--a still,\nsweet sound like everlasting love--as if angels sang somewhere a divine\naccompaniment.  And the Face said:\n\n\"Child of humanity, you have neglected and despised me for fifty years.\nYou have lived  for  yourself.  You have been careless and thoughtless\nof the world's great needs.  The time of your redemption is short.  It\nhas been appointed you by Him who rules the world that you should have\nbut seven more days to live upon the earth--seven days to help redeem\nyour soul from everlasting shame and death.  Mortal, see to it that\nthou use the precious time like those who toil for jewels in the mine\nbeneath the sea.  I who speak unto thee am Eternity.\"\n\nThen Robert Hardy thought he fell prostrate before that awful face  and\nbegged in bitterest terror for a longer lease of life.\n\n\"Seven days!  Why it will be but seven swift seconds to redeem my past!\nSeven days!  It will be a nothing in the marking of time!  O mighty\nPower, grant me longer!  Seven weeks!  Seven years!  And I will live\nfor Thee as never mortal yet lived!\"\n\nAnd Robert Hardy sobbed and held his arms beseechingly up toward that\nmost resplendent Face.  And as he thus stretched out his arms, the Face\nbent down, toward his, and he thought a smile of pity gleamed upon it\nand he hoped that more time would be granted him; and then, as it came\nnearer, he suddenly awoke, and there was his own wife bending over him,\nand a tear from her face fell upon his own, as she said:\n\n\"Robert!  Robert!\"\n\nMr. Hardy sat up confused and trembling.  Then he clasped his wife to\nhim and kissed her as he used to do.  And then, to her great amazement,\nhe related to her in a low tone the dream he had just had.  Mrs. Hardy\nlistened in the most undisguised astonishment.  But what followed\nfilled her heart with fear.\n\n\"Mary,\" said her husband, with the utmost solemnity, \"I cannot regard\nthis as a dream alone.  I have awakened with the firm conviction that I\nhave only seven days left to live.  I feel that God has spoken to me;\nand I have only seven days more to do my work in this world.\"\n\n\"O Robert! it was only a dream.\"\n\n\"No; it was more, Mary.  You know I am not imaginative or superstitious\nin the least.  You know I never dream.  And this was something else.  I\nshall die out of this world a week from to-night.  Are the children\nhere?  Call them in.\"\n\nMr. Hardy spoke in a tone of such calm conviction, that Mrs. Hardy was\nfilled with wonder and fear.  She went to the curtain, and, as we have\nalready recorded, she called the children into the other room.\n\nMr. Hardy gazed upon his children with a look they had not seen upon\nhis face for years.  Briefly but calmly he related his experience,\nomitting the details of the vision and all mention of the scene where\nGeorge had appeared, and then declared with a solemnity and\nimpressiveness that could not be resisted:\n\n\"My dear children, I have not lived as I should.  I have not been to\nyou the father I ought to have been.  I have lived a very selfish,\nuseless life.  I have only seven more days to live.  God has spoken to\nme.  I am--\"\n\nHe broke off suddenly, and, sobbing as only a strong man can, he drew\nhis wife toward him and caressed her, while Bess crept up and put her\narms about her father's neck.\n\nThe terrible suspicion shot into Mrs. Hardy's mind that her husband was\ninsane.  The children were terrified; only Alice seemed to catch the\nreflection of her mother's thought.  At the same time, Mr. Hardy seemed\nto feel the suspicion held by them.\n\n\"No,\" he said, as if in answer to a spoken charge, \"I am not insane.  I\nnever was more calm.  I am in possession of all my faculties.  But I\nhave looked into the Face of Eternity this night and I know, I know\nthat in seven days God will require my soul.  Mary,\" he turned to his\nwife with the most beseeching cry, \"Mary, do you believe me?\"\n\nShe looked into her husband's face and saw there the old look.  Reason,\nthe noblest of all gifts, shone out of that noble face now lighted up\nwith the old love, and standing on the brink of the other world.  And\nMrs. Hardy, looking her husband in the face, replied:\n\n\"Yes, Robert, I believe you.  You may be mistaken in this impression\nabout the time left you to live, but you are not insane.\"\n\n\"O God, I thank Thee for that!\" cried Mr. Hardy.\n\nOften during the most remarkable week he ever lived Mr. Hardy reposed\nin that implicit belief of his wife in his sanity.\n\nThere was a pause.  Then Mr. Hardy asked George to bring the Bible.  He\nread from John's Gospel that matchless prayer of Christ in the\nseventeenth chapter; then kneeling down, he prayed as he had never\nprayed before, that in the week allotted him to live he might know how\nto bless the world and serve his Master best.  And when he arose and\nlooked about upon his wife and children, it was with the look of one\nwho has been into the very presence chamber of the only living God.  At\nthe same moment, so fast had the time gone in the excitement, the clock\nupon the mantel struck the hour of midnight--and the first of Robert\nHardy's seven days had begun!\n\n\n\n\nMONDAY--THE FIRST DAY.\n\nWhen Mr. Hardy woke on the morning of the first of the seven days left\nhim to live, he was on the point of getting ready for his day's\nbusiness, as usual, when the memory of his dream flashed upon him, and\nhe was appalled to decide what he should do first.  Breakfast was\ngenerally a hurried and silent meal with him.  The children usually\ncame straggling down at irregular intervals, and it was very seldom\nthat the family all sat down together.  This morning Mr. Hardy waited\nuntil all had appeared, and while they were eating he held a family\ncouncil.\n\nHis wife was evidently in great excitement and anxiety, and yet the\nlove and tenderness she felt coming back to her from her husband gave\nher face a look of beauty that had been a stranger to it for years.\n\nThe children were affected in various ways by their father's remarkable\nchange.  George was sullen and silent.  Will looked thoughtful and\ntroubled.  Alice, a girl of very strong and decided opinions and\ncharacter, greeted her father with a kiss and seemed to understand the\nnew relations he now sustained to them all.  Clara appeared terrified,\nas if death had already come into the house, and several times she\nbroke down crying at the table, and finally went away into the sitting\nroom.  Bess sat next to her father, as she always did, and was the most\ncheerful of all, taking a very calm and philosophical view of the\nsituation, so that Mr. Hardy smiled once or twice as she gave her\nadvice.\n\nMr. Hardy was pale but calm.  The impression of the night before was\nevidently deepening with him.  It would have been absurd to call him\ninsane.  His wife was obliged to confess to herself that he had never\nappeared more sound in judgment and calm in speech.  He was naturally a\nman of very strong will.  His passions, as we have already seen, were\nunder control.  Never in all his life had he felt so self-contained, so\nfree from nervousness, so capable of sustained effort.  But the one\ngreat thought that filled his mind was that of the shortness of the\ntime.\n\n\"Almighty God,\" was his prayer, \"show me how to use these seven days in\nthe wisest and best manner.\"\n\n\"Robert, what will you do to-day?\" asked Mrs. Hardy.\n\n\"I have been thinking, dear, and I believe my first duty is to God.  We\nhave not had morning worship together for a long time.  After we have\nknelt as a family in prayer to Him, I believe He will give me wisdom to\nknow what I ought to do.\"\n\n\"I think father ought to stay at home with us all the time,\" said Bess.\n\n\"Robert,\" said Mrs. Hardy, who could not comprehend the full meaning of\nthe situation much better than little Bess, \"will you give up your\nbusiness?  How can you attend to it?  Will you have the strength and\nthe patience while labouring under this impression?\"\n\n\"I have already thought over that.  Yes; I believe I ought to go right\non.  I don't see what would be gained by severing my connection with\nthe company.\"\n\n\"Will you tell the company you have only\"--Mrs. Hardy could not say the\nwords.  They choked her.\n\n\"What would you do, Alice?\" asked her father, turning to his oldest\ndaughter, who, although a cripple, had more than once revealed to the\nfamily great powers of judgment and decision.\n\n\"I would not say anything to the company about it,\" replied Alice\nfinally.\n\n\"That is the way I feel,\" said Mr. Hardy with a nod of approval.  \"They\nwould not understand it.  My successor in the office will be young\nWellman, in all probability, and he is perfectly competent to carry on\nthe work.  I feel as if this matter were one that belonged to the\nfamily.  I shall of course arrange my business affairs with reference\nto the situation, and George can give me half a day for the details.\nBut you know, Mary, I have always kept my business in such shape that\nin any case of accident or sudden death matters could easily be\narranged.  Thank God!  I shall not have to take time for those matters\nthat I ought to give to more serious and important duties.\"\n\nIt was true that Mr. Hardy, who was a man of very methodical habits in\na business way, had always arranged his affairs with reference to\naccidental removal.  His business as manager necessitated his being on\nthe road a great deal, and he realized, as many railroad men do\nrealize, the liability of sudden death.\n\nBut such a thought had not had any influence on his actions to make him\nless selfish.  He had thought, as all men do, that he should probably\nlive right along after all; that death might take the engineer or\nconductor or fireman, but would pass him by.\n\nSuddenly Will spoke up: \"Father, do you want George and me to leave\ncollege?\"\n\n\"Certainly not, my boy.  What would be gained by that?  I want you to\nkeep right on just as if I were going to live fifty years more.\"\n\nGeorge did not say anything.  He looked at his father as if he doubted\nhis sanity.\n\nHis father noticed the look, and a terrible wave of anguish swept over\nhim as he recalled the part of his vision in which he had seen his\noldest son in the gambling room.\n\nAgain the prayer he had been silently praying all the morning went up\nout of his heart: \"Almighty God, show me how to use the seven days most\nwisely.\"\n\n\"Father,\" said Bess suddenly, \"what will you do about Jim and Clara?\nDid you know they were engaged?\"\n\n\"Bess!\" said Clara passionately.  Then she stopped suddenly, and,\nseeing her father's brow grow dark, she cowered, afraid of what was\ncoming.\n\nBut Mr. Hardy looked at the world differently this morning.\nTwenty-four hours before he would have treated Bessie's remark as he\nusually treated her surprising revelations of the secrets of the\nfamily.  He would have laughed at it a little, and sternly commanded\nClara to break the engagement, if there was one, at once: for James\nCaxton was not at all the sort of man Mr. Hardy wanted to have come\ninto the family.  He was poor, to begin with.  More than all, his\nfather had been the means of defeating Mr. Hardy in a municipal\nelection where a place of influence and honour was in dispute.  Mr.\nHardy had never forgotten or forgiven it.  When he began to see his\nchildren intimate with the Caxtons, he forbade their going to the\nhouse, with the result already described.\n\nMr. Hardy looked at Clara and said very tenderly: \"Clara, we must have\na good talk about this.  You know your father loves you and wants you\nto be happy and----\"  Mr. Hardy stopped in his emotion, and Clara burst\ninto tears and left the table.\n\n\"Come,\" cried Mr. Hardy after a moment, during which no one seemed\ninclined to speak; \"let us ask God to give us all wisdom at this time.\"\n\nGeorge made a motion as if to go out.\n\n\"My son,\" called Mr. Hardy after him gently, \"won't you stay with the\nrest of us?\"\n\nGeorge sat down with a shamefaced look, Alice and Clara came back, and\nMr. Hardy read that famous sixth chapter of Ephesians, beginning,\n\"Children, obey your parents in the Lord.\"  Then in a brief but earnest\nprayer he asked God's help and blessing on all the day, and rose to\nface it, the great burden of his responsibility beginning to rest upon\nhim for the first time.  He sat down for a moment by his wife and\nkissed her, putting his arm about her, while Bess climbed up on the\nside of the couch and the boys stood irresolute and wondering.  Any\noutward mark of affection was so unusual on the part of their father\nthat they felt awkward in the presence of it.  Mrs. Hardy was almost\novercome.\n\n\"O Robert, I cannot bear it!  Surely it was nothing more than a dream!\nIt couldn't have been anything more.  You are not going to be called\naway from us so soon.\"\n\n\"Mary, I would God that I had seven years to atone for my neglect and\nselfishness towards you alone.  But I am certain that God has granted\nme but seven days.  I must act.  God help me!  Boys, you will be late.\nWe will all be at home this evening.  Alice, care for your mother and\ncheer her up.  You are a good girl, and----\"\n\nAgain Mr. Hardy broke down as he thought of the many years he had\npractically ignored this brave, strong, uncomplaining nature in his own\nhouse, and remorse tore him fiercely as he recalled how he had\npersistently discouraged all the poor girl's ambitious efforts to make\nher way as an artist, not on account of the expense--for Mr. Hardy was\nnot a niggard in that respect--but because he had a false idea\nconcerning the profession.  He looked at the girl now as she limped\nacross the floor to her mother, her pale, intellectual face brightened\nby her love, and her eyes shining with tears at her father's unusual\npraise.  \"O God,\" was the inner cry of Mr. Hardy's heart, \"what have I\nnot neglected when I had it in my power to create so much happiness!\"\n\nThe thought almost unnerved him; and for a moment he felt like sitting\ndown to do nothing.  But only for a moment.  He rose briskly, went out\ninto the hall and put on his overcoat, and, coming back a moment, said,\n\"I am going down to see poor Scoville the first thing.  I shall be so\nbusy you must not look for me at lunch.  But I will be back to six\no'clock dinner.  Good-bye!\"  He kissed his wife tenderly, and she clung\nto him sobbing.  Then he kissed his daughters, a thing he had not done\nsince they were babies, and shook hands with the boys, and marched out\nlike one going to execution, something bright glistening in his own\neyes.\n\nAh! ye fathers and husbands, you who are toiling for the dear ones at\nhome, how many of you have grown so unaccustomed to the tender\naffections of home that your own wife would almost faint and think\nsomething was going to happen to you if you kissed her good-bye when\nyou went away to your work in the morning!  How do you know that she\nwho has been your faithful friend and lover all these years, and nursed\nyou through peevish sickness and done a thousand things every day for\nyou without so much as a word of thanks or praise on your part--how do\nyou know she does not care for these demonstrations of affection?  And\nif she does not, how does it happen except through neglect?  Call it\nnot a little thing.  It is of such little things that heaven is made,\nand it is of the home where such little things are found that it can\ntruly be said, \"Love is master, and the Evil One cannot find an\nentrance to blot with his foul tread the sweetest thing on earth.\"\n\nMr. Hardy hurried down towards the tenement where Ward Scoville lived,\nrevolving in his mind as he went along plans for his future happiness\nand comfort.\n\n\"I'll deed him the place where he lives, and arrange it in some way so\nthat he won't have to go to the hospital, or come on the county when\nhis poor wife is gone.  It will be the best I can do for him.  Poor\nfellow!  What a shame I did not come down last night!  And his wife a\nhopeless invalid and the oldest child only four years old, Mary said!\"\n\nHe was surprised, as he drew near the house, to see a group of men\nstanding there outside and talking together earnestly.  As Mr. Hardy\ncame up they stood aside to let him pass, but were barely civil.\n\n\"Well, Stevens,\" Mr. Hardy inquired of one of the men, recognising him\nas one of the employes in the casting room, \"how is Scoville this\nmorning?\"\n\n\"Dead!\"\n\nMr. Hardy reeled as if struck in the breast with a heavy blow.\n\n\"Dead, did you say?\"\n\n\"He died about an hour ago,\" said one of the other men.  \"The surgeon\nwas late in getting around, and after the amputation it was ascertained\nthat Scoville had received severe internal injuries.\"\n\n\"Was he conscious?\" Mr. Hardy asked the question mechanically, but all\nthe while his mind was in a whirl of remorse.\n\n\"Yes; up to the last moment.\"\n\nMr. Hardy went to the door and knocked.  A woman, one of the\nneighbours, opened it and he went in.  The sight stunned him.  The dead\nman had been removed to a rear room, but his wife lay upon the very\nsame ragged lounge Mr. Hardy had seen in his dream.  The surgeon was\nbending over her.  The room was full of neighbours.\n\nThe surgeon suddenly arose and, turning about, spoke in a quiet but\ndecided tone:\n\n\"Now then, good people, just go home, will you, for a while?  And\nsuppose some of you take these children along with you.  You can't do\nanything more now, and your presence disturbs the woman!  Ah, Mr.\nHardy,\" he exclaimed, seeing the manager, \"you here?  This is a sad\nbusiness.  Come, now, ladies, I must ask you to retire.\"\n\nEverybody went out except the surgeon, the poor woman's sister, and Mr.\nHardy.  He drew the surgeon over to the window and inquired concerning\nthe particulars.  Mr. Hardy had received a shock at the very first, and\nhe trembled violently.\n\n\"Well, you see,\" explained the surgeon, \"Scoville was a dead man from\nthe minute of the accident.  Nothing could have saved him  When the\naccident happened I was down at Bayville attending the men who were\ninjured in the wreck last Saturday.  I telegraphed that I would come at\nonce.  But there was a delay on the road, and I did not get here until\nthree o'clock in the morning.  Meanwhile everything had been done that\nwas possible.  But nothing could save the poor fellow.  This shock will\nkill his wife.  I doubt if she lives through the day.\"\n\n\"What will be done with the children?\"  Mr. Hardy asked the question\nmechanically, again feeling the need of time to think out what was best\nto be done.  The surgeon shrugged his shoulders.  He was accustomed to\nscenes of suffering and distress continually.\n\n\"Orphans' Home, I suppose,\" he replied laconically.\n\nA movement and a moan from the woman called him to her side, and Mr.\nHardy, left alone, thought a moment, then stepped over to the surgeon\nand asked him if he could go into the other room and see the dead man.\nThe surgeon nodded a surprised assent, and Mr. Hardy stepped into the\nrear room and closed the door.  He drew back the sheet from the face of\nthe man and looked down upon it.  Nothing in all his experience had\never moved him so deeply.  The features of the dead man were fixed, it\nseemed to him, in an expression of despair.  Mr. Hardy gazed steadily\nupon it for half a minute, then replacing the sheet he kneeled down by\nthe side of the rude bed and prayed God for mercy.  \"O Lord,\" he\ngroaned in his remorse, \"lay not the death of this man to my charge!\"\nYet, even as he prayed, he could not drive back the thought which\nchased across the prayer, \"I am this man's murderer.  I issued the\norder compelling the Sunday work.  I refused a week ago to inspect the\nretorts, which were declared unsafe, on the ground that it was not my\nbusiness.  I compelled this man to work under the fear of losing his\nplace if he refused to work.  I compelled him to work on the one day in\nwhich God has commanded all men to rest.  I, a Christian by profession,\na member of the church, a man of means--I put this man in deadly peril\nupon a Sunday in order that more money might be made and more human\nselfishness might be gratified.  I did it.  And this man once saved my\nlife.  I am his murderer, and no murderer shall inherit the kingdom of\nGod.\"\n\nSo the wretched man prayed there by the side of that cold body.  Yet\nthe world to-day goes on with men in high places who have it in their\npower to change the conditions that exact Sunday labour from thousands\nof weary men and drive the commerce of the world across the continent\nat the cost of that priceless thing, the soul of man, in order that the\nowners of railroad stock and the men who get their salaried living from\nit may have more money.  What! is it not true that every Sunday in this\nland of Christian homes and hearts many and many a well-fed, sleek,\nself-satisfied, well-dressed man, with a high salary and\nwell-established social position, with a luxurious home and money in\nthe bank, goes to church and sits down in a softly cushioned pew to\nlisten to the preaching of the Gospel, while within hearing distance of\nthe services an express train or a freight thunders by upon the road\nwhich declares the dividends that make that man's wealth possible?  On\nthose trains are groups of coal-begrimed human beings who never go\ninside a church, who never speak the name of God or Christ except in an\noath, who lead lives that are as destitute of spiritual nourishment as\na desert of sand and rocks, and who are compelled to labour contrary to\nGod's everlasting law of rest, in order that man may have more to feed\nhis body and indulge his passions!  Do not tell us it is necessary\nlabour.  It is labour for the making of more money.  It does not need\nto be done.  The community could dispense with it; in the sight of God\nit is a wicked use of human flesh and blood and souls; and the starved\nspiritual natures of these men will come up at the Judgment Day before\nthe men who had it in their power to say, \"Not a wheel shall turn on\nthese tracks on Sunday, even if we don't make a little more money.\"\nMoney or souls!  Which is worth more in the thought of the railroad\ncorporation?  Let the facts make answer.\n\nMr. Hardy did not know just how long he kneeled there in that bare\nroom.  At last he arose wearily and came out; his prayer had not\nrefreshed him.  The surgeon glanced at him inquisitively, but asked no\nquestions.  The sick woman was in a state of semi-unconsciousness.  Mr.\nHardy's cook, her sister, sat listlessly and worn out by the side of\nthe lounge.  The surgeon rapidly gave directions for the use of some\nmedicine, and prepared to go.  Some of the neighbours called, and the\nsurgeon let two of the women come in.  Just as the two men were going\nout together--Mr. Hardy still absorbed in his great desire to do\nsomething of importance for the mother and her children--his minister,\nMr. Jones, appeared.\n\nHe looked surprised at seeing Mr. Hardy, inquired the news of the\ndoctor, and at once asked if he could see the poor widow.  The doctor\nthought it would do no harm.  Mr. Jones whispered to Mr. Hardy:\n\n\"She was a faithful member of our church, you know.\"\n\nMr. Hardy did not know it, to his shame he confessed.  This sister of\nhis in Christ had been a member of the same church, and he had not even\nknown it.  If she had happened to sit on the same side of the building\nwhere he sat, he would probably have wondered who that plain-looking\nperson was, dressed so poorly.  But she had always sat back on the\nother side, being one of a few poor women who had been attracted into\nthe church and been comforted by Mr. Jones' simple piety and prayers.\n\nThe minister kneeled down and said a gentle word to the woman.  Then as\nif in reply to a low-voiced request he began a prayer of remarkable\nbeauty and comfort.  Mr. Hardy wondered, as he listened, that he could\never have thought this man dull in the pulpit.  He sat down and sobbed\nas the prayer went on, and took to himself the consolation of that\nheavenly petition.  When Mr. Jones rose, Mr. Hardy still sat with his\nhands over his face.  The surgeon was called out by someone.  Then the\nminister, after making arrangements for the funeral of Scoville with\nthe women who had come in, started to go out, when Mr. Hardy rose, and\nthey went away together.\n\n\"Mr. Jones,\" said Mr. Hardy, as they walked along, \"I have an\nexplanation and a confession to make.  I haven't time to make it now,\nbut I want to say that I have met God face to face within the past\ntwenty-four hours, and I am conscious for the first time in years of\nthe intensely selfish life I have lived.  I need your prayers and help.\nAnd I want to serve the church and do my duty there, as I never before\nhave done it.  I have not supported your work as I should.  I want you\nto think of me this week as ready to help in anything in my power.\nWill you accept my apology for my contempt of your request a week ago?\nI will come into the meeting Thursday night and help in any way\npossible.\"\n\nMr. Jones' eyes filled with tears.  He grasped Mr. Hardy's hand and\nsaid:\n\n\"Brother, God bless you!  Let me be of service to you in any way I can.\"\n\nMr. Hardy felt a little better for the partial confession, and parted\nwith his minister at the next corner, going down to his office.\n\nIt was now ten o'clock, and the day seemed to him cruelly brief for the\nwork he had to do.  He entered the office, and almost the first thing\nhe saw on his  desk  was  the  following  letter, addressed to him, but\nwritten in a disguised hand:\n\n\"_Mr. Hardy_,--Us in the casting room don't need no looking after but\nmaybe the next pot of hot iron that explodes will be next the offis if\nyou thinks we have bodies but no sols some morning you will wake up\nbeleving another thing.  We ain't so easy led as sum folks supposes.\nBetter look to house and employ spesul patrol; if you do we will blak\nhis face for him.\"\n\n\nThere was no signature to this threatening scrawl, which was purposely\nmisspelled and ungrammatically composed.  Mr. Hardy had received\nthreats before, and paid little attention to them.  He prided himself\non his steady nerves, and his contempt of all such methods used to\nscare him.  Only a coward, he reasoned, would ever write an anonymous\nletter of such a character.  Still, this morning he felt disturbed.\nHis peculiar circumstances made the whole situation take on a more\nvivid colouring.  Besides all that, he could not escape the conviction\nthat he was in a certain sense responsible for the accident in the\ncasting room.  It was not his particular business to inspect machinery.\nBut his attention had been called to it, and he felt now as if he had\nbeen criminally careless in not making the inspection in the absence of\nthe regular officer.  An investigation of the accident would free Mr.\nHardy from legal responsibility.  But in the sight of God he felt that\nhe was morally guilty.  At this moment Mr. Burns came in.  He looked\nsullen, and spoke in a low tone:\n\n\"Only half the men are back this morning, sir.  Scoville's death and\nthe injuries to the others have had a bad effect on the men.\"\n\nMr. Hardy crumpled the letter nervously in his hand.\n\n\"Mr. Burns, I would like to apologise for my neglect of the injured\nmen.  Who are they, and how badly are they hurt?\"\n\nBurns looked surprised, but made answer, describing briefly the\naccidents.  Mr. Hardy listened intently with bowed head.  At last he\nlooked up and said abruptly:\n\n\"Come into the casting room.\"\n\nThey went out of the office, passed through the repairing shops, and\nentered the foundry department.  Even on that bright winter morning,\nwith the air outside so clear and cool, the atmosphere in this place\nwas murky and close.  The forges in the blacksmith room at the farther\nend glowed through the smoke and dust like smouldering piles of rubbish\ndumped here and there by chance upon some desolate moor and stirred by\nill-omened demons of the nether world.  Mr. Hardy shuddered as he\nthought of standing in such an atmosphere all day to work at severe\nmuscular toil.  He recalled with a sharp vividness a request made only\ntwo months before for dust fans, which had proved successful in other\nshops, and which would remove a large part of the heavy, coal-laden\nair, supplying fresh air in its place.  The company had refused the\nrequest, and had even said, through one of its officers, that when the\nmen wore out the company could easily get more.\n\nMr. Hardy and the foreman paused at the entrance to the casting room,\nwhere the men had been injured the day before.  A few men were working\nsullenly.  Mr. Hardy asked the foreman to call the men together near\nthe other end of the room; he wanted to say something to them.  He\nwalked over there while the foreman spoke to the men.  They dropped\ntheir tools and came over to where Mr. Hardy was standing.  They were\nmostly Scandinavians and Germans, with a sprinkling of Irish and\nAmericans.  Mr. Hardy looked at them thoughtfully.  They were a\nhard-looking crowd.  Then he said very slowly and distinctly:\n\n\"You may quit work until after Scoville's funeral.  The machinery here\nneeds overhauling.\"\n\nThe men stood impassive for a moment.  Finally a big Dane stepped up\nand said:\n\n\"We be no minded to quit work these times.  We no can afford it.  Give\nus work in some other place.\"\n\nMr. Hardy looked at him and replied quietly:\n\n\"The wages will go on just the same while you are out.\"\n\nThere was a perceptible stir among the men.  They looked confused and\nincredulous.  Mr. Hardy still looked at them thoughtfully.\n\nFinally the big Dane stepped forward again and said, speaking more\nrespectfully than he did at first:\n\n\"Mr. Hardy, we be thinking maybe you would like to help towards him the\nfamily of the dead and others as be hurt.  I been 'pointed to take up\npurse for poor fellows injured.  We all take hand in't.  My brother be\none lose his two eyes.\"\n\nA tear actually rolled down the grimy cheek of the big fellow and\ndropped into the coal-dust at his feet.  Mr. Hardy realised that he was\nlooking at a brother man.  He choked down a sob, and, putting his hand\nin his pocket, pulled out all the change he had and poured it into the\nDane's hand.  Then, seeing that it was only four or five dollars, he\npulled out his purse and emptied that of its bills, while Burns, the\nforeman, and all the men looked on in stupefied wonder.\n\n\"No, no thanks!  I'll do something more.\"\n\nMr. Hardy walked away feeling as if the ground were heaving under him.\nWhat was all his money compared with that life which had been\nsacrificed in that gas-poisoned sepulchre!  He could not banish from\nhis mind the picture of that face as it looked to him when he drew back\nthe sheet and looked at it.\n\nMr. Hardy hurried back to the office through the yard, and sat down at\nthe well-worn desk.  The mail had come in, and half a dozen letters lay\nthere.  He looked at them and shuddered.  What did it all amount to,\nthis grind of business, when the heartache of the world called for so\nmuch sympathy!  Then ever him came the sense of his obligations to his\nfamily; Clara's need of a father's help; George going to the bad; Alice\nin need of sympathy; his wife weeping even now at home; the church and\nSunday School where he had been of so little use; the family of\nScoville to be provided for; the other injured men to be visited;\nimprovements for the welfare of the men in the shops to be looked\nafter; the routine of his business--all these things crowded in upon\nhim, and still he saw the face and heard the voice of Eternity: \"Seven\ndays more to live!\"\n\nHe sank into a reverie for a moment.  He was roused by the sounding of\nthe noon whistle.  What, noon already?  So swiftly had the time gone!\nHe turned to his desk bewildered and picked up his letters, glanced\nover them hurriedly, and gave directions for the answers of some of\nthem to his impatient clerk, who had been wondering at his employer's\nstrange behaviour this morning.  Among the letters was one which made\nhis cheek burn with self-reproach.  It was an invitation to a club\ndinner to be given that evening in honour of some visiting railroad\npresident.\n\nIt was just such an occasion as he had enjoyed very many times before,\nand the recollection brought to mind the number of times he had gone\naway from his own home and left his wife sitting drearily by the fire.\nHow could he have done it!  He tossed the gilded invitation fiercely\ninto the waste basket, and, rising, walked his room thinking, thinking.\nHe had so much to do and so little time to do it in!  He thought thus a\nmoment, then went out and walked rapidly over to the hotel where he was\nin the habit of getting lunch when he did not go home.  He ate a little\nhurriedly, and then hastened out.\n\nAs he was going out upon the sidewalk, two young men came in and\njostled against him.  They were smoking and talking in a loud tone.\nMr. Hardy caught the sound of his own name.  He looked at the speaker,\nand it was the face of the young man he had seen in his dream, the one\nwho had insulted George and struck him afterwards.  For a moment Mr.\nHardy was tempted to confront the youth and inquire into his son's\nhabits.\n\n\"No,\" he said to himself after a pause; \"I will have a good talk with\nGeorge himself.  That will be the best.\"\n\nHe hurried back to the office and arranged some necessary work for his\nclerk, took a walk through the other office, then went to the telephone\nand called up the superintendent of the Sunday School, who was a\nbookkeeper in a clothing house.  He felt an intense desire to arrange\nfor an interview with him as soon as possible.  Word came back from the\nhouse that the superintendent had been called out of town by serious\nillness in his old home, and would not be back until Saturday.  Mr.\nHardy felt a disappointment more keen than the occasion seemed to\nwarrant.  He was conscious that the time was very brief.  He had fully\nmade up his mind that so far as in him lay he would redeem his selfish\npast and make a week such as few men ever made.  He was just beginning\nto realise that circumstances are not always in our control.  We are\nall obliged to wait for time to do some things.  We cannot redeem seven\nyears of selfishness with seven days of self-denial.  The death of\nScoville revealed to Mr. Hardy his powerlessness in the face of certain\npossibilities.  He now feared that the superintendent would fail to\nreturn in time to let him confess to him his just sorrow for his lack\nof service in the school.  He sat down to his desk and under that\nimpulse wrote a letter that expressed in part how he felt.  Then he\njotted down the following items to be referred to the proper\nauthorities of the road:\n\n_Item_ 1.  The dust in the blacksmith shop and in the brass-polishing\nrooms is largely unnecessary.  The new Englefield revolving rolling\nfans and elevator ought to be introduced in both departments.  The cost\nwould be but a small item to the road, and would prolong the life and\nadd to the comfort of the employes.  Very important.\n\n_Item_ 2.  Organised and intelligent effort should be made by all\nrailroad corporations to lessen Sunday work in shops and on the road.\nAll perishable freight should be so handled as to call for the services\nof as few men on Sunday as possible, and excursion and passenger trains\nshould be discontinued, except in cases of unavoidable necessity.\n\n_Item_ 3.  The inspection of boilers, retorts, castings, machinery of\nall kinds should be made by thoroughly competent and responsible men\nwho shall answer for all unnecessary accidents by swift and severe\npunishment in case of loss of life or limb.\n\n_Item_ 4.  In case of injury or death to employes, if incurred through\nthe neglect of the company to provide safety, it should provide\nfinancial relief for the families thus injured, or stricken by death,\nand, so far as possible, arrange for their future.\n\n_Item_ 5.  Any well-organized railroad could, with profit to its\nemployes, have upon its staff of salaried men a corps of chaplains or\npreachers, whose business it would be to look after the religious\ninterests of the employes.\n\n\nUnder this last item Mr. Hardy wrote in a footnote: \"Discuss\nfeasibility of this with Mr. B----, influential director.\"\n\nIt was now three o'clock.  The short winter day was fast drawing to a\nclose.  The hum of the great engine in the machine shop was growing\nvery wearisome to the manager.  He felt sick of its throbbing tremor\nand longed to escape from it.  Ordinarily he would have gone to the\nclub room and had a game of chess with a member, or else he would have\ngone down and idled away an hour or two before supper at the Art\nMuseum, where he was a visitor whenever he had plenty of time and the\nbusiness of the office was not pressing.  Young Wellman had succeeded\nto the clerical details of the shops, and Mr. Hardy's time was\ngenerally free after four.\n\nHe had been oppressed with the thought of the other injured men.  He\nmust go and see them.  He could not rest till he had personally visited\nthem.  He went out and easily ascertained where the men lived.  Never\nbefore did the contrast between the dull, uninteresting row of shop\ntenements and his own elegant home rise up go sharply before him.  In\nfact, he had never given it much thought before.  Now as he looked\nforward to the end of the week, and knew that at its close he would be\nno richer, no better able to enjoy luxuries than the dead man lying in\nNo. 760, he wondered vaguely but passionately how he could make use of\nwhat he had heaped together to make the daily lives of some of these\npoor men happier.\n\nHe found the man who had lost both eyes sitting up in bed and feeling\nin a pathetic manner of a few blocks of wood which one of the children\nin the room had brought to him.  He was a big, powerful man like his\nbrother, the large-boned Dane, and it seemed a very pitiful thing that\nhe should be lying there like a baby when his muscles were as powerful\nas ever.  The brother was in the room with the injured man, and he said\nto him:\n\n\"Olaf, Mr. Hardy come to see you.\"\n\n\"Hardy?  Hardy?\" queried the man in a peevish tone.  \"What do I know\nhim to be?\"\n\n\"The manager.  The one who donate so really much moneys to you.\"\n\n\"Ah?\" with an indescribable accent.  \"He make me work on a Sunday.  He\nlose me my two eyes.  A bad man, Svord!  I will no have anything to do\nwith him.\"\n\nAnd the old descendant of a thousand kings turned his face to the wall,\nand would not even so much as make a motion towards his visitor.  His\nbrother offered a rude apology.  Mr. Hardy replied in a low tone:\n\n\"Say nothing about it.  I deserve all your brother says.  But for a\ngood reason I wish Olaf would say he forgives me.\"\n\nMr. Hardy came nearer the bed and spoke very earnestly and as if he had\nknown the man intimately:\n\n\"I did you a great wrong to order the work on Sunday, and in not doing\nmy duty concerning the inspection of the machinery.  I have come to say\nso, and to ask your forgiveness.  I may never see you again.  Will you\nsay to me, 'Brother, I forgive you'?\"\n\nThere was a moment of absolute passivity on the part of the big fellow,\nthen a very large and brawny hand was extended and the blind man said:\n\n\"Yes, I forgive.  We learned that in the old Bible at Svendorf.\"\n\nMr. Hardy laid his hand in the other, and his lips moved in prayer of\nhumble thanksgiving.  What!  Robert Hardy!  Is this that proud man who\nonly the day before was so lifted up with selfishness that he could\ncoldly criticise his own minister for saying that people ought to be\nmore Christlike?  Are you standing here in this poor man's house which\ntwo days ago you would not have deigned to enter, and beseeching him as\nyour brother in the great family of God to forgive you for what you\nhave done and left undone?  Yes; you have looked into the face of\nEternity; you realise now what life really means and what souls are\nreally worth.\n\nHe went out after a few words with the family, and saw all the other\ninjured men.  By the time he had finished these visits it was dark, and\nhe eagerly turned home, exhausted with the day's experience, feeling as\nif he had lived in a new world, and at the same time wondering at the\nrapidity with which the time had fled.\n\nHe sighed almost contentedly to himself as he thought of the evening\nwith his family, and how he would enjoy it after the disquiet of the\nday.  His wife was there to greet him, and Alice and Clara and Bess\nclung about him as he took on his coat and came into the beautiful room\nwhere a cheerful fire was blazing.  Will came downstairs as his father\ncame in, and in the brief interval before dinner was ready Mr. Hardy\nrelated the scenes of the day.\n\nThey were all shocked to hear of Scoville's death, and Mrs. Hardy at\nonce began to discuss some plans for relieving the family.  Bess\nvolunteered to give up half her room to one of the children, whilst\nAlice outlined a plan which immediately appeared to her father\nbusinesslike and feasible.  In the midst of this discussion dinner was\nannounced, and they sat down.\n\n\"Where is George?\" asked Mr. Hardy.  Ordinarily he would have gone on\nwith the meal without any reference to the boy, because he was so often\nabsent from the table.  To-night he felt an irresistible longing to\nhave all his children with him.\n\n\"He said he was invited out to dinner with the Bramleys,\" said Clara.\n\nMr. Hardy received the announcement in silence.  He felt the bitterness\nof such indifference on the part of his older son.  \"What!\" he said to\nhimself, \"when he knows I had such a little while left, could he not be\nat home?\"  Then almost immediately flashed into him the self-reproach\neven stronger than his condemnation of his boy: \"How much have I done\nfor him these last ten years to win his love and protect him from evil?\"\n\nAfter supper Mr. Hardy sat down by his wife, and in the very act he\nblushed with shame at the thought that he could not recall when he had\nspent an evening thus.  He looked into her face and asked gently:\n\n\"Mary, what do you want me to do?  Shall I read as we used to in the\nold days?\"\n\n\"No; let us talk together,\" replied Mrs. Hardy, bravely driving back\nher tears.  \"I cannot realise what it all means.  I have been praying\nall day.  Do you still have the impression you had this morning?\"\n\n\"Mary, I am, if anything, even more convinced that God has spoken to\nme.  The impression has been deepening with me all day.  When I looked\ninto poor Scoville's face, the terrible nature of my past selfish life\nalmost overwhelmed me.  Oh, why have I abused God's goodness to me so\nawfully?\"\n\nThere was silence a moment.  Then Mr. Hardy grew more calm.  He began\nto discuss what he would do the second day.  He related more fully the\ninterview with the men in the shop and his visits to the injured.  He\ndrew Clara to him and began to inquire into her troubles in such a\ntender, loving way, that Clara's proud, passionate, wilful nature broke\ndown, and she sobbed out her story to him as she had to her mother the\nnight before.\n\nMr. Hardy promised Clara that he would see James the next day.  It was\ntrue that James Caxton had only a week before approached Mr. Hardy and\ntold him in very manful fashion of his love for his daughter; but Mr.\nHardy had treated it as a child's affair, and, in accordance with his\nusual policy in family matters, had simply told Clara and Bess to\ndiscontinue their visits at the old neighbour's.  But now that he heard\nthe story from the lips of his own daughter, he saw the seriousness of\nit, and crowding back all his former pride and hatred of the elder\nCaxton, he promised Clara to see James the next day.\n\nClara clung to her father in loving surprise.  She was bewildered, as\nwere all the rest, by the strange event that had happened to her\nfather; but she never had so felt his love before, and forgetting for a\nwhile the significance of his wonderful dream, she felt happy in his\npresence and in his affection for her.\n\nThe evening had sped on with surprising rapidity while all these\nmatters were being discussed, and as it drew near to midnight again\nRobert Hardy felt almost happy in the atmosphere of that home and the\nthought that he could still for a little while create joy for those who\nloved him.  Suddenly he spoke of his other son:\n\n\"I wish George would come in.  Then our family circle would be\ncomplete.  But it is bedtime for you, Bess, and all of us, for that\nmatter.\"\n\nIt was just then that steps were heard on the front porch, and voices\nwere heard as if talking in whispers.  The bell rang.  Mr. Hardy rose\nto go to the door.  His wife clung to him terrified.\n\n\"Oh, don't go, Robert!  I am afraid for you.\"\n\n\"Why, Mary, it cannot be anything to harm me.  Don't be alarmed.\"\n\nNevertheless he was a little startled.  The day had been a trying one\nfor him.  He went to the door, his wife and the children following him\nclose behind.  He threw it wide open, and there, supported by two of\nhis companions, one of them the young man Mr. Hardy had seen in the\nhotel lobby at noon, was his son George, too drunk to stand alone!  He\nleered into the face of his father and mother with a drunken look that\nfroze their souls with despair, as the blaze of the hall lamp fell upon\nhim reeling there.\n\nSo the first of Robert Hardy's seven days came to an end.\n\n\n\n\nTUESDAY--THE SECOND DAY.\n\nMr. Hardy was a man of great will power, but this scene with his\ndrunken son crushed him for a moment, and seemed to take the very soul\nout of him.  Mrs. Hardy at first uttered a wild cry and then ran\nforward, and, seizing her elder boy, almost dragged him into the house,\nwhile Mr. Hardy, recovering from his first shock, looked sternly at the\ncompanions of the boy and then shut the door.  That night was a night\nof sorrow in that family.  The sorrow of death is not to be compared\nwith it.\n\nBut morning came, as it comes alike to the condemned criminal and to\nthe pure-hearted child on a holiday, and after a brief and troubled\nrest Mr. Hardy awoke to his second day, the memory of the night coming\nto him at first as an ugly dream, but afterwards as a terrible reality.\nHis boy drunk!  He could not make it seem possible.  Yet there in the\nnext room he lay, in a drunken stupor, sleeping off the effects of his\ndebauch of the night before.  Mr. Hardy fell on his knees and prayed\nfor mercy, again repeating the words, \"Almighty God, help me to use the\nremaining days in the wisest and best manner.\"  Then calming himself by\na tremendous effort, he rose and faced the day's work as bravely as any\nman could under such circumstances.\n\nAfter a family council, in which all of them, on account of their\ntroubles, were drawn nearer together than ever before, Mr. Hardy\noutlined the day's work something as follows:\n\nFirst, he would go and see James Caxton and talk over the affair\nbetween him and Clara.  Then he would go down to the office and arrange\nsome necessary details of his business.  If possible, he would come\nhome to lunch.  In the afternoon he would go to poor Scoville's\nfuneral, which had been arranged for two o'clock.  Mrs. Hardy announced\nher intention to go also.  Then Mr. Hardy thought he would have a visit\nwith George and spend the evening at home, arranging matters with\nreference to his own death.  With this programme in mind he went away,\nafter an affectionate leave-taking with his wife and children.\n\nGeorge slept heavily until the middle of the forenoon, and then awoke\nwith a raging headache.  Bess had several times during the morning\nstolen into the room to see if her brother were awake.  When he did\nfinally turn over and open his eyes, he saw the young girl standing by\nthe bedside.  He groaned as he recalled the night and his mother's\nlook, and Bess said timidly as she laid her hand on his forehead:\n\n\"George, I'm so sorry for you!  Don't you feel well?\"\n\n\"I feel as if my head would split open.  It aches as if someone were\nchopping wood inside of it.\"\n\n\"What makes you feel so?\" asked Bess innocently.  \"Did you eat too much\nsupper at the Bramleys'?\"\n\nBess had never seen anyone drunk before, and when George was helped to\nbed the night before by his father and mother, she did not understand\nhis condition.  She had always adored her big brother.  It was not\nstrange she had no idea of his habits.\n\nGeorge looked at his sister curiously; then, under an impulse he could\nnot explain, he drew her nearer to him and said:\n\n\"Bess, I'm a bad fellow.  I was drunk last night!  Drunk!--do you\nunderstand?  And I've nearly killed mother!\"\n\nBess was aghast at the confession.  She put out her hand again.\n\n\"Oh, no, George!\"  Then with a swift revulsion of feeling she drew back\nand said: \"How _could_ you, with father feeling as he does?\"\n\nAnd little Bess, who was a creature of very impulsive emotions, sat\ndown crying on what she supposed was a cushion, but which was George's\ntall hat, accidentally covered with one end of a comforter which had\nslipped off the bed.  Bess was a very plump little creature, and as she\npicked herself up and held up the hat, George angrily exclaimed:\n\n\"You're always smashing my things!\"  But the next minute he was sorry\nfor the words.\n\nBess retreated toward the door, quivering under the injustice of the\ncharge.  At the door she halted.  She had something of Clara's\npassionate temper, and once in a while she let even her adored brother\nGeorge feel it, small as she was.\n\n\"George Hardy, if you think more of your old stovepipe hat than you do\nof your sister, all right!  You'll never get any more of my month's\nallowance.  And if I do smash your things, I don't come home drunk at\nnight and break mother's heart.  That's what she's crying about this\nmorning--that, and father's queer ways.  Oh, dear!  I don't want to\nlive; life is so full of trouble!\"  And little twelve-year-old Bess\nsobbed in genuine sorrow.\n\nGeorge forgot his headache for a minute.\n\n\"Come, Bess, come, let's kiss and make up.  Honest, now, I didn't mean\nit.  I was bad to say what I did.  I'll buy a dozen hats and let you\nsit on them for fun.  Don't go away angry; I'm so miserable!\"\n\nHe lay down and groaned, and Bess went to him immediately, all her\nanger vanished.\n\n\"Oh, let me get you something to drive away your headache; and I'll\nbring you up something nice to eat.  Mother had Norah save something\nfor you--didn't you, mother?\"\n\nBessie asked the question just as her mother came in.\n\nMrs. Hardy said \"Yes,\" and going up to George sat down by him and laid\nher hand on his head as his sister had done.\n\nThe boy moved uneasily.  He saw the marks of great suffering on his\nmother's face, but he said nothing to express sorrow for his disgrace.\n\n\"Bess, will you go and get George his breakfast?\" asked Mrs. Hardy; and\nthe minute she was gone the mother turned to her son and said:\n\n\"George, do you love me?\"\n\nGeorge had been expecting something different.  He looked at his mother\nas the tears fell over her face, and all that was still good in him\nrose up in rebellion against the animal part.  He seized his mother's\nhand and carried it to his lips, kissed it reverently, and said in a\nlow tone:--\n\n\"Mother, I am unworthy.  If you knew--\"\n\nHe checked himself as if on the verge of confession.  His mother waited\nanxiously, and then asked:\n\n\"Won't you tell me all?\"\n\n\"No; I can't!\"\n\nGeorge shuddered, and at that moment Bess came in, bearing a tray with\ntoast and eggs and coffee.  Mrs. Hardy left Bess to look after her\nbrother, and went out of the room almost abruptly.  George looked\nashamed, and, after eating a little, told Bess to take the things away.\nShe looked grieved, and he said:\n\n\"Can't help it; I'm not hungry.  Besides, I don't deserve all this\nattention.  Say, Bess, is father still acting under his impression, or\ndream, or whatever it was?\"\n\n\"Yes, he is,\" replied Bessie, with much seriousness; \"and he is ever so\ngood now, and kisses mother and all of us good-bye in the morning; and\nhe is kind and ever so good.  I don't believe he is in his right mind.\nWill said yesterday he thought father was _non campus meant us_; and\nthen he wouldn't tell me what it meant; but I guess he doesn't think\nfather is just right intellectually.\"\n\nNow and then Bess got hold of a big word and used it for all it would\nbear.  She said \"intellectually\" over twice, and George laughed a\nlittle; but it was a bitter laugh, not such as a boy of his age has any\nbusiness to possess.  He lay down and appeared to be thinking, and,\nafter a while, said aloud:\n\n\"I wonder if he wouldn't let me have some money while he's feeling that\nway?\"\n\n\"Who?\" queried Bess.  \"Father?\"\n\n\"What! you here still, Curiosity?  Better take these things downstairs!\"\n\nGeorge spoke with his \"headache tone,\" as Clara called it, and Bess,\nwithout reply, gathered up the tray things and went out, while George\ncontinued to figure out in his hardly yet sober brain the possibility\nof his father letting him have more money with which to gamble.\n\nIn the very next room Mrs. Hardy kneeled in an agony of petition for\nthat firstborn son, crying out of her heart, \"O God, it is more than I\ncan bear!  To see him growing away from me so!  Dear Lord, be Thou\nmerciful to me.  Bring him back again to the life he used to live!  How\nproud I was of him!  What a joy he was to me!   And now, and now!  O\ngracious Father, if Thou art truly compassionate, hear me!  Has not\nthis foul demon of drink done harm enough?  And yet it still comes, and\neven into my home!  Ah, I have been indifferent to the cries of other\nwomen, but now it strikes me!  Spare me, great and powerful Almighty!\nMy boy! my heart's hunger is for him!  I would rather see him dead than\nsee him as I saw him last night.  Spare me, spare me, O God!\"  Thus the\nmother prayed, dry-eyed and almost despairing, while he for whom she\nprayed that heart-broken prayer calculated, with growing coldness of\nmind, the chances of getting more money from his father to use in drink\nand at the gaming table.\n\nO appetite, and thou spirit of gambling, ye are twin demons with whom\nmany a fair-browed young soul to-day is marching arm in arm down the\ndread pavement of hell's vestibule, lined with grinning skeletons of\npast victims!  Yet men gravely discuss the probability of evil, and\nthink there is no special danger in a little speculation now and then.\nParents say, \"Oh, _my_ boy wouldn't do such a thing!\"  But how many\nknow what their boy is really doing, and how many of the young men\nwould dare reveal to their mothers or fathers the places where they\nhave been, and the amusements they have tasted, and the things for\nwhich they have spent their money?\n\nMr. Hardy went at once to his neighbours, the Caxtons, who lived only a\nblock away.  He had not been on speaking terms with the family for some\ntime, and he dreaded the interview with the sensitiveness of a very\nproud and stern-willed man.  But two days had made a great change in\nhim.  He was a new man in Christ Jesus; and as he rang the bell he\nprayed for wisdom and humility.\n\nJames himself came to the door with his overcoat on and hat in hand,\nevidently just ready to go down town.  He started back at seeing Mr.\nHardy.\n\n\"Are you going down town?  I will not come in then, but walk along with\nyou,\" said Mr. Hardy quietly.\n\nSo James came out, and the two walked along together.  There was an\nawkward pause for a minute, then Mr. Hardy said:\n\n\"James, is it true that you and Clara are engaged?\"\n\n\"No, sir; that--is--not exactly what you might call engaged.  We would\nlike to be.\"  Mr. Hardy smiled in spite of himself; and James added in\na quickened tone: \"We would like to be, with your consent, sir.\"\n\nMr. Hardy walked on thoughtfully, and then glanced at the young man at\nhis side.  He was six feet tall, not very handsome, as Bessie had\nfrankly said, but he had a good face, a steady, clear blue eye, and a\nresolute air, as of one who was willing to work hard to get what he\nwanted.  Mr. Hardy could not help contrasting him with his own\nprematurely broken down son George, and he groaned inwardly as he\nthought of the foolish pride that would bar the doors of his family to\na young man like James Caxton simply because he was poor and because\nhis father had won in a contested election in which the two older men\nwere candidates for the same office.\n\nIt did not take long to think all this.  Then he said, looking again at\nthe young man with a businesslike look:\n\n\"Supposing you had my permission, what are your prospects for\nsupporting my daughter?  She has always had everything she wanted.\nWhat could you give her?\"\n\nThe question might have seemed cold and businesslike.  The tone was\nthoughtful and serious.\n\nA light flashed into James' eyes, but he said simply: \"I am in a\nposition to make a thousand dollars a year next spring.  I earn\nsomething extra with my pen at home.\"\n\nMr. Hardy did not reply to this.  He said: \"Do you know what a wilful,\nquick-tempered girl Clara is?\"\n\n\"I have known her from a little child, Mr. Hardy.  I feel as if I know\nher about as well as you do.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you know her better than I do; I do not know my child as I\nshould.\"\n\nThe tone was not bitter but intensely sad.  The young man had, of\ncourse, been greatly wondering at this talk from Mr. Hardy, and had\nobserved the change in his manner and his speech.  He looked at him now\nand noted his pale, almost haggard face and his extremely thoughtful\nappearance.\n\n\"Mr. Hardy,\" said James frankly, \"you are in trouble.  I wish I could\"--\n\n\"Thank you; no, you can't help me in this--except,\" continued Mr. Hardy\nwith a faint smile, \"except you solve this trouble between you and my\ndaughter.\"\n\n\"There is no trouble between us, sir,\" replied James simply.  \"You know\nI love her and have loved her for a long time, and I believe I am able\nto support her and make her happy.  Won't you give your consent, sir?\nWe are not children.  We know our minds.\"\n\nJames spoke very earnestly.  He was beginning to hope that the stern,\nproud man who had so curtly dismissed him a little while before would\nin some unaccountable manner relent and give him his heart's desire.\n\nMr. Hardy walked along in silence a little way.  Then he said almost\nabruptly:\n\n\"James, do you drink?\"\n\n\"No, sir!\"\n\n\"Or gamble?\"\n\n\"You forget my mother, Mr. Hardy.\"  The reply was almost stern.\n\nMrs. Caxton's younger brother had been ruined by gambling.  He had come\nto the house one night, and in a fit of anger because his sister would\nnot give him money to carry on his speculations, he had threatened her\nlife.  James had interposed, and at the risk of his own life had\nprobably saved his mother's.  Mrs. Caxton had been so unnerved by the\nscene that her health had suffered from it seriously.  All this had\nhappened when James was growing out of boyhood.  But not a day had\npassed that the young man did not see a sad result of that great\ngambling passion in his own mother's face and bearing.  He loathed the\nthought of a vice so debasing that it ignored all the tender ties of\nkindred and was ready to stop at nothing in order to get means for its\nexercise.\n\nMr. Hardy knew the story, and he exclaimed: \"Forgive me, James, I did\nnot think!\"  Then, after a pause, \"Are you a Christian?  I mean, do you\nhave a faith in the revelation of God to men through Jesus Christ, and\ndo you try to live according to His teachings, with a supreme love for\nGod controlling your life?  Do you live every day as if it might be the\nlast you would have to live?\"\n\nJames started.  Was Mr. Hardy out of his mind?  He had never heard him\ntalk like this before.  The idea of Mr. Hardy caring about his\nreligious character in the event of his becoming a son-in-law was an\nidea too remote for occurrence.  He could see, however, that some very\npowerful change had taken place in Mr. Hardy's usual demeanour.  His\nwords also produced a strong effect upon the young man.  He was like\nthousands of young men--temperate, honest, industrious, free from\nvices, strictly moral, but without any decided religious faith.  \"Am I\na Christian?\" he asked himself, echoing Mr. Hardy's question.  No; he\ncould not say that he was.  He had, in fact, never been confronted with\nthe question before.  So he replied to Mr. Hardy:\n\n\"No, sir; I don't think I am what would be called a Christian.  As for\nliving as if every day were to be my last--do you think that is\npossible, sir?\"\n\nMr. Hardy did not answer.  He walked along thoughtfully.  In the course\nof the conversation they had reached the corner where the young man\nturned down to his office, and the two paused.\n\n\"I want to have another talk with you,\" Mr. Hardy said.  \"To-day is\nTuesday; say to-morrow evening.  I want to see your father also,\nand\"--Mr. Hardy was on the point of saying that he wanted to ask the\nelder Caxton's forgiveness, but for some reason he stopped without\ndoing so.\n\nJames exclaimed eagerly as Mr. Hardy turned to go:\n\n\"Then you don't forbid my entertaining some hope of your good will in\nthe matter of my love for Clara?\"  He lowered his voice and spoke very\nstrongly.  \"You don't forget your own youth, and the way in which you\nyourself began your home?\"\n\nMr. Hardy answered never a word to this appeal, but looked into the\nyoung man's face with a gaze he did not forget all day, then wrung his\nhand and turned on his heel abruptly and walked rapidly down the street.\n\nJames looked after him as he disappeared among the crowds of people\ngoing to their business, and then turned to his own tasks.  But\nsomething in him gave him hope.  Another something appealed all day to\nhis inner nature, and he could not shake off the impression of Mr.\nHardy's question--\"Are you a Christian?\"  Even when he went home at\nnight that question pursued him more strenuously than any other, and\nwould not give him peace.\n\nRobert Hardy reached his office just in time to see Burns, the foreman,\ngo out of a side door and cross the yard.  The manager followed him and\nentered the machine shop in time to see him stop at a machine at the\nfarthest end of the shop and speak to the man at work there.  The man\nwas a Norwegian, Herman by name.  He was running what is called a\nplaner, a machine for trimming pieces of cold metal just from the\nfoundry or the casting room.  He was at work this morning on one of the\neccentric bars of a locomotive, and it was of such a character that he\ncould leave the machine for several minutes to do the planing.  Burns\ntalked with this man for a while, and then moved across the floor to\nanother workman, a small-boned, nervous little fellow, who was in\ncharge of a boring machine which drove a steel drill through heavy\nplates of iron fastened into the frame.\n\nMr. Hardy came up just as Burns turned away from this man, and touched\nhim on the shoulder.  The foreman started and turned about, surprised\nto see the manager.\n\n\"Well, Burns, how goes everything this morning?\" asked Robert.\n\n\"The men here are grumbling because they don't have a holiday, same as\nthe men in Scoville's department.\"\n\n\"But we can't shut down the whole business, can we?\" asked Mr. Hardy,\nwith a momentary touch of his old-time feeling.  \"The men are\nunreasonable.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid there'll be trouble, sir.  I can feel it in the air,\"\nreplied Burns.\n\nMr. Hardy made no reply in words, but looked about him.  Within the\nblackened area of the great shop about two hundred men were  at work.\nThe whirl of machinery was constant.  The grind of steel on iron was\nblended with the rattle of chains and the rolling of the metal\ncarriages in their tracks.  The Genius of Railroading seemed present in\nthe grim strength and rapidity of several machines which moved almost\nas if instinct with intelligence, and played with the most unyielding\nsubstances as if they were soft and pliable clay.  In the midst of all\nthe smashing of matter against matter, through the smoke and din and\ndust and revolution of the place, Mr. Hardy was more than usually alive\nthis morning to the human aspect of the case.  His mind easily went\nback to the time when he himself stood at one of these planers and did\njust such work as that big Norwegian was doing, only the machines were\nvastly better and improved now.  Mr. Hardy was not ashamed of having\ncome along through the ranks of manual labour.  In fact, he always\nspoke with pride of the work he used to do in that very shop, and he\nconsidered himself able to run all by himself any piece of machinery in\nthe shops.  But he could not help envying these men this morning.\n\"Why,\" he said, \"probably not one of them but has at least seven weeks\nto live, and most of them seven months or years, while I--  Why should\nthese men complain because they are not released from toil?  Isn't toil\nsweet when there is a strong body and a loving wife and a happy home?\nO God!\" he continued to think, \"I would give all my wealth if I might\nchange places with any one of these men, and know that I would probably\nhave more than a week to live.\"\n\nMr. Hardy walked back to his office, leaving the foreman in a condition\nof wondering astonishment.\n\n\"Something wrong in his works, I guess,\" muttered Burns.\n\nMr. Hardy sat down to his desk and wrote an order, releasing all the\nmen who desired to attend Scoville's funeral in the afternoon.  He did\nnot have it in his power to do more, and yet he felt that this was the\nleast he could do under the circumstances.  The more he thought of\nScoville's death the more he felt the cruel injustice of it.  The\ninjuries were clearly accidental;  but they might have been avoided\nwith proper care for human life.  Robert Hardy was just beginning to\nunderstand the value of humanity.\n\nHe worked hard at the routine of his office until noon.  He did what\nseemed to him the most necessary part of it all with conscientious\nfidelity.  But his mind, a good part of the time, was with the men in\nthe shops.  He could not escape the conviction that if a railroad\ncompany had the willingness to do so, it could make the surroundings of\ntheir men safer and happier without getting poorer work, or even losing\nany money by it.\n\nWhen noon sounded he went home, resolved to do whatever lay in his\npower to make the men feel that they were regarded as something more\nthan machines.\n\nGeorge was downstairs when his father came in, and looked at him with\ncuriosity rather than with any feeling of shame for the scene of the\nnight before.  After lunch was over, Mr. Hardy called his son into the\nstudy for a little talk with him before going down to the funeral.\n\n\"I do not need to tell you, George,\" began his father quietly but with\nfeeling, \"that I felt the disgrace of your drunkenness last night very\nbitterly.  You cannot know the feelings of your father and mother in\nthat respect.  But I did not call you in here to reproach you for your\nvices.  I want to know what you intend to do in the face of the present\nconditions.\"\n\nMr. Hardy paused, then went on again: \"I am perfectly aware, George,\nthat you regard my dream as a fancy, and think I am probably out of my\nmind.  Isn't that true?\"  Mr. Hardy looked George full in the face, and\nthe young man stammered:\n\n\"Well--I--ah--yes--I--don't just understand----\"\n\n\"At the same time,\" went on his father, \"I realise that nothing but a\nconviction of reality could produce the change in me which you and all\nthe rest of the family must acknowledge has taken place.  And you must\nconfess that I am acting far more rationally than I did before my dream\noccurred.  It is not natural for a father to neglect his own children,\nand I have done it.  It is not rational that he should spend his time\nand money and strength on himself so as to grow intensely selfish, and\nI have done that.  My son, you may doubt me, but I am firmly convinced\nthat I shall not be alive here after next Sunday.  I am trying to live\nas I ought to live under those conditions.  My son,\" Mr. Hardy spoke\nwith a dignity and a certain impressiveness which George could not but\nfeel, \"I want you to do as you know you ought to do under the\ncircumstances.  When I am gone, your mother and the girls will look to\nyou for advice and direction.  You will probably have to leave college\nfor a little while.  We will talk that over this evening.  But I want\nyou to promise me that you will not touch another glass of liquor or\nhandle another card as long as you live.\"\n\nGeorge laughed a little uneasily, and then lied outright: \"I don't see\nthe harm of a game once in a while just for fun.  I don't play for\nstakes as some fellows do.\"\n\n\"George,\" said his father, looking at him steadily, \"you have not told\nthe truth.  You were gambling only a few nights ago.  It is useless for\nyou to deny it.  That is where the very liberal allowance I have given\nyou has been squandered.\"\n\nGeorge turned deathly pale and sat with bowed head while his father\nwent on almost sternly: \"Consider your mother, George, whose heart\nalmost broke when you came in last night.  I don't ask you to consider\nme.  I have not been to you what a father ought to be.  But if you love\nyour mother and sisters, and have any self-respect left, you will let\ndrink and cards alone after this.  In the sight of God, my dear boy,\nremember what He made you for.  You are young.  You have all of life\nbefore you.  You can make a splendid record if God spares your life.  I\nwould gladly give all I possess to stand where you do to-day, and live\nmy life over again.  I can't do it.  The past is irrevocable.  But one\ncan always repent.  George, believe me, your mother would rather see\nyou in your coffin than see you come home again as you did last night.\nWe love you.\"\n\nMr. Hardy, proud man as he was, could say no more.  He laid his hand on\nthe boy's head as if he were a young lad again, and said simply, \"Don't\ndisappoint God, my boy,\" and went out, leaving his son sitting there\nalmost overcome by his father's powerful appeal, but not yet ready to\nyield himself to the still small voice that spoke within even, more\npowerfully, and whispered to him, \"My son, give Me thine heart.  Cease\nto do evil; learn to do well.  Cleanse thy ways and follow after\nrighteousness.\"\n\nIt was one o'clock when Mr. Hardy came downstairs, and as he came into\nthe room where Mrs. Hardy and the girls were sitting, he happened to\nthink of some business matters between himself and his only brother,\nwho lived in the next town, twenty miles down the road.\n\nHe spoke of the matter to Mrs. Hardy, and she suggested that Will go\ndown on the three o'clock train with the papers Mr. Hardy wanted to\nhave his brother look over, and come back on the six o'clock in time\nfor dinner.\n\nClara asked if she couldn't go too, and Bessie added her request, as\nshe had not seen her aunt for some time.  Mr. Hardy saw no objection to\ntheir going, only he reminded them that he wanted them all back at six.\nAlice volunteered to amuse George at home while all the rest were gone,\nand Mr. and Mrs. Hardy departed for the funeral, Mr. Hardy's thoughts\nstill absorbed for the most part with his older boy.  Clara had asked\nno questions concerning the interview with James, and her father simply\nstated that they could have a good talk about it in the evening.\n\nThe tenement at No. 760 was crowded, and in spite of the wintry weather\nlarge numbers of men and women stood outside in the snow.  Mr. Hardy\nhad ordered his sleigh, and he and his wife had gone down to the house\nin that, ready to take someone to the cemetery.\n\nThe simple service as it began was exceedingly impressive to Mr. Hardy.\nMost of the neighbours present looked at him and his well-dressed wife\nin sullen surprise.  She noticed the looks with a heightening colour;\nbut Mr. Hardy was too much absorbed in his thought of what he had done\nand left undone in this family to be influenced by the behaviour of\nthose about him.\n\nMr. Jones offered a prayer for the comfort of God to rest on the\nstricken family.  He then read a short passage from John's Gospel\nappropriate to the occasion, and said a few simple words, mostly\naddressed to the neighbours present.  The poor widow had been removed\nto a small room upstairs, and lay there, cared for by the faithful\nsister.  The minister had nearly concluded his remarks when a voice was\nheard in the room above, followed by alarmed expostulations.  Then\nthere was a rapid movement in the narrow hall, and, with a scream of\nfrenzy, Mrs. Scoville rushed down the stairs and burst into the room\nwhere the dead body of her husband lay.  She had suddenly awakened out\nof the fainting stupor in which she had been lying since her husband's\ndeath, and realised what was going on in the house with a quick\ngathering of passion and strength, such as even the dying sometimes are\nknown to possess.  She had escaped from her sister and the neighbour\nwho were watching with her, and, crazy with grief, flung herself over\nthe coffin, moaning and crying out in such heart-breaking accents that\nall present were for a moment flung into a state of inaction and awe.\n\nMrs. Hardy was first to move toward the stricken woman.  Where did the\nwife of the once haughty and proud man learn the touch of sympathy that\ndrew that other poor sister nearer to her, and finally soothed her into\nquietness?  Certain it is that suffering in her own home had\nmarvellously taught the richly dressed woman, the refined, cultured\nlady, to hold this other one to be of the same household of God with\nher.  So it was that she finally succeeded in drawing her away into the\nother room, and there held her gasping for breath, now that the brief\nstrength was spent, and crying feebly, \"O God, O God, help me!  Don't\nkeep me here in this world any longer!\"\n\nIf this brief scene filled the neighbours with pity, what shall be said\nof its effect on Robert Hardy?  For a moment it seemed to him more than\nhe could bear.  He started to his feet and put his hands before his\nface.  Then calming himself by a great effort, he sat down and his face\nbecame almost like a stone in its rigidity.  When his wife finally\nsucceeded in getting the woman into the rear room, his face relaxed and\nhe breathed more easily; but as soon as possible he arose and went out\nand stood silent there until the body was brought out and placed in the\nhearse.  Then he went in and spoke a few words to his wife, and told\nMr. Jones that he could take four or five to the cemetery if they\nwished to go.  Mrs. Hardy would stay with the suffering widow until he\ncame back.  Mr. Hardy also whispered something to his minister, and\ngave him a large roll of bills to be used for the family.  Then he went\nout again.\n\nThat ride in the cold gray of the declining winter afternoon was a\nbitter experience to Robert.  He roused himself at the grave as he\nheard the words, \"Raise us from the death of sin unto the resurrection\nof righteousness,\" and something like a gleam of hope shot through his\nheart at the words.  Surely there was mercy with Him who had conquered\ndeath for the sake of the human race.  He drove back with more peace of\nsoul than he had thought possible.  By the time he had reached the shop\ntenements it was growing dark.  He went home with his wife and thought\nwith something of a feeling of pleasure of the evening before him with\nhis family.  The second day had been more agitating in some ways than\nhis first.\n\nHe had been unnerved at the funeral, and had felt remorse more keenly\nthan he had once thought possible.  As he reviewed the events of the\nday with his wife, he felt dissatisfied.  And yet he had truly tried to\ndo his duty in the light of eternity.  What more could he do?\n\nHe felt anxious about George, and told his wife of the conversation he\nhad had with him.  Mrs. Hardy felt the same anxiety as her husband.\nAfter the horses were put up and the father and mother had gone into\nthe house, they continued the conversation.  Alice was upstairs with\nGeorge, and the other children had not come back.  It was dark, but\nhusband and wife sat by the light of the open fire and talked together\nuntil nearly six o'clock.  Mr. Hardy had just said something about\nClara,  and Mrs. Hardy replied, \"Isn't it about time they were here?\"\nwhen the telephone bell rang in the little office adjoining the\nhallway, connected by wire with the shops, where Mr. Hardy attended to\nsome of the business of the company.  He went in and answered the call,\nand a series of sharp exclamations and questions was soon followed by\nhis coming back into the room where his wife sat.  By the light of the\nopen fire she could see that he was very pale.  His overcoat was lying\non the couch where he had thrown it as he came in.  He hastily put it\non, and then said to his wife:\n\n\"Mary, there has been an accident to the six o'clock way-train between\nBaldwin and here, and Burns has telephoned me to come down.  Don't be\nalarmed.  We will hope for the best.\"\n\nMrs. Hardy started up.\n\n\"Why, Will and Bess and Clara were coming home on that train!\"\n\n\"Mary, let us hope for the best.\"  Mr. Hardy's voice trembled, but he\ntried to speak calmly and in comfort.\n\n\"What did Mr. Burns telephone?  Tell me all, Robert.  I can bear it\nwith you.\"\n\n\"He telephoned that the train was derailed and a dozen people killed\nand as many injured.  I must go down the road at once!  O my God, spare\nour dear ones!\"\n\nMr. Hardy was almost overwhelmed by this last stroke, yet he asked\nhimself how many accidents had occurred this last year on the road\nwithout his giving much thought to the suffering of those families\nafflicted!  Now perhaps it had come to him.  Bidding his wife pray and\nhope, he rushed out of the house and down to the station with the\nenergy and rapidity of the youth who in college days had taken prizes\nfor athletic superiority.\n\nAt the yard he found a special train just ready to go to the scene of\nthe accident.  It consisted of a wrecking car, a caboose, and one coach\nwith tender and engine.  He mounted the engine with a feeling that it\nwas a little nearer the fatal spot and would reach there first.  At the\nlast minute no more definite news concerning the particular persons\nkilled and injured had been received.\n\nMr. Hardy felt almost glad of the uncertainty as the engine pulled out\nand started on its run of fifteen miles, soon attaining a speed of\nfifty-five miles an hour.  The snow was falling in large moist flakes.\nIt was growing warmer, and would rain before morning.  He gazed at the\nnarrow band of light on the track ahead, and leaned forward as if to\nhelp the engine go faster.  He did not speak, while the train rushed\nthrough the night.\n\nSo the second of Robert Hardy's seven days drew to a close.\n\n\n\n\nWEDNESDAY--THE THIRD DAY.\n\nAs the engine drew near the scene of the wreck a great crowd could be\nseen standing about the track.  Before the train came to a stop Robert\nHardy leaped down from the cab and struggled forward, uttering cries of\nwhich he himself probably was not conscious.  The accident had occurred\nupon a bridge which spanned a small river in the vicinity of Baldwin,\nnear which town Mr. Hardy's brother lived.\n\nThe engine, mail car, two day-coaches, and two sleepers had crashed\nthrough, and falling a distance of fifty feet, had partly broken\nthrough the ice of the frozen stream.  To add to the horror of the\ndisaster, the two sleepers had caught fire, and there was absolutely no\nmeans to fight the flames.  Mr. Hardy caught confused glimpses of men\ndown on the ice throwing handfuls of snow upon the blazing timbers in a\nfrantic attempt to drive back or put out the flames.  He fell, rather\nthan scrambled, down the steep, slippery bank of the stream, and then\nthe full horror of the situation burst upon him.\n\nThe baggage car and tender had fallen in such a way that the trucks\nrested upright on the ice, and the position of the timbers was\nrelatively that of the train before it had left the track.  One\nday-coach lay upon its side, but had broken completely in two, as if\nsome giant hand had pulled it apart, leaving the ragged ends of timbers\nprojecting toward one another in such curious fashion that if the two\nends of the car had been pushed together the splintered beams would\nhave fitted into place almost as if made on a pattern.  The other\nday-coach had fallen upon one end, and one-third of it was under water.\nThe other end resting partly against the broken car, stuck up in the\nair like some curious, fantastic pillar or leaning tower.\n\nMr. Hardy was conscious of all this and more as he heard the groans of\nthe injured and the cries of those begging to be released from the\ntimbers under which they had been caught.  But his own children!  Never\nhad he loved them as now.\n\nThe crowd of people had increased to a mob.  The confusion was that of\nterror.  Mr. Hardy rushed about the wreck searching for his children, a\ngreat throbbing at his heart as he thought of their probable fate, when\nthe sweetest of all sounds, Bessie's dear voice, came to him, and the\nnext minute he had caught up the child as she ran to him and strained\nher to his breast as in the old days when he had carried her about the\nhouse and yard.\n\n\"Where are Will and Clara?\"\n\n\"O father, they're here! and Will wasn't hurt much more than I was; but\nClara has fainted, and she is lying down over here.\"\n\nBess dragged her father out across the ice to the edge of the bank,\nwhere a number of the victims had been laid on the cushions of the\nseats, some dead, some dying.  There lay Clara, very white and still,\nwith Will bending over her, himself bleeding from several wounds about\nthe head and hands, but still conscious and trying to restore his\nsister.\n\nMr. Hardy kneeled down in the snow by his son's side.  Will was not\nsurprised at seeing him there; but he sobbed excitedly: \"Oh, she is\ndead!\"\n\n\"No,\" replied her father; \"she is not.\"\n\nClara stirred, and her lips moved; but she did not open her eyes, and\nthen her father noticed that a strange mark lay over her face.\n\nHow Mr. Hardy succeeded in carrying the girl to the top of the bank,\nand how he left her there in the care of brave-hearted women while he\nwent down into that hell's pit to rescue victims imprisoned and\ngroaning for help; how Bess related the accident of the night and tried\nto explain how she was not hurt except a scratch or two, because she\nfell between two car-seat cushions that were jammed around her and\nprotected her from injury; how the excitement grew as it was discovered\nthat the dead and dying would number more than seventy-five, instead of\nten or twelve, as Burns had said; how finally Robert Hardy and Will and\nBess and Clara, with other victims, were taken back to Barton, where a\ngreat crowd of anxious, pale-faced people was surging through the\nstation and over the track; how James Caxton was first to board the\ntrain down by the shops, at the risk of his neck, as in the rainy\ndarkness he swung himself on the dead run up to the platform of the\ncoach; how Mrs. Hardy met her children and husband; how there was\nsorrow in many a home in Barton that night and for many days to come;\nhow Mr. Hardy, a little after midnight, entirely exhausted by the\nevents of the day and night, finally fell asleep and dreamed the scene\nall over again,--all this and a great deal more might be of interest\nconcerning one of the most remarkable railroad accidents that ever\noccurred in this country, but it would be out of place in this\nnarrative, for it is all true, exactly and literally, only the detailed\nhorrors of it no pen can describe, no words can tell.\n\nMr. Hardy woke about eight o'clock, rested, but feeling very lame and\nsore from his exertions of the night.  His first thought was of Clara.\nWhen he went to sleep the girl seemed to be resting without pain, but\nthat strange mark across her face made them all anxious.  It was not a\nbruise, but it lay like a brand across the eyes, which had not opened\nsince her father found her lying by the frozen stream.\n\nJames had insisted on staying in the house to be of service, and Mrs.\nHardy had felt grateful for his presence as she watched for returning\nconsciousness from Clara, who still gave no more sign of animation,\nalthough she breathed easily and seemed to be free from pain.  Every\ndoctor and surgeon in town had been summoned to the scene of the\naccident.  But Mr. Hardy felt so anxious for Clara as he came in and\nlooked at her that he went downstairs and asked James if he wouldn't\nrun out and see if any of the doctors had returned.\n\n\"Yes, sir; I'll go at once.  How is she now, Mr. Hardy?\"  James looked\nhim in the face with the look that love wears when it is true and brave.\n\n\"My boy,\" replied Mr. Hardy, laying his hand on James' shoulder, \"I\ndon't know.  There is something strange about it.  Get a doctor if you\ncan.  But I know there must be many other sad homes today in Barton.\nOh, it was horrible!\"\n\nHe sat down and covered his face, while James, with a brief \"God help\nus, sir!\" went out in search of a doctor.\n\nMr. Hardy went upstairs again, and with his wife kneeled down and\noffered a prayer of thanksgiving and of appeal.  \"O Lord,\" said Robert,\n\"grant that this dear one of ours may be restored to us again.  Spare\nus this anguish, not in return for our goodness, but out of Thy great\ncompassion for our sins repented of!\"\n\nWill and Bess lay in the next room, and now that the reaction had set\nin they were sleeping, Will, feverish and restless, Bess quite\npeaceful, as if nothing had happened out of the usual order of things.\n\n\"Where is George?\" asked Mr. Hardy as he rose from his prayer.\n\n\"I don't know, Robert.  He started down to the train a little while\nafter you did.  Haven't you seen him?\"\n\n\"No, Mary.  God grant that he may not\"--Mr. Hardy did not dare finish\nhis thought aloud.\n\nHis wife guessed it, and together the two sat hand in hand, drawn very\nnear by their mutual trouble and by all the strange events of that\nstrange week; and together they talked of the accident and of Clara and\nJames and their oldest son; and then Mrs. Hardy said, as she drew her\nhusband's face near to her:\n\n\"Robert, do you still have that impression concerning the time left you\nhere to live?  Do you still think this week is to be the end?\"\n\nMrs. Hardy had a vague hope that the shock of the accident might have\ndestroyed the impression of the dream; but her hope was disappointed.\n\n\"My dear wife,\" replied Robert, \"there is not the least doubt in my\nmind that my dream was a vision of what will happen.  There is no\nquestion but that after Sunday I shall not be with you.  This is\nWednesday.  How lightning-like the days have flown!  How precious the\nmoments are!  How many of them I have wasted in foolish selfishness!\nMary, I should go mad with the thought if I did not feel the necessity\nof making this week the best week of all my life; only, I do not know\nwhat is most important to do.  If it had been seven months, or even\nseven weeks, I might have planned more wisely.  Oh, it is cruelly\nbrief, the time!  But I must make the wisest possible use of it.  This\naccident, so unexpected, has complicated the matter.  I had not\nreckoned on it.\"\n\nHow many of us do reckon on accidents?  They always come into our lives\nwith a shock.  Yet it seems possible that a man who lives very close to\nGod every day might be so ready for everything that not even the most\nterrible catastrophe could make much difference to his plans for daily\nlife, least of all deprive him of his reason, as it has so often done.\nRobert Hardy was just beginning to realise dimly that life is not one\nthing, but many things, and that its importance is the importance which\nbelongs to the character of God Himself.\n\nHe began to talk calmly with his wife concerning what he would do that\nday, and was still talking about it when James came in with a doctor,\nwho at once went upstairs.  He was just from the scene of the accident,\nand bore marks of a hard night's work.  His first glance at Clara was\nhard and professional.  But as he looked he grew very grave, and an\nexpression of serious surprise came over his weary face.  He laid his\nhands on the girl's eyes and examined them; raised her hand and dropped\nit upon the bed again.  Then turning to the father and mother he said\ngently:\n\n\"You must prepare yourselves for a terrible fact resulting from the\naccident to your daughter.  She has suffered a shock that will probably\nrender her blind as long as she lives.\"\n\nMr. and Mrs. Hardy listened, pale-faced and troubled.  It was hard to\nthink of the girl, so strong-willed, so passionate, and yet so capable\nof noble impulses and loving desires, as all her life shut up within\nthe darkness thus.  It was bitter to think of this for her.  What would\nit be to _her_ when, she awoke to the whole consciousness of it?\n\nThe doctor spoke again slowly: \"There is another thing you ought to be\nprepared for.  In rare cases like this, it happens sometimes that a\nloss of hearing accompanies the loss of sight.\"  Then, after a pause,\n\"And with the loss of sight and hearing it is possible the peculiar\nshock has deprived your daughter of the power of speech.  I do not know\nyet whether this has happened, but I prepare you for the worst.\"\n\n\"Blind, and deaf, and dumb,\" murmured Mr. Hardy, while his wife sat\ndown and buried her face in the bedclothes and sobbed.  It seemed\nterrible to them.\n\nThe doctor, after a little further examination, said nothing more could\nbe done at present.  He gave directions for certain necessary\ntreatment, and departed, after giving a look at Will and Bess, and\nprescribing for them.\n\nMr. Hardy went downstairs and quietly told James all that the doctor\nhad said.  To a man living on the verge of eternity, as Mr. Hardy was,\nthere was no time for evasions or the postponing of bad news or the\nutterance of soft speeches.\n\nJames took the news more calmly than Mr. Hardy thought he would.  It\nwas evident he did not realise all that was meant by it.\n\n\"Can you love Clara under these conditions?\" asked Mr. Hardy, looking\nat James with a sympathy that the young man could not help feeling.\n\n\"Yes, sir, more than ever.  Why, is she not more in need of it than\never?\"\n\n\"True; but what can you do with a helpless creature like that?\"\n\n\"God help us, sir!  If she were my wife now, and were dependent on me,\ndon't you think I could care for her more tenderly than anyone else in\nthe world?\"\n\nMr. Hardy shook his head.  \"This is a hard blow to me, James.  I don't\nknow just what to say yet.  But it is possible the poor girl may not\nhave to suffer all that.  Let us hope the doctor is not justified in\nhis supposition.  Indeed, he said he could not tell for certain that\nloss of hearing and speech would follow.  If they do I cannot see how\nClara can retain her reason when she recovers from the shock.  James, I\nbelieve you are a good fellow.  I have not forgotten my own courtship.\nI will not stand in the way between you and your love for Clara in\nanything right and reasonable.  I had hoped we might have a good talk\ntogether over the matter.  This accident has made it impossible for a\ntime, at least; but I confide in you as an honest, true man.  We must\nwait for events to take shape.  Meanwhile, let us pray God to give us\nwisdom, and lead us into the way we need to go.\"\n\nJames Caxton listened to Mr. Hardy with a feeling of astonishment.\nThis was not the Robert Hardy he had known all his life; this was a new\nman.  For a moment his own hopes and fears were almost lost sight of in\nthe thought of the great change in the elder man.  In a tumult of\nfeeling he went home, after begging Mrs. Hardy to send him word if\nClara became worse or if there were any service he could render the\nfamily.\n\nRobert went back upstairs where his wife sat by the side of the injured\ngirl.\n\n\"Mary,\" he said, \"I must go down to the shops.  You know I left word\nwith Wellman to do what he could in the office until I could get down;\nbut this accident has made it imperative that I be there myself.  There\nare details the men cannot attend to.  I cannot do any more here, and I\nmust do what I can for the sufferers.  God has been merciful to us,\ndear.  Our dear ones are spared to us.  Oh, when I heard Bessie's voice\nin that hell's pit it seemed to me God was taking pity on me for the\nburden I am carrying this week!  If she had been killed, I do believe I\nshould have gone mad.  Pray for me, sweetheart!\"\n\nWith a kiss and embrace Robert left the house; and even in the sorrow\nof all her trouble Mrs. Hardy felt a great wave of joy flow through her\nat the thought of a love come back to her.  As she went to the window\nand watched the tall, strong figure swing down the street, she almost\nfelt a girl again, and wondered if he would turn around and see her\nthere and toss his hat to her as in the old days.  Yes; just before he\nreached the corner where he had to turn he looked back up at the\nwindow, saw his wife standing there, and took off his hat with a smile,\nand she waved her hand at him and coloured as when her Robert used to\ndo the same thing while he was courting her.\n\n\"Two fools!\" somebody says.  Yes; two children of God, who have seen\nHis face and learned what all this life means.\n\nMr. Hardy found much to do at the shops.  The accident necessitated\nspecial work.  It looked to him as if he must be down there all day.\nThere was almost a panic in the planing rooms.  The air was heavy with\nthe horror of the night before.  Owing to the wreck, there was more\nneed of work in the shops than ever; but along toward noon Burns came\ninto the office, pulling a long face, and asking Mr. Hardy to step\nacross the yard and talk to the men, who had threatened, Burns said, to\ndo mischief if they were not given the afternoon to go down to the\nscene of the disaster.  Mr. Hardy rose with a sinking heart, and\nfollowed Burns into the planing rooms.  He told the foreman to get the\nmen together in the centre of the room.  They stopped their machines\nand gathered in the largest open space between the planers, and Mr.\nHardy addressed them:\n\n\"What do you want?  Burns tells me there is dissatisfaction.  Speak\nout, so that we may know what the trouble is.\"\n\nThere was an awkward pause.  Then one man spoke up:\n\n\"We think the company ought to give us the day off.\"\n\n\"What for?\" asked  Mr. Hardy mildly.\n\nUnder any other circumstances he would have told the men they might\nleave for good if they didn't like the pay and the company.  He had\ndone just that thing twice before; but things were different now.  He\nlooked at the men in a new light.  He was a new man himself.  Besides,\nit was imperative that the work in the shops go on.  The company could\nill afford to lose the work just at this particular time.  All these\nconsiderations did not blind Robert to his obligations as an officer of\nthe company.  He was only anxious that no injustice should be done, so\nhe said, \"What for?\" mildly and quietly, and waited for an answer.\n\nThe spokesman was not quite ready with an answer.  The directness of\nthe question and the mildness of it also surprised him.  Another man\nspoke up:\n\n\"Our friends was in the accident.  We want to go see them.\"\n\n\"Very well.  How many men had relatives or friends in the accident who\nare injured or killed?  Let them step forward.\"\n\nThere was a moment of inaction.  Then three men stepped out.  Mr. Hardy\nsaid: \"You may go if you want to.  Why didn't you ask for leave off if\nyou wanted it?  What reason have you to suppose the  company would\nrefuse such a request?  Now, what is the trouble with the rest?  The\ncompany is not in a position to grant a holiday at this particular\ntime, and you know it.  Come, be fair, men!  I can't shut down the\nshops all day to let you go and see a railroad wreck.  Be reasonable!\nWhat do you want?\"\n\n\"We want more pay and freedom from Sunday work,\" said a big fellow, the\nNorwegian who ran the biggest planer in the shop.  He had more than\nonce proved troublesome to Burns, but he was a remarkably intelligent\nand skilful workman, and the foreman had endured much irritation on\nthat account.\n\nMr. Hardy replied, still speaking pleasantly: \"The matter of more pay\nis one we cannot well discuss here now, but I will say to you and all\nthe rest, that as far as it is in my power there shall be no more\nSunday work demanded--while I live,\" Mr. Hardy was on the point of\nsaying; but he said instead, \"of the men in the shops.\"\n\n\"Still, that is not the question,\" replied the man in an insolent tone.\nMr. Hardy looked at him more closely, and saw that he had been\ndrinking.  Several of the workmen cried out:\n\n\"Shut up, Herman!  Mr. Hardy be right; we be fools to make row now at\nthis time.\"\n\nA dozen men started for their machines to go to work again, while Burns\nwent up and laid his hand, on the Norwegian's arm, and said to him\nroughly:\n\n\"Quit off now.  You've been dipping that beard of yours into a whiskey\nbarrel.  Better mind your pegs, or you get your walking papers.\"\n\n\"Mind your own, Burns,\" replied the big man heavily.  \"You be\nsomethings of a beard drinker yourself, if you had the beard.\"\n\nBurns was so enraged at the drunken retort that he drew back as if to\nstrike the man, when the Norwegian smote the foreman a blow that laid\nhim sprawling in the iron dust.  Instantly Mr. Hardy stepped up between\nthe two men before Burns could rise.  We have spoken of Robert's\nintense horror of the coarse, physical vices.  It seemed totally wrong\nto him that a workman should degrade himself with drink.  Besides, he\ncould not tolerate such actions in the shops.  He looked the drunken\nman in the face and said sternly:\n\n\"You are discharged!  I cannot afford to employ drunken men in these\nshops.  You may go this instant!\"\n\nThe man leered at Mr. Hardy, raised his arm as if to strike, while the\nmanager confronted him with a stern look; but before the Norwegian\ncould do any harm two or three of the men seized him and hustled him\nback to the other end of the shops, while Burns rose, vowing vengeance.\n\nThe men went back to their machines, and Mr. Hardy, with an anxious\nheart, went back into the office, satisfied that there would be no\ntrouble at the shops for the rest of the day at least.  He was sorry\nthat he had been obliged to discharge Herman, but he felt that he had\ndone the right thing.  The company could not afford to employ in any\nway men who were drunkards, especially just at this time, when it began\nto be more than plainly hinted that the result of the accident on the\nroad was due to the partial intoxication of a track inspector.\n\nThat accident was a complication in Robert Hardy's seven days.  It was\ndemanding of him precious time that he longed to spend in his family.\nAt one time in the afternoon as he worked at the office he was tempted\nto resign his position and go home, come what might.  But, to his\ncredit be it said, that always, even in his most selfish moments, he\nhad been faithful to his duties at the office.  At present no one could\nfully take his place.  He felt that his duty to the company and to the\npublic demanded his services at a critical time in railroad matters.\nSo he stayed and worked on, praying as he worked for his dear ones, and\nhoping, as no bad news came from home, that Clara was better.  He had\nbeen to the telephone several times and had two or three short talks\nwith his wife; and now just as the lights were turned on in the office\nthe bell rang again, and Mrs. Hardy told him that the minister, Mr.\nJones, had called and wanted to see him about some of the families that\nwere injured in the accident at the foundry room.\n\n\"Tell Mr. Jones I will try to see him at the meeting to-night.\"  (In\nBarton the church meeting fell on Wednesday.)  \"And tell him I will\nhave something to give him for what he wants.  How is Clara now?\"\n\n\"No change yet.  Will is suffering some from nervousness.  He says he\nhad a horrible dream of the accident this afternoon.  Bess is about the\nsame.  Her escape was a miracle.\"\n\n\"Has George come home yet?\"\n\n\"No; I am getting anxious about him.  I wish you would inquire about\nhim at the Bramleys as you come up to dinner.\"\n\n\"I will.  I must leave very soon.  This has been a terrible day down\nhere.  God keeps us.  Good-by.\"\n\nRobert finished most of the work, toiling as never in all his life\nbefore, and started for home at six.  On the way he made inquiries\nconcerning George, but nobody had seen him since the evening before.\nWhen he reached the house he found that his wife, utterly worn out, had\nlain down for a little sleep.  Alice was caring for the patients with a\ncalm courage and quiet cheerfulness that revealed the girl's strong,\nself-reliant character.  Clara's condition had not changed.  She still\nlay as if sleeping.  Alice reported that once in the afternoon she had\nmoved her lips and distinctly called for water.  Mr. Hardy and Bess sat\ndown to the supper table by themselves, and Bess again told how she had\nbeen saved from even a scratch in that terrible fall.  It was indeed\nremarkable that the child did not suffer even from the general shock\nand reaction of the disaster.\n\nAfter a brief meal Mr. Hardy went upstairs to Clara again.  His chief\nanxiety now was for her.  He believed that if the doctor's fears were\nrealised, she would become insane.  It was hardly possible that a\nperson of her temperament and passion could be otherwise, in case she\nshould come to consciousness of her condition.\n\nAs the evening wore on, Mr. Hardy felt that his duty lay in his own\nhome, for that night, and he would have to see his minister some other\ntime.  He thought of the prayer meeting with regret, and sat by the bed\nof the unconscious girl, wondering how it was possible that for all\nthese years gone by he had been so indifferent to one of the best and\nmost precious opportunities for growing in spiritual manhood.  He heard\nthe bell ring for service, and when it stopped he sat with his face in\nhis hands, praying.\n\nThe prayer meeting in Mr. Jones' church was generally a very quiet\naffair.  A good many people in the church, especially those who came to\nthe meeting only occasionally, thought it was stupid.  But it was a\nnoticeable fact that those who attended regularly were the ones who did\nthe most work in the church, and the ones who grew stronger and sweeter\nin the Christian life.  There was usually no regular subject given out.\nThere was very little talking done.  From beginning to close it was\nnearly all prayer.  Mr. Jones did not feel afraid of the long pauses.\nHe believed modern American life to be so full of nervousness and hurry\nthat it would not hurt anyone to sit still and think a minute or two.\nThat was the reason so many people called Mr. Jones' prayer meetings\ndull; because they were not rushing all the time with sensational or\nexciting remarks and incidents.  Mr. Jones didn't believe that\nsensation was what a prayer meeting was for, and he planned\naccordingly.  But this particular evening was an exception.  The great\nrailroad accident so near them had stirred the entire community to the\ndepths of its sympathy.  Several families in Mr. Jones' church had been\nsufferers.  As if by tacit consent there was an unusually large\ngathering at the church, and the subject was of necessity the recent\ndisaster.  It was a spontaneous meeting.  The minister briefly opened\nwith the express desire that God would bless the suffering, prepare the\ndying, and comfort the living, and almost instantly a service of prayer\nbegan which was like a flood in its continuous outpouring.  The people\nseemed urged by some irresistible feeling to relieve the pent-up strain\nof the day in prayer; and such prayers had not been heard in that\nchurch for many years.\n\nA similar scene was witnessed in a church near the White River Junction\nrailroad disaster in 1887.  The entire morning service was given up to\nprayer, which seemed the only healthy relief to people suffering from\nan overwhelming horror.\n\nIt was during the first pause that occurred that James Caxton opened\nthe door and gave a note to someone in the back seat, with a request\nthat it be sent up to Mr. Jones.  He then turned as if to go out, but\nhesitated, came back, and slipped into a vacant seat.  Mr. Jones\nreceived the note, glanced at its contents, and then rose.  There was a\nsingular emotion in his voice as he spoke.\n\n\"I have just been handed a note from one of our members, Mr. Robert\nHardy, with the request that I read it aloud to the church to-night:\n\n\"'_To you, my dear pastor, and you, my brothers, and sisters in\nChrist_:--I suppose it is known to most of you that three of my\nchildren were on the train during the recent accident, and two of them\nescaped with but slight injuries.  But my daughter Clara was seriously\ninjured by the shock, and I am at this moment seated by her side,\npraying that her reason may be spared and her possible injuries prove\nto be within the region of cure.  I had planned to be with you\nto-night.  I wanted to tell the church of the change that I have lately\nexperienced.  I do not need to tell you that for the twenty-five years\nthat I have been a member of the church I have been a member only in\nname.  I have seldom appeared in any of the spiritual or devotional\nservices of the church.  I have often sat in an attitude of criticism\nto the best preaching.  I have been a hard man with those in my employ.\nI have been cold and even revengeful toward other members of this\nchurch.  I have been a very proud, un-Christian, selfish man.  In the\nsight of God I have been an altogether unworthy member of the Church of\nChrist.  I do not take any pride to myself in making this confession,\nbut I feel that it is due to you, and something tells me I shall have\nmore peace of mind if I speak to you as I have lately prayed to God.\n\n\"'It is not necessary, neither have I time nor strength, to tell you\nhow I have been brought to see my selfishness in all its enormity.  It\nis enough if I say to you that I most sincerely believe that I have\nmisunderstood very largely the right meaning of human existence.  I\nwant to pray with you and for you.  You will let me say this also,\nbearing with me, as this may be my last opportunity to say to you what\nlies in my heart: Serve the Church of Christ, all you who have taken\nupon you its vows, with enthusiasm and loyalty.  Stand by the\nsuperintendent of the Sunday School; attend this week-night service\nwhen you can, making it the most important service of the week; and,\nmore than all, live true, simple, loving Christian lives every day.\n\n\"'It may seem strange that I am preaching like this to you who have\nprobably done your duty far better than I ever did, but I wish to say\nwhat lies deep in my heart to say to-night.  If there are any young men\nin the meeting tonight, I want to say to them, Become Christians at the\ncore--not in name simply, as I have been; and above all, kneel down\nevery morning, noon, and night, and pray to God to keep you from a\nselfish life--such a life as I have lived--forgetful of church vows, of\nthe rights of the working poor, of the brother and sister in Christ.\nYes; I would be willing that any young man might say, \"O Lord, keep me\nfrom living as selfish and useless and proud a life as Robert Hardy\nonce lived.\"  For that is the truth.  No one but God knows how I have\nsuffered at the thought of the past; how I am suffering at the present\nmoment.  I pray that any who are afflicted at this present time may\nfind peace in Him who bore the world's sorrows in His great heart of\nlove.  If it were not for my faith in my Saviour at this time, I should\nbe in despair.  As it is, I am suffering, but it is not the suffering\nwhich follows an eclipse of hope.  I believe in the eternal life and in\nthe forgiveness of sins, yea, even such sins as mine have been.\nForgive so much about myself; it is necessary under the circumstances.\nI ask your prayers for me as your petitions go up for the afflicted and\nrepentant everywhere.\n\n\"'I am, Your brother in Christ,\n\n\"'ROBERT HARDY.'\"\n\n\nThe impression made by the reading of this letter was profound.  The\nstillness that followed was deathlike.  Then one of the oldest men in\nthe room rose, and in a prayer of great power prayed for the absent man\nand thanked God for His guiding strength.  The prayer was followed by\nothers, and then one and another of the members, who had not been on\nreally good terms with Mr. Hardy, arose and confessed and asked\nforgiveness.  The hearts of the people were greatly moved.  Mr. Jones,\ncontrary to his usual habit, asked, as the meeting drew to a close, if\nthere were any present who wanted to begin that Christian life at the\ncore, of which Mr. Hardy spoke.\n\n\"I see a number here not professing Christians.  Are there any who\nwould like to say that they want to become Christians, and will try to\nlive the Christ-life every day?\"\n\nIn the pause that followed, James Caxton, who had been sitting in the\nback seat, felt as if some power within and without him were forcing\nhim to his feet.  He grasped his chair as if to hold himself down; but\nthe Holy Spirit whispered to him, \"Son, this will be the beginning of a\nnew life to thee.\"\n\nSo James Caxton arose and said he wanted to be a Christian; and from\nthat moment he dated his strong, consecrated life--a life that bids\nfair to become famous in the world some day.  His action was the\nbeginning of a new life in that church and community; but we cannot\ndwell on that in the course of this history.  O Robert Hardy! the good\nGod is blessing thee in this thy week of trial!  For was it not thy\nword that first started this young, manly soul to consider what he owed\nto Jesus the Christ?\n\n\nTo come back to Robert.  He had written the note, beginning it just a\nlittle after the bell ceased ringing, and as he finished, James had\ncome over to see if he could be of any service.  The church was near\nby, and Mr. Hardy asked him to take the note over.  He went over to the\nchurch, with the result described.  He did not come back at once, and\nMr. Hardy watched on with Alice.  Will slept irregularly, being\ntroubled with his dreams of the accident.  Mrs. Hardy awoke and begged\nher husband to lie down and get a little rest.  He did so, but was\naroused about ten o'clock by the doctor coming in.  He had just\nfinished a visit near by; he saw the light and was anxious, as the case\nwas an extraordinary one, to see Clara.  He examined her face very\nkeenly, and then sat down by the bed for an instant.  After giving\ncertain medicines he found that he was in need of another article,\nwhich was at his house.\n\n\"I will go and get it, doctor.  It's not far, and I think a little\nfresh air will do me good and help me to remain awake better,\" said\nRobert.\n\nHe went downstairs, and the doctor followed him as he went out into the\nhall and flung on his overcoat.  Mr. Hardy turned before he opened the\ndoor:\n\n\"Doctor, tell me the truth about my girl.  What is her condition?\"\n\n\"It is serious; but more than that I cannot say.  There is a\npossibility that by means of a slight operation the disastrous\nconsequences of the shock to her eyes may be averted; and it is\npossible that the other results of which I hinted may not be realised.\nIt is not in medical power to decide with certainty.\"\n\nSo Mr. Hardy went out into the night with a glimmer of hope in his\nbreast.  It was snowing again, and a strong wind was blowing, so he\nbuttoned his big coat close up, drew his hat down over his brows, and\nleaning forward, walked as rapidly as he could against the wind in the\ndirection of the doctor's house.  The streets were almost deserted.\nThe lights at the corners flickered and showed pale through the lamps.\nAs he turned down a narrow street, intending to make a short cut across\na park that lay near the doctor's, he was suddenly seized by three or\nfour young men, and one of them said in a tone betraying a drunken\ndebauch:\n\n\"Hold up your hands and deliver!  You've got plenty of chink and we\nhaven't!  So no squalling, or we'll shoot you for it.\"\n\nMr. Hardy was taken completely by surprise.  But he was a vigorous,\nathletic man, and his first impulse was to shake himself loose, to\nknock down two of his assailants next to him and make a run for it.\nHis next glance, however, showed him the nature of the group of young\nmen.  They were not professional robbers, but young men about town who\nhad been drinking late and were evidently out on a lark, and were\nholding him up just for fun.  Mr. Hardy guessed exactly right.  What\ncould he do?  Two of the young men were known to him, the sons of the\nBramleys, who were well-to-do people in Barton.  Mr. Hardy's next\nimpulse was to discover himself to them and beg them to quit such\ndangerous fooling and go home.  The three other young men were in\nshadow, and he could not recognise them.  All this passed through his\nthought with a flash.  But before he had time to do anything, a police\nofficer sprang out of a doorway near by, and the group of young men,\ndropping their hold of Mr. Hardy, fled in different directions.  The\nofficer made pursuit, and after a short run captured one of the young\nmen, whom, after vigorous resistance, he dragged back to where Mr.\nHardy stood, exclaiming:\n\n\"Here's one of the rascals, sir!  I heard 'em when they held you up.\nWe've been looking for this gang some time now.  Just identify this\none, if he is the one that just now grabbed ye, sir.\"\n\nUnder the light of the lamp the policeman dragged the form of his\nvictim, and roughly struck up his hat.  At that instant Mr. Hardy\nlooked into his face and cried out:\n\n\"George!  Is it you?\"\n\nAnd the son replied as he started back: \"Father!\"\n\nThe two looked at each other in silence, while the snow fell in\nwhirling flakes about them.\n\nAnd this was the end of Robert Hardy's third day.\n\n\n\n\nTHURSDAY--THE FOURTH DAY.\n\nMr. Hardy looked at his son sternly, standing at the little distance to\nwhich he had recoiled after his first recognition of the boy.  It would\nbe difficult to describe his emotions.  He had never been an\naffectionate father to his boys.  He had generally given them money\nwhen they asked for it, but had not questioned them about its use.  He\nwas not familiar with his older son's habits, and only within the last\nfew days had he known that he was what the age popularly designates as\n\"fast.\"  He had never made a companion of his son; he had not grown up\nwith him; so that now as he faced him under the strange circumstances\nthat had brought them together he was actually at a loss to know what\nto do or say.  The thought that his son was guilty of a crime which\nmight put him behind prison bars did not yet occur to his mind.  He was\nonly conscious of a great longing to get back home and have a thorough\ntalk with his boy, in the hope of winning him to better things.  But he\nmust say something to George.\n\nThe police officer stared in wonder after the first startled cry of\n\"Father!\" on the part of the young man, but he did not loosen his hold\non him.  He took an extra twist in the coat collar of his captive, and\nlooked sharply at Mr. Hardy, as much as to say: \"He may be your son,\nbut he's my victim, and I mean to keep a good clutch on him.\"\n\nGeorge was the first to speak: \"Father, you know I wouldn't do such a\nthing, really.  We were only out for a little fun.  We didn't know you,\nof course.  We didn't mean any real harm; we were only fooling.\"\n\n\"It was dangerous fooling,\" replied his father.  He still stood apart\nfrom the boy, and spoke quietly, but his face was pale, and his heart\nwas wrung with torture for his firstborn.  Ah, how careless of him he\nhad been!  How little companionship the two had had!  How very little\nhelp the boy had received from the man!  Now, believing that only four\nmore days lay before him to use to the glory of God, Robert Hardy felt\nthe sting of that bitterest, of all bitter feelings, useless\nregret--the regret that does not carry with it any hope of redeeming a\nselfish past.\n\nAfter his father had spoken, George sullenly remained silent.  Mr.\nHardy bowed his head and seemed thinking.  The officer, who had been\nwaiting for another move on the part of the older man, said:\n\n\"Well, we must be moving on.  It's warmer in the lockup than out here;\nso come along, young fellow, and do your talking to-morrow morning with\nthe rest of the drunks and disorderlies.\"\n\n\"Stop!\" cried Robert Hardy.  \"This is my son!  Do you understand?  What\nare you going to do?\"\n\n\"Well, governor, that's a pretty question at this time o' day.  Do!\nI'm going to jug him for assault with intent to commit highway robbery.\nIt's an affair for the 'pen,' I can tell you.\"\n\n\"But you heard him say it was all a joke.\"\n\n\"A pretty joke to try to hold a man up on the highway and demand his\nmoney!  Oh, no!  That's carrying a joke too far.  I'm bound to obey\norders.  We've been after this gang of young chaps for a month now.\"\n\n\"But, officer, you don't understand; this is my son!\"\n\n\"Well, what of that?  Don't we jug sons every day for some deviltry or\nother?  Do you suppose you are the only father whose son is going to\nthe devil?\"\n\n\"O God, no!\" cried Mr. Hardy with sudden passion.  \"But this is my\nolder boy.  It would kill his mother to have him arrested and put in\njail for trying to rob his own father.  Yet he was once innocent--\nWhat am I saying?  He might be now if I had done my duty.\"\n\nMr. Hardy confronted the officer with a certain sorrowful dignity which\neven that hardened defender of the law understood.\n\n\"Officer, let the boy go.  I will answer for it if any blame falls on\nyou.  He was not at fault in this matter.  He was not the one who\nassaulted me.  He did not touch me.  You could not get a particle of\ntestimony against him.  And besides that, it is necessary that he\nreturn with me.  This is a case for the law of God; it belongs to a\nhigher than human court.\"\n\nThe  officer hesitated;  Mr. Hardy stepped nearer his son.\n\n\"George,\" he said, as if forgetting for a moment that the officer was\npresent, \"did you know that Clara and Bess and Will were in the\naccident last night?\"\n\nGeorge turned pale, and tremblingly replied, \"No, father.  Were they\nhurt?  Was Bess--\"  The boy seemed moved as his father had not yet seen\nhim.\n\n\"No; they were not; that is, Bess was not hurt at all.  But Will was\nseverely bruised, and Clara still lies in a state of stupor or\nunconsciousness, and we do not know what the end will be.  I was on my\nway just now to get some needed articles from the doctor's house.  You\nmust come back with me; the law has no hold on you.\"\n\n\"Maybe, the law hasn't any hold on him, but Michael Finnerty has.  I\ndon't just like the idea, mister, of letting the boy go,\" replied the\nstubborn and unusually dutiful officer.\n\nMr. Hardy began to appeal to the man's love of his own children.  It\ndid not seem to move him in the least, until he mentioned the fact that\nit was cruelty to keep the suffering girl at home waiting for her\nfather's return.\n\nMr. Finnerty finally loosened his hold on George and said slowly and\npainfully, \"An' if I lose me job I'll be knowin' who was to blame for\nit.  I always told Michael Finnerty that he was too soft-hearted to go\non the force!\"\n\n\"You won't suffer, officer.  Many thanks!  Come, George.\"\n\nFather and son moved off together, while the defender of the law stood\nirresolute, watching them disappear through the storm, and muttering to\nhimself, \"I'm a soft-hearted fool.  I ought to 'a' been born a female\nhospital nurse, I had.\"\n\nDuring that walk home, after Mr. Hardy had gone around by the doctor's\nwith George, not a word was exchanged.  The storm was increasing.  The\ntwo walked along in silence; but when George walked into the hall at\nhome he turned and saw a look on his father's face that smote him to\nthe heart, for he was not yet a hardened soul.  Mr. Hardy had lived\nyears in that experience.  No one could tell how he had been tortured\nby what he had endured that night; but the mark of it was stamped\nindelibly on his face, and he knew that he would bear it to his grave.\n\nMrs. Hardy came running downstairs as the two came in.  When George\nturned and faced her she held out her arms crying, \"My boy! my boy!  We\nhave been so anxious about you!\"\n\nWhat! not one word of reproach, of rebuke, of question as to what he\nhad been doing all this time that the family had been suffering!  No;\nnot one word.  Ah, mother love!  It is the most wonderful thing on\nearth, next to the love of God for the sinner.  It is even that, for it\nis the love of God expressing itself through the mother, who is the\ntemple of the loving God.\n\nGeorge dashed away a tear; then going up to his mother he laid his\ncheek against hers, while she folded her arms about him and cried a\nlittle and asked no questions.  After a moment's silence he stammered\nout a few words of sorrow at having caused her pain.  She joyfully\naccepted his broken explanation of how he had not known of the accident\nto Clara and the others.  It was true that he had gone out the evening\nbefore, fully intending to go down to the scene of the accident; but\ncoming across some of his old companions he had gone off with them, and\nspent the night in a disgraceful carouse.  Throughout the day he had\nbeen more or less under the influence of liquor, dimly conscious that a\ngreat disaster had happened, but not sober enough to realise its\ndetails or its possible connection with those of his own home.\n\nThe sudden meeting with his father had startled him out of the drowsy\nintoxication he had fallen into as the day progressed.  Now, as he felt\nhis mother's arms around him, and realised a little what the family had\nbeen enduring, he felt the disgrace of his own conduct.\n\nMr. Hardy went upstairs and consulted with the doctor, who wondered at\nhis protracted absence.  There was no change in Clara yet.  She lay in\na condition which could not be called a trance or a sleep.  She did not\nseem to be in any great pain; but she was unconscious of all outside\nconditions.\n\nAfter a little talk with his mother, George came up and inquired after\nBess and Will.  They were both sleeping, and after the doctor had gone\nout the father and mother and son sat down together in the room where\nClara lay.\n\nMr. Hardy did not say a word to George about the incident of the\nevening.  The shame of it was too great yet.  When men of Mr. Hardy's\nself-contained, repressed, proud nature are pained, it is with an\nintense, inward fire of passion that cannot hear to break out into\nwords.\n\nGeorge had sense enough to offer to relieve his parents of the burden\nof watching through the night, and during the exchange of watchers\nalong toward morning, as Mrs. Hardy slipped into the room to relieve\nthe boy, she found him kneeling down at a couch with his face buried in\nthe cushions.  She raised her face in thanksgiving to God and went\nsoftly out.\n\nThe morning dawned gray with snow which still whirled in wreaths about\nthe sorrowing homes of Barton; but Robert Hardy thought of the merciful\ncovering it would make for the ghastly piles of ruin down under the\nbridge and along the banks of the river.  He said to himself, \"This is\nmy fourth day; how can I best spend it?  What shall I do?\"  He kneeled\nand prayed, and rose somewhat refreshed.\n\nThe forenoon went rapidly by, and before he knew it noon was near.  The\ntime had passed in watching Clara, visiting with Bess and Will; and\ndoing some necessary work for the company in his little office\ndownstairs.  He did not feel like saying anything to George yet.  James\nCaxton had been in, and the first thing he had mentioned had been his\nown act in the meeting the night before.  Mr. Hardy thanked God for it,\nand a prayer went out of his heart for his own son, that the Spirit\nmight touch him in his sin, and bring him into the light of Christ.\n\nA little after noon the storm cleared up, and Robert prepared to go\ndown to the shops.  Clara had not yet come out of her stupor.  The\ndoctor had called and done what he could.  There was nothing in\nparticular that Mr. Hardy could do in the case, so he went out about\none o'clock and entered his office, hoping as he went in that he would\nhave no trouble with the men.\n\nMr. Burns reported everything quiet, and the manager, with a sigh of\nrelief, proceeded with the routine duties of the business.  Nothing of\nany special interest occurred through the afternoon.  The storm had\nceased entirely, and the sun had come out clear and warm.  People were\nclearing off the walks, and the ringing of sleigh bells was distinct in\nthe office, even over the incessant hum of the big engine.\n\nToward three o'clock one of Mr. Hardy's old friends, an officer of the\nroad, came in and said there was a general movement on foot throughout\nBarton to hold a monster mass meeting in the Town Hall for the benefit\nof the sufferers, both in the railroad accident and in the explosion of\nthe Sunday before in the shops.  It was true the company would settle\nfor damages, but in many cases the adjustment of claims would not be\nmade until much suffering and hardship had been endured.  There was a\nfeeling on the part of the townspeople that a meeting for public\nconference would result in much good, and there was also, as has been\nthe case in other large horrors, a craving to relieve the strain of\nfeeling by public gathering and consultation.\n\n\"Can you come out to the meeting, Hardy?\" asked his friend.\n\nMr. Hardy thought a minute and replied, \"Yes; I think I can.\"  Already\nan idea had taken shape in his mind which he could not help feeling was\ninspired by God.\n\n\"It might be a good thing if you could come prepared to make some\nremarks.  I find there is a disposition on the part of the public to\ncharge the road with carelessness and mismanagement.\"\n\n\"I'll say a word or two,\" replied Mr. Hardy; and after a brief talk on\nbusiness matters his friend went out.\n\nRobert immediately sat down to his desk, and for an hour, interrupted\nonly by an occasional item of business brought to him by his secretary,\nhe jotted down copious notes.  The thought which had come to him when\nhis friend suggested the meeting was this: he would go and utter a\nmessage that burned within him, a message which the events of the past\nfew days made imperative should be uttered.  He went home absorbed in\nthe great idea.  He had once in his younger days been famous for his\nskill in debate, so he had no fear of his power to deliver a message of\nlife at the present crisis in his own.  He at once spoke of the meeting\nto his wife.\n\n\"Mary, what do you say?  I know every minute is precious.  I owe to you\nand these dear ones at home a very sacred duty; but no less, it seems\nto me, is my duty to the society where I have lived all these years,\ndoing literally nothing for its uplift toward God who gave us all life\nand power.  I feel that He will put a message into my mouth that may\nprove a blessing to this community.  It seems to me this special\nopportunity is providential.\"\n\n\"Robert,\" replied his wife, smiling at him through happy tears, \"it is\nthe will of God.  Do your duty as He makes it clear to you.\"\n\nIt had been an agitating week to the wife.  She anticipated its close\nwith a feeling akin to terror.  What would the end be?  She was\ncompelled to say to herself that her husband was not insane; but the\nthought that he was really to be called out of the world in some\nmysterious manner at the end of the rapidly approaching Sunday, had\nseveral times come over her with a power that threatened her own\nreason.  Nevertheless the week, so far, in spite of its terror and\nagitation, had a sweet joy for her.  Her husband had come back to her,\nthe lover as he once had been, only with the added tenderness of all\nthe years of their companionship.  She thanked the Father for it, and\nwhen the hour came for Robert to go down to the meeting, she blessed\nhim and prayed heaven to make his words to the people like the words of\nGod.\n\n\"Father, what do you want me to do?  Shall I stay here?\" asked George,\nwho had not stirred out of the house all day.  He had watched by Clara\nfaithfully.  She was still in that mysterious condition of\nunconsciousness which made her case so puzzling to the doctor.\n\nMr. Hardy hesitated a moment, then said: \"No, George; I would like to\nhave you go with me.  Alice can do all that is necessary.  But let us\nall pray together now before we go out.  The Lord is leading us\nmysteriously, but we shall some time know the reason why.\"\n\nSo in the room where Clara lay they all kneeled down, except Will, who\nlay upon a lounge near his unconscious sister.  Mr. Hardy, as he\nclasped his wife's hand in his own, poured out his soul in this\npetition:\n\n\"Dear Lord, we know Thou dost love us, even though we cannot always\nknow why Thou dost allow suffering and trouble; and we would thank Thee\nfor the things that cannot be destroyed, for the loves that cannot\nsuffer death, for the wonderful promises of the life to come.  Only we\nhave been so careless of the things that belong to Thy kingdom!  We\nhave been so selfish and forgetful of the great needs and sufferings\nand sins of earth.  Pardon us, gracious Redeemer!  Pardon me, for I am\nthe chief offender!  Yea, Lord, even as the robber on the cross was\nwelcomed into Paradise, welcome Thou me.  But we pray for our dear\nones.  May they recover!  Make this beloved one who now lies unknowing\namong us to come back into the universe of sense and sound, to know us\nand smile upon us again.  We say, 'Thy will be done.'  Grant wisdom,\nfor Thou knowest best; only our hearts will cry out for help, and Thou\nknowest our hearts better than anyone else.  Bless me this night as I\nstand before the people.  This is no selfish prayer, dear Lord.  I\ndesire only Thy glory; I pray only for Thy kingdom.  But Thou hast\nappointed my days to live.  Thou hast sent me the message, and I cannot\nhelp feeling the solemn burden and joy of it.  I will say to the people\nthat Thou art most important of all in this habitation of the flesh.\nAnd now bless us all.  Give us new hearts.  Make us to feel the true\nmeaning of existence here.  Reveal to us Thy splendour.  Forgive all\nthe past, and make impossible in the children the mistakes of the\nparent.  Deliver us from evil, and Thine shall be the glory for ever.\nAmen.\"\n\nWhen Mr. Hardy and George reached the town hall they found a large\ncrowd gathering, and they had some difficulty in gaining entrance.  Mr.\nHardy at once passed up to the platform, where the chairman of the\nmeeting greeted him and said he would expect him to make some remarks\nduring the evening.  Robert sat down at one end of the platform and\nwatched the hall fill with people, nearly all well known to him.  There\nwas an unusually large crowd of boys and young men, many of his own\nemployes from the shops, and a great number of citizens and business\nmen--a representative audience for the place, brought together under\nthe influence of the disaster and feeling somewhat the breaking down of\nartificial social distinctions in the presence of the grim leveller\nDeath, who had come so near to them the last few days.\n\nThere were the usual opening exercises common to such public\ngatherings.  Several well-known business men and two or three of the\nministers, including Mr. Jones, made appropriate addresses.  The\nattention of the great audience was not laboured for, the occasion\nitself being enough to throw over the people the spell of subdued\nquiet.  When the chairman announced that \"Mr. Robert Hardy, our\nwell-known railroad manager, will now address us,\" there was a movement\nof curiosity and some surprise, and many a man leaned forward and\nwondered in his heart what the wealthy railroad man would have to say\non such an occasion.  He had never appeared as a speaker in public, and\nhe passed generally in Barton for the cold, selfish, haughty man he had\nalways been.\n\nMr. Hardy began in a low, clear tone:\n\n\"Men and women of Barton: To-night I am not the man you have known\nthese twenty-five years that I have been among you.  I am, by the grace\nof God, a new creature.  As I stand here I have no greater desire in my\nheart than to say what may prove to be a blessing to all my old\ntownspeople and to my employes and to these strong young men and boys.\nWithin a few short days God has shown me the selfishness of a human\nbeing's heart.  That heart was my own; and it is with feelings none of\nyou can ever know that I look into your faces and say these words.\"\n\nRobert paused a moment as if gathering himself up for the effort that\nfollowed, and the audience, startled with an unexpected emotion by the\nstrange beginning, thrilled with  excitement, as, lifting his arm and\nraising his voice, the once cold and proud man, his face and form\nglowing with the transfiguration of a new manhood, exclaimed:\n\n\"There is but one supreme law in this world, and it is this: Love God\nand your neighbour with heart, mind, soul, strength.  There are but two\nthings worth living for: the glory of God and the salvation of man.\nTo-night I, who look into eternity in a sense which I will not stop to\nexplain, feel the bitterness which comes from the knowledge that I have\nbroken that law and have not lived for those things which alone are\nworth living for.  But God has sent me here to-night with a message to\nthe people which my heart must deliver.  It is a duty even more sacred\nin some ways than what I owe to my own kindred.  I am aware that the\nhearts of the people are shocked into numbness by the recent horror.  I\nknow that more than one bleeding heart is in this house, and the shadow\nof the last enemy, has fallen over many thresholds in our town.  What!\ndid I not enter into the valley of the shadow of death myself as I\nstumbled over the ghastly ruins of that wreck, my soul torn in twain\nfor the love of three of my own dear children?  Do I not sympathise in\nfull with all those who bitterly weep and lament and sit in blackness\nof horror this night?  Yea; but, men of Barton, why is it that we are\nso moved, so stirred, so shocked by the event of death, when the far\nmore awful event of life does not disturb us in the least?  We shudder\nwith terror, we lose our accustomed  pride or indifference, we speak in\nwhispers, and we tread softly in the presence of the visitor who smites\nbut once and then smites the body only: but in the awful presence of\nthe living image of God we go our ways careless, indifferent, cold,\npassionless, selfish.\n\n\"I know whereof I speak, for I have walked through the world like that\nmyself.  But death cannot be compared for one moment with life for\nmajesty, for solemnity, for meaning, for power.  There were\nseventy-five persons killed in the accident.  But in the papers this\nmorning I read in the column next to that in which the accident was\nparaded, in small type and in the briefest of paragraphs, the statement\nthat a certain young man in this very town of ours had been arrested\nfor forging his father's name on a cheque, and was a fugitive from the\nlaw.  Every day in this town and in every town all over the world\nevents like that, and worse than that, occur.  Nay, in this very town\nof ours more than seventy-five souls are, at this very moment, going\ndown into a far blacker hell of destruction than the one under that\nfated bridge, and the community is not horrified over it.  How many\nmass meetings have been held in this town within the last twenty-five\nyears over the losses of character, the death of purity, the\ndestruction of honesty?  Yet they have outnumbered the victims of this\nlate physical disaster a thousandfold.  And what does mere death do?\nIt releases the  spirit from its house of earth.  Aside from that,\ndeath does nothing to the person.  But what does life do?  Life does\neverything.  It prepares for heaven or for hell.  It starts impulses,\nmoulds character, fixes character.  Death has no kingdom without end.\nDeath is only the last enemy of the many enemies that life knows.\nDeath is a second; life is an eternity.  O men, brothers, if, as I\nsolemnly and truly believe, this is the last opportunity I shall have\nto speak to you in such large numbers, I desire you to remember, when I\nhave vanished from your sight, that I spent nearly my last breath in an\nappeal to you to make the most of daily life, to glorify God and save\nmen!\n\n\"The greatest enemy of man is not death; it is selfishness.  It sits on\nthe throne of the entire world.  This very disaster which has filled\nthe town with sorrow was due to selfishness.  Let us see if that is not\nso.  It has been proved by investigation already made that the\ndrunkenness of a track inspector was the cause of the accident.  What\nwas the cause of that drunkenness?  The drinking habits of that\ninspector.  How did he acquire them?  In a saloon which we taxpayers\nallow to run on payment of a certain sum of money into our town\ntreasury.  So, then, it was the greed or selfishness of the men of this\ntown which lies at the bottom of this dreadful disaster.  Who was to\nblame for the disaster?  The track inspector?  No.  The saloon keeper\nwho sold him the liquor?  No.  Who, then?  We ourselves, my brothers;\nwe who licensed the selling of the stuff which turned a man's brain\ninto liquid fire, and smote his judgment and reason with a brand from\nout the burning pit.  If I had stumbled upon the three corpses of my\nown children night before last, I could have exclaimed in justice\nbefore the face of God:  'I have murdered my own children,' for I was\none of the men of Barton to vote for the license which made possible\nthe drunkenness of the man in whose care were placed hundreds of lives.\n\n\"For what is the history of this case?  Who was this wretched track\ninspector?  A man who, to my own knowledge, trembled before temptation;\nwho, on the testimony of the foreman at the shops, was, and always had\nbeen, a sober man up to the time when we as a municipality voted to\nreplace the system of no license with the saloon, for the sake of what\nwe thought was a necessary revenue.  This man had no great temptation\nto drink while the saloon was out of the way.  Its very absence was his\nsalvation.  But its public open return confronted his appetite once\nmore, and he yielded and fell.  Who says he was to blame?  Who are the\nreal criminals in the case?  We ourselves, citizens; we who, for the\ngreed of gain, for the saving of that which has destroyed more souls in\nhell than any other one thing, made possible the causes, which led to\nthe grief and trouble of this hour.  Would we not shrink in terror from\nthe thought of lying in wait to kill a man?  Would we not repel with\nholy horror the idea of murdering and maiming seventy-five people?  We\nwould say 'Impossible!'  Yet, when I am ushered at last into the\nmajestic presence of Almighty God, I feel convinced I shall see in His\nrighteous countenance the sentence of our condemnation just as\ncertainly as if we had gone out in a body and by wicked craft had torn\nout the supporting timbers of that bridge just before the train\nthundered upon it.  For did we not sanction by law a business which we\nknow tempts men to break all the laws; which fills our jails and\npoorhouses, our reformatories and asylums; which breaks women's hearts\nand beggars blessed homes and sends innocent children to tread the\npaths of shame and vagrancy; which brings pallor into the face of the\nwife and tosses with the devil's own glee a thousand victims into\nperdition with every revolution of this great planet!\n\n\"Men of Barton, say what we will, we are the authors of this dreadful\ndisaster.  If we sorrow as a community, we sorrow in reality for our\nown selfish act.  And oh, the selfishness of it!  That clamouring greed\nfor money!  That burning thirst for more, and more, and more, at the\nexpense of every godlike quality, at the ruin of all that our mothers\nonce prayed might belong to us as men and women!  What is it, ye\nmerchants, ye business men, here to-night, that ye struggle most over?\nThe one great aim of your lives is to buy for as little as possible and\nsell for as much as possible.  What care have ye for the poor who work\nat worse than starvation wages, so long as ye can buy cheap and sell at\nlarge profits?  What is the highest aim of us railroad men in the great\nwhirl of commercial competition which seethes and boils and surges\nabout this earth like another atmosphere, plainly visible to the devils\nof other worlds?  What is our aim, but to make money our god and power\nour throne?  How much care or love is there for flesh and blood when\nthere is danger of losing dollars?  But oh, mighty Saviour! it was not\nfor this that we were made!  We know it was not.\n\n\"To whom am I speaking?  To myself.  God forbid that I should stand\nhere to condemn you, being myself the chief of sinners for these\ntwenty-five years.  What have I done to bless this community?  How much\nhave I cared for the men in my employ?  What difference did it make to\nme that my example drove men away from the Church of Christ, and caused\nanguish to those few souls who were trying to redeem humanity?  To my\njust shame I make answer that no one thing has driven the engine of my\nexistence over the track of its destiny except self.  And oh, for that\nChurch of Christ that I professed to believe in!  How much have I done\nfor that?  How much, O fellow members--and I see many of you here\nto-night--how much have we done in the best cause ever known and the\ngreatest organisation ever founded?  We go to church after reading the\nSunday morning paper, saturated through and through with the same\nthings we have had poured into us every day of the week, as if we\nbegrudged the whole of one day out of seven.  We criticise prayer and\nhymn and sermon, drop into the contribution box half the amount we paid\nduring the week for a theatre or concert ticket, and think we have done\nour duty as Christians.  Then when anything goes wrong in the\ncommunity, or our children fall into vice, we score the church for\nweakness and the preacher for lack of ability.  Shame on us, men of\nBarton, members of the Church of Christ, that we have so neglected our\nown church prayer meeting, that but of a resident membership of more\nthan four hundred, living in easy distance of the church, only sixty\nhave attended regularly and over two hundred have been to that service\nonly occasionally.  Yet we call ourselves disciples of Christ!  We say\nwe believe in His blessed teachings; we say we believe in prayer; but\nin the face of all these professions we turn our backs with\nindifference on the very means of spiritual growth and power which the\nChurch places within our reach.  If Christ were to come to the earth\nto-day, He would say unto us: 'Woe unto you, church members,\nhypocrites!'  He would say unto us: 'Woe unto you, young disciples in\nname, who have promised to love and serve Me, and then, ashamed of\ntestifying before men, have broken promise and prayer, and ridiculed\nthose who have kept their vows sacredly!'  He would say to us men who\nhave made money and kept it to ourselves: 'Woe unto you, ye rich men,\nwho dress softly and dine luxuriously and live in palaces, while the\npoor cry aloud for judgment and the labourer sweats for the luxury of\nthe idle!  Woe unto you who speculate in flesh and blood, and call no\nman brother unless he lives in as fine a house and has as much money in\nthe bank!  Therefore ye shall receive the greater condemnation!'\n\n\"O Self! god of the earth yet!  With two thousand years of the Son of\nGod written into the world's history, still goes up the cry of those\nwho perish with hunger, who break into the sanctuary of their souls,\nbecause they cannot get work to do, and are weary of the struggle of\nexistence.  Self! thou art king; not Jesus Christ!  But oh, the shame\nof it! the shame of it!  Were it not for my belief in the mighty\nforgiveness of sins, I would stand here to-night with no hope of ever\nseeing the paradise of God.  But resting in that hope I wish to say to\nyou who have beheld the example of my selfish life, I repudiate it all.\nIn the world I have passed as a moral citizen and a good business man;\nin society there has been no objection to my presence, on account of my\nwealth and position; in the church I have been tolerated because I gave\nit financial support; but in the sight of that perfect Crucified Lamb\nof God I have broken the two greatest laws which He ever announced.  I\nhave been a sinner of the deepest dye; I have been everything except a\ndisciple of Jesus Christ.  I have prayed for mercy.  I believe my\nprayer has been answered.\n\n\"I am conscious that some here present may think that what I have said\nhas been in poor taste; that it has been an affront to the object of\nthe meeting or an insult to the feelings of those who have called the\naudience together.  In order that the people may know that I am sincere\nin all I have said, I will say that I have placed in the bank the sum\nof 10,000 dollars, to be used as the committee may deem wisest and best\nfor the education of children in bereaved homes, or for any other help\nto those who need it.  This money is God's.  I have robbed Him and my\nbrother man all these years.  Whatever restitution I can make in the\nnext few days I desire to make.\n\n\"But the great question with us all, my friends, is not this particular\ndisaster.  That will in time take its place as one event out of\nthousands in the daily life of this world.  The great event of\nexistence is not death, it is life.  The great question of the world is\nnot the tariff or the silver question, or the labour question, or\ntemperance, or this or that or the other.  The great question of the\nwhole world is selfishness in the heart of man.  The great command is,\n'Seek ye first the kingdom of God.'  If we had done that in this town,\nI believe such a physical disaster as the one we lament would never\nhave happened.  That is our great need.\n\n\"If we go home from this meeting resolved to rebuke our selfishness in\nwhatever form it is displeasing to God, and if we begin to-morrow to\nact out that resolution in word and deed, we shall revolutionise this\ntown in its business, its politics, its church, its schools, its homes.\nIf we simply allow our emotions to be stirred, our sympathies to be\nexcited to the giving of a little money on this occasion, it will do us\nand the community little permanent good.  God wants a complete\ntransformation in the people of this nation.  Nothing less than a\ncomplete regeneration can save us from destruction.  Unconsecrated,\nselfish money and selfish education, selfish political power and\nselfish genius in art, letters, and diplomacy will sink us as a people\ninto a gulf of annihilation.  There is no salvation for us except in\nJesus Christ.  Let us believe in Him and live in Him.\n\n\"I have said my message.  I trust you have understood it.  I would not\nsay otherwise if I knew that I should step off this platform now and\nstand before the judgment seat of Christ.  God help us all to do our\nduty!  Time is short, eternity is long.  Death is nothing; life is\neverything.\"\n\nFive years after this speech of Robert Hardy to the people of Barton in\nthe town hall, one who was present in the audience described the\nsensation that passed through it when the speaker sat down to be like a\ndistinct electric shock which passed from seat to seat, and held the\npeople fixed and breathless as if they had been smitten into images of\nstone.  The effect on the chairman of the meeting was the same.  He sat\nmotionless.  Then a wave of emotion gradually stirred the audience, and\nwithout a word of dismission they poured out of the building and\nscattered to their homes.\n\nRobert found George waiting for him.  The father was almost faint with\nthe re-action from his address.  George gave his arm, and the two\nwalked home in silence.\n\nThus ended Robert Hardy's fourth day.\n\n\n\n\nFRIDAY--THE FIFTH DAY.\n\nWe must pass hastily over the events of the next day in Robert Hardy's\nlife.  The whole town was talking about his surprising address of the\nnight before.  Some thought he was crazy.  Others regarded him as\nsincere, but after the first effect of his speech had worn off, they\ncriticised him severely for presuming to \"preach\" on such an occasion.\nStill others were puzzled to account for the change in the man, for\nthat a change had taken place could not be denied.  How slow men are to\nacknowledge the power of God in the human heart!  Mr. Hardy went about\nhis business, very little moved by all this discussion.  He realised\nthat only two days more remained.\n\nHe spent the afternoon and evening at home, but was interrupted by\nseveral calls.  After tea the entire family gathered in the room where\nClara lay.  She was living, but was still unconscious.  As Mrs. Hardy\nwas saying something to her husband about his dream and the events of\nthe day before, Clara suddenly opened her eyes, and distinctly called\nout the words:\n\n\"Father! what day is it?\"\n\nIt was like a voice out of the long-dead past.  Mr. Hardy, sitting by\nthe side of the bed, replied quietly, while his heart beat quickly:\n\n\"This is Friday night, dear child.\"\n\nAnother question came, uttered in the same strange voice:\n\n\"Father, how many more days are left for you?\"\n\n\"To-morrow and Sunday.\"\n\nThe voice came again:\n\n\"I shall go with you then.\"\n\nThe eyes closed and the form became motionless as before.\n\nIt was very quiet in the room at the close of Robert Hardy's fifth day.\n\n\n\n\nSATURDAY--THE SIXTH DAY.\n\nThose words of Clara, \"I shall go with you then,\" filled the family with\ndismay.  Mr. Hardy bowed his head and groaned.  Mrs. Hardy, almost beside\nherself with grief and terror, flew to the side of the girl, and with\nbeseeching cries and caresses tried to bring back to consciousness the\nmind that for a moment or two had gleamed with reason and then had\nrelapsed into that mysterious condition in which it had been lying for\nthree days; but all in vain.  The eyes were closed; the form was rigid.\nThe others, George and Will and Bess, grew pale, and Bess cried, almost\nfor the first time since the strange week began.  Robert was the first to\nbreak the grief with a quiet word.  He raised his head, saying:\n\n\"I do not believe Clara is going to die when I do.\"\n\n\"Why, father, what makes you think that?\" cried Alice.\n\n\"I don't know; I can't give any exact reason.  I only know that I don't\nbelieve it will happen.\"\n\n\"God grant that she may be spared to us,\" said Mrs. Hardy.  \"O Robert, it\nis more than I can bear!  Only to-day and to-morrow left!  It can't be\nreal.  I have battled against your dream all the week.  It was a dream\nonly; I will not believe it to be anything else.  You are not ill; there\nis no indication that you are going to die.  I will not, I cannot,\nbelieve it!  God is too good.  And we need you now, Robert.  Let us pray\nGod for mercy.\"\n\nRobert shook his head sadly but firmly.\n\n\"No, Mary; I cannot resist an impression so strong that it has become\nconviction, that in some way I shall be called from you Sunday night.  I\nhave struggled against it, but it grows upon me.  God is merciful.  I do\nnot question His goodness.  How much did I deserve even this week of\npreparation after the life I have lived?  And the time will not be long\nbefore we shall all meet there.  God grant that it may be an unbroken\ncompany!\"\n\nMr. Hardy spoke as anyone in his condition would.  The children drew\nabout him lovingly.  Bess climbed into his lap and laid her face against\nher father's, while the strong man sobbed as he thought of all the years\nof neglected affection in that family circle.  The rest of the evening\nwas spent in talking over the probable future.\n\nGeorge, who seemed thoroughly humbled now, listened respectfully and even\ntearfully to his father's counsel concerning the direction of business\nand family matters.  The boy was going through a struggle with himself\nwhich was apparent to all in the house.  Ever since his mother had seen\nhim kneeling down in the night watch, he had shown a new spirit.  It\nremained to be seen whether he had really changed, or whether he had been\nmerely frightened for the time being into good behaviour.\n\nSaturday morning found the Hardys weary with the agitation of the week,\nbut bearing up under a strange excitement which only the prospect of the\nfather's approaching death or removal could have produced.\n\nRobert could not realise that his week was almost at an end.  Why, it\nseemed but yesterday that he had dreamed after the Sunday evening\nservice!  As on every other day, he asked himself the question, \"What\nshall I do?\"  Only when he had prayed could he answer the question.  Then\nthe light came.  Who says prayer is merely a form?  It is going to God\nfor wisdom and getting it.  It is crying out for light, and lo! the\ndarkness flees.  It is spreading out our troubles and our joys and our\nperplexities and our needs, and finding God Himself the best possible\nanswer to them all.  Robert Hardy had been learning this of late, and it\nwas the one thing that made possible to him the calmness of the last two\ndays allotted him.\n\nThe day was spent in much the same way that the other days had been\nspent.  He went down to his office about ten o'clock, and after coming\nhome to lunch went down again, with the intention of getting through all\nthe business and returning home to spend the rest of the time with the\nfamily.  Along towards three o'clock, when the routine work of the shops\nwas disposed of, the manager felt an irresistible desire to speak to the\nmen in his employ.  Those in his department numbered about eight hundred,\nand he knew how impossible it would be for him to speak to them\nindividually.  He thought a minute and then called Burns in and gave an\norder that made the foreman stare in the most undisguised wonder.\n\n\"Shut down the works for a little while and ask the men to get together\nin the big machine shop, I want to speak to them.\"\n\nBurns had been astonished so often this week that, although he opened his\nmouth to say something, he was able to repress his wonder.  After staring\nblankly at his employer for a minute, he turned and went out to execute\nthe order.\n\nThe great engine was stopped.  The men from the casting rooms and the\ncarpenters' shops, and the store-rooms, and the repairing departments,\ncame trooping into the big machine shop, and sat or leaned on the great,\ngrim pieces of machinery.  As the shop filled, the place began to take on\na strange aspect never seen there before.\n\nMr. Hardy crossed the yard from the office, followed by the clerks and\nminor officers of the road, all curious to hear what was coming.  Mr.\nHardy mounted one of the planers and looked about him.  The air was still\nfull of gas, smoke, and that mixture of fine iron filings and oil, which\nis characteristic of such places.  The men were quiet and respectful.\nMany of them had heard the manager's speech of Thursday night at the town\nhall.  Most of them were aware that some change had taken place in him.\nIt had been whispered about that he had arranged matters for the men\ninjured in the Sunday accident so that they would not suffer for anything.\n\nThe grimy, hard-muscled, hard-featured crowd of eight hundred men all\nturned their eyes upon the figure standing erect and pale-faced on the\ngreat planer, and he in turn looked out through the blue murky atmosphere\nat them with an intensity of expression which none in that audience\nunderstood.  As Mr. Hardy went on with his speech they began to\nunderstand what that look meant.\n\n\"My brothers,\" began the manager, with a slight tremble in the words so\nnew to him, \"as this may be the last time I shall ever speak to you, I\nwant to say what I feel I owe to you.  For twenty-five years I have\ncarried on the work in this place without any thought of the eight\nhundred men in these shops, except as their names were on the pay roll of\nthe company.  It never made any difference to me when your wives and\nchildren grew sick and died; I never knew what sort of houses you lived\nin, except that in comparison with mine they must have been very crowded\nand uncomfortable.  For all these twenty-five years I have been as\nindifferent to you as a man possibly could be to men who work for him.\nIt has not occurred to me during this time that I could be anything else.\nI have been too selfish to see my relation to you and act upon it.\n\n\"Now I do not call you in here to-day to apologise for twenty-five years\nof selfishness--not that alone; but I do want you to know that I have\nbeen touched by the hand of God in such a way that before it is too late\nI want to call you all 'brothers.'  I ask that when you think of me\nhereafter it may be as I am now, to-day, not as I have been in all the\npast years.\n\n\"It is not for me to say how far or in what manner I have trampled on the\nbrotherhood of the race.  I have called myself a Christian.  I have been\na member of a church.  Yet I confess here to-day that under the authority\ngranted me by the company I have more than once dismissed good, honest,\nfaithful workmen in large bodies, and cut down wages unnecessarily to\nincrease dividends, and have thought of the human flesh and blood in\nthese shops as I have thought of the iron and steel here.  I confess all\nthat and more.  Whatever has been un-Christian I hope will be forgiven.\n\n\"There are many things we do to our fellow-men in this world which\nabide--the sting of them, I mean.  The impress of my selfishness is\nstamped on this place.  It will take years to remove it.  I might have\nbeen far more to you.  I might have raised my voice, as a Christian and\nan influential director of this road, against the Sunday work and\ntraffic; I never did.  I might have relieved unnecessary discomfort in\ndifferent departments; I refused to do it.  I might have helped the cause\nof temperance in this town by trying to banish the saloon; instead of\nthat I voted to license an establishment of crime and poverty and\ndisease.  I might have used my influence and my wealth to build healthy,\ncomfortable homes for the men who work on this road; I never raised my\nfinger in the matter.  I might have helped to make life a happier,\nsweeter thing to the nearly one thousand souls in this building; but I\nwent my selfish way, content with my own luxurious home and the ambition\nfor self-culture and the pride of self-accomplishments.  Yet there is not\na man here to-day who isn't happier than I am.\n\n\"In the name of the good God, who forgives our sins for Jesus' sake, I\nwish you the wish of a man who looks into the other world and sees things\nas they really are.  I do not desire you to think of my life as a\nChristian life.  It has not been such; but as you hope to be forgiven at\nlast, forgive all wrongs at my hands.\n\n\"You are living in the dawn of a happier day for labour.  There are\nChristian men in business, and some few connected with railroads, who are\ntrying to apply the principles of Christianity to the business and frame\nof the world.  My probable successor in these shops is such a man.\n\n\"God is love.  I have forgotten that myself.  I have walked through life\nforgetful of Him.  But I know that He is drawing the nations and the\nworld together to-day in true sympathy.  The nations that are\npersistently defiant and disobedient to God shall perish.  The rulers who\nhaughtily take God's place and oppress the people shall be destroyed.\nThe men of power and intelligence and money who use these three great\nadvantages merely to bless themselves and add to their own selfish\npleasure and ease, shall very soon be overthrown.  I would give all I\npossess to be able to live and see a part of it come to pass.  Men,\nbrothers, some of you younger ones will live to see that day.\n\n\"Love God and obey Him.  Envy not the rich.  They are often more\nmiserable than you imagine.  True happiness consists in a conscience at\npeace with God and a heart free from selfish desires and habits.  I thank\nyou for your attention.  You will know better why I have said all this to\nyou when you come in here again to work next Monday.  My brothers, God\nbless you.  God bless us all!\"\n\nWhen Robert stepped down from the planer and started towards the door,\nmore than one black hand was thrust into his with the words, \"God bless\nyou, sir!\"  He felt a strange desire to weep.  Never before had he felt\nthat thrill shoot through him at the grasp of the hand of his brother\nman.  His speech had made a profound impression on the men.  Many of them\ndid not understand the meaning of certain sentences; but the spirit of\nMr. Hardy was unmistakable, and the men responded in a manner that\ntouched him deeply.\n\nHe finally went into his office; the big engine started up again, and the\nwhirr and dust and clamour of the shops went on.  But men bent over their\nwork there, in the gathering dusk of the winter day, who felt a new\nheart-throb at the recollection of the pale face and sincere word of the\nman who had broken a selfish silence of a quarter of a century to call\nthem brothers.  O Robert Hardy, what glorious opportunities you missed to\nlove and be loved!  With all your wealth you have been a very poor man\nall your life until now, the next to the last day of it!\n\nThere is little need to describe the rest of this day.  Robert went home.\nEveryone greeted him tenderly.  His first inquiry was for Clara.  Still\nin that trance-like sleep; would she never wake?  Mrs. Hardy shuddered\nwith fear.  She had spent much of the day in prayer and tears.  The\nevening sped by without special incident.\n\nJames Caxton came and joined the family circle.  His presence reminded\nMr. Hardy of the old quarrel with the young man's father.  He said to\nJames that if anything should prevent him from seeing his father the next\nday, James might tell him how completely and sincerely he wished the\nfoolish quarrel forgotten, and his own share in it forgiven.\n\nSo that day came to a close in family conference, in tears, in fear and\nhope and anxiety and prayer.  But Mrs. Hardy would not lose all hope.  It\ndid not seem to her possible that her husband could be called away the\nnext night.\n\n\n\n\nSUNDAY--THE SEVENTH DAY.\n\nAlice, with the quickness of thought that always characterised her,\nplanned that all the rest should go to church while she remained with\nClara.  Will was able to go out now.  So, for the first time in months,\nRobert and his wife and Bess and the two boys sat together in the same\nseat.  George had not been to church for a year, and Will was very\nirregular in his attendance.\n\nThe opening services seemed especially impressive and beautiful to Mr.\nHardy.  He wondered how he had ever dared sit and criticise Mr. Jones'\npreaching and his reading of the hymns.  To be sure, he was not a\nperfect speaker; but his love for his people and for all men and his\nrarely good everyday life were so remarkable, that they ought to have\ncounted for more than they ever did.  It is astonishing how many good\ndeeds and good men pass through this world unnoticed and unappreciated;\nwhile every evil deed is caught up and magnified and criticised by\npress and people, until it seems as if the world must be a very wicked\nplace indeed, and the good people very scarce.\n\nMr. Hardy joined in the service with a joy unknown to him for years.\nHe had come to it from the reading of his Bible instead of the reading\nof the morning paper, and from prayer instead of from thoughts of his\nbusiness or a yawning stroll through his library.  His mind was\nreceptive of the best things in the service.  He entered into it with\nthe solemn feeling that it was his last.\n\nWhen the minister gave out the text, \"For we must all appear before the\njudgment seat of Christ; that every one may receive the things done in\nhis body, according to that he hath done, whether it be good or bad,\"\nMr. Hardy started, and leaned forward intently, feeling that the\nmessage of the preacher was peculiarly for him and strangely\nappropriate to his condition.  The first statement of the sermon\narrested his attention and held him irresistibly to the end of the\nargument:\n\n\"The judgment seat of Christ will not be a dreadful place to a man\nwhose sins have been forgiven in this world; but if he comes up to it\nseamed and scarred and stained with sins unrepented of and unforgiven\nbecause he has not asked God to forgive him, it will be a place of\nawful fear to his soul.  There are men here in this audience who are as\nready to die now as they ever will be; they have made their peace with\nGod; they have no quarrel with their neighbours; their accounts are all\nsquare in business; they are living in loving relations with the home\ncircle; they have no great burdens of remorse or regret weighing them\ndown; if God should call them this minute to step up to the judgment\nseat, they would be ready.\n\n\"But there are other men here who are not at all ready for such a\ntremendous event.  They may think they are, but they are mistaken.  How\ncan they stand before the greatest Being in all the universe and have\nno fear, when they are unprepared to answer His questions: 'Why did you\nnot confess Me before men?  Why did you not do as I commanded and bear\nthe burdens of the weak instead of pleasing yourself?'  What will they\nsay then?\n\n\"It is true that Christ is all-merciful, all-loving.  But will it make\nno difference with a soul whether it comes up to His judgment seat out\nof a life of selfish ease and indulgence or out of a life of\nself-sacrifice and restraint?  When every possible offer of mercy is\nheld out to men on earth and they will not accept it, will it be all\nthe same as if they had availed themselves of it, when they come before\nthe judgment seat of Christ?  Why, that would be to mock at the meaning\nof the Incarnation and the Atonement.  It would be to cast scorn and\ncontempt on the agony in the Garden and the Crucifixion.  It would make\nunnecessary all the prayer and preaching.  What possible need is there\nfor men to preach a gospel of salvation unless there is danger of\ncondemnation?  If we are all going to be saved anyway, no matter\nwhether we accept God's love in Christ or not, of what use is the\nChurch?  Why should we be anxious any more about our children?  What\ndifference does it make whether they go to the bad here in this world,\nif in the world to come they will all be saved?  For eternity will be\nso much grander and sweeter and more enduring than time, that we might\nas well take it easy here and not pay much attention to the message,\n'God so loved the world'--that is, if we are going to be saved anyway.\n\n\"Why should we care very much if it does say in the revelation of God's\nWord that the wicked shall go away into everlasting punishment, if we\ndon't believe it?  Why, the wicked will stand just as good a chance of\neternal glory as the good, if the judgment seat of Christ does not mean\na separation of the good from the bad.  Let us close our churches and\ngo home.  Let us eat and drink and dance and be merry, for to-morrow we\ndie; and after death the judgment, and after the judgment glory and joy\nand power and peace and life eternal in the presence of God.  It is\ntrue we scorned Him on earth, but that will make no difference; He will\nreceive us just the same.  It is true we refused to believe in His only\nbegotten Son after all He suffered of shame and agony for us; but that\nmakes no difference; He will say, 'Enter thou into the joy of thy\nLord.'  It is true we made fun of Christians, and mocked at prayer and\nsneered at faith; but that is not much to be afraid of.  It is true we\nhated our neighbour, and would not forgive an insult; but that is a\nlittle thing.  It is true when the Holy Spirit pleaded with us a year\nor six months ago to confess Christ in public we told Him to leave us;\nwe were ashamed to do it in the presence of men, to confess Him who\nspread out His arms on a cross of bitterest agony for us; but for all\nthat we feel sure that when we march up to the judgment seat of Christ\nHe will treat us just the same as He treats the disciples who have laid\ndown their lives for the Master.\n\n\"Then let us tear out of the Bible every line that speaks of\nretribution or punishment or judgment--for we don't like those\npassages: they hurt our feelings,--and let us leave only those words\nthat speak of love and mercy and forgiveness: for those words are the\nonly ones that can be true; for those words don't make us feel\nuncomfortable.\n\n\"Away with everything that hurts our feelings, that makes us anxious,\nthat sends us to our knees in prayer, that makes us confess Christ and\nlive a life of self-denial and service! for when the judgment seat is\nprepared and Christ sits down there and we appear before Him, He will\nreceive us just as we come before Him--the pure and the impure; the\nself-sacrificing and the selfish; the humble and the proud; the\nbeliever and the unbeliever; infidels and scoffers and cowards and\ndespisers of God's love on the earth; all the class of men who point to\nweak and imperfect Christians as an excuse for their own weak lives;\nthe drunkards and the liars and the oppressors of the poor; the people\nwho heard a thousand sermons full of Gospel truth and despised them\nbecause of some imperfection in delivery or elocution; all those men\nwho went through life the betrayers of the home; the selfish\npoliticians, who betrayed their country; the men who read the Bible and\nbelieved only the parts that didn't hurt their sensitive feelings; the\nyoung men who lived fast lives and sowed wild oats because a wicked and\nfalse public sentiment made them think it was excusable and perhaps\nnecessary; and all other men and women who lived as they pleased,\nregardless of God and eternity--when all these shall appear before the\njudgment seat of Christ He will look upon them all alike, and with a\nsmile of gracious pardon will reach out His almighty arm and sweep them\nall together into a heaven of eternal bliss, there to reign with Him in\nglory and power, world without end!\n\n\"But is this what Christ taught the world?  Suppose what we have said\nis true: it turns His whole life into a splendid mockery.  Foolishness\nand absurdity could go no further than to create a life like His and to\nput into His mouth such teachings as we have received, if at the\njudgment seat all souls, regardless of their acts in this world, are\nreceived on an equal footing into eternal life.  And where is there any\nroom in the teaching of Christ for a purgatory?  Do we believe that\nthere is one?  Is it not the plain teaching that after the judgment the\ndestiny of souls is fixed for ever?\n\n\"But what could man wish more?  Will he not have opportunity enough to\naccept the mercy of God before that time?  Does he not have\nopportunity?  If any soul appears at the judgment and complains that he\ndid not have a fair chance, will that gracious Judge condemn him if his\ncomplaint be true?  We know He will not.  But the facts of the judgment\nare these: at that time, whenever it is, upon the souls of men will be\npassed for their acts in the earthly life a verdict that will determine\ntheir everlasting destiny; and that verdict will be both just and\nmerciful.  For the Crucified One could not pronounce otherwise.  Those\nwho have despised and neglected and disbelieved and refused to confess\nHim, shall be separated from Him for ever; but those who have confessed\nand believed and tried to live like Him, shall be in His presence\ncontinually.  There will be a division of souls.  It will not be based\non wealth or position, or birth or education, or genius, but on\nChristlikeness--on that divine and eternal thing we call character.\nEverything else shall go away into destruction, into death, into\npunishment, into banishment from God.  Banishment from God will be\nhell--a hell not made by God, but by man himself, who had an\nopportunity--nay, a thousand opportunities--every day of his life to\naccept the bliss of heaven, but of his own selfish choice rejected\nevery one of them and went to his own place.\n\n\"But some soul starts up and says, 'You are not preaching the Gospel;\nyou are preaching fear, hell, torments.  Is this your boasted love of\nGod?'  Yes; for what am I preaching, if not the love of God, when I\nsay, 'God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that\nwhosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting\nlife?'  Is there no danger of perishing?  Why did Christ come then?\nWhy did He say the things He did?  Why did He speak of the condemnation\nof the wicked and unbelieving if that were not a part of the Gospel?\nThe Gospel is glad tidings; but what makes it glad tidings?  The danger\nwe are in.  What is salvation?  It is the opposite of being lost.  We\ncannot have one without the other.  So I am preaching the Gospel here\nto-day when I say, 'We must all appear before the judgment seat of\nChrist.'  There will be no fear to us then if we believe in Him, if we\nhave lived His life here, if the things done in the body are good.  And\nmore than that: as long as this earth life continues, God's mercy is\nwith us every moment.\n\n\"It is possible some soul is here who for years has lived selfishly\nwithin his own little round of pleasure.  He looks back on a life of\nuselessness, of neglect of all that Christ did for him.  He this day\nhears the voice of God.  He listens; he repents; he cries out, smiting\non his breast, 'God be merciful to me a sinner!'  What then will God\ndo?  Will He reject him because he is old in sin? because he has wasted\nbeautiful years?  When he appears before the judgment seat will Christ\nsay, 'You repented too late on earth!  You cannot be saved now'?  No!\neven if after a hundred years of shame and sin a soul with its outgoing\nbreath, in genuine repentance and faith in the Son of God, cries out\nfor mercy, that cry will be answered and he will be saved.  What less\nof glory and power such a soul may experience in the realms of glory,\nwe may not be able to tell.  But he himself will be saved.\n\n\"Is not God merciful, then?  Let no man depart from this house of God\nfearful or despairing.  The earthly life is full from beginning to end\nwith the love of an Almighty Father.  Shall men complain because they\ncannot have all of this life and all of the other too in which to\nrepent and be forgiven?  'Now is the accepted time; behold, now is the\nday of salvation.'  'To-day if ye will hear His voice, harden not your\nhearts.'\n\n\"Men of Barton, you have heard the word of God proclaimed from this\ndesk to-day.  Young men, will you wait until you are old in sin and\nshame before you will repent and be saved?  How do you know you will\nlive to be old men?  And what a life to live, even if you were sure of\na hundred years, to pour out the dregs at last as an offering to Christ\njust to escape hell!  O all men, hear ye this day the message of\nChrist!  He is a Saviour of sinners.  It is not necessary that any man\ngo away from this service unsaved.  You may believe here and now.\nWon't you do it?  'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be\nsaved.'  Then go home and pray, rejoicing.  And if the Almighty call\nyou out and away from this prison of clay into His resplendent presence\nthis very night, what will you have to fear?  Not one thing.  You have\nput your trust in Him.  Your sins are all forgiven.  You can appear\nbefore His judgment seat and await your verdict with a calm and joyful\nsoul.  For you know as you gaze into the loving countenance of your\nRedeemer and Judge that when He turns and speaks to you He will say,\n'Come, ye blessed of My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you\nfrom the foundation of the world.'  Truly God is love!\"\n\n\nThe prayer that followed the sermon seemed to bring all the souls in\nthe church very close to God.  The events of the past week had stirred\nthe town deeply.  The awful disaster so near them; the speech of Mr.\nHardy in the town hall; rumours of the experience he was having--all\nthese had prepared the audience for just such a sermon on Sunday\nmorning.  Men bowed their heads and prayed in that house who had not\ndone such a thing sincerely in many years.\n\nRobert had many inquiries concerning himself and Clara to answer at the\nclose of the service.  He finally went up and thanked the minister for\nwhat he had said, and spoke as he never had spoken before in\nencouragement of his pastor's work.  But it seemed to him that he must\nhasten homewards.  The time was growing short; he must have the rest of\nit with the dear ones in the home.\n\nWhat need to describe the details of the afternoon?  Robert Hardy had\nthe joy of knowing that all his children were with him, and at dark\nJames came over and asked if he might join the circle.  He did not know\nall that Mr. Hardy had gone through, but the children had told him\nenough to make him want to be with the family.\n\n\"Why, come right in and join the circle, James!  You're one of us,\"\ncried Mr. Hardy cheerfully.  So James drew up his chair, and\nconversation was continued.  They were sitting in the room upstairs,\nwhere Clara lay facing an open fire.  The doctor had called in the\nmiddle of the afternoon, and brought two other skilled surgeons and\nphysicians at Mr. Hardy's request.  It was a singular case, and nothing\nspecial could be done.  This was the unanimous opinion after deep\nconsultation, and after remaining some time the doctors had withdrawn.\n\nWhen it grew dark, Alice started to turn on the lights, but her father\nsaid: \"Let us sit in the firelight.\"  So they drew close together, and\nin an awe looked upon him who seemed so sure that.  God would call him\naway at midnight.  Who shall recount the words that were uttered? the\nexact sentences spoken? the fears and hopes and petitions and tears of\nthe wife? the commands of the father to his boys to grow up into the\nperfect manhood in Jesus Christ? the sweet words of love and courage\nthat passed between him and his wife and daughters?  These things\ncannot be described; they can only be imagined.\n\nSo the night passed.  It was after eleven o'clock; the conversation had\nalmost ceased and all were sitting hushed in a growing silence, when\nClara spoke again, so suddenly and clearly that they were all startled\nand awed by it:\n\n\"Father! mother! where have I been?  I have had such a dream!  Where\nare you?  Where am I?\"\n\nMrs. Hardy arose, and with tears streaming down her face kneeled beside\nthe bed and in a few words recalled Clara to her surroundings.  The\ngirl had come out of her strange unconsciousness with all her faculties\nintact.  Gradually she recalled the past, the accident, the dream of\nher father.  She smiled happily on them all, and they for a while\nforgot the approach of midnight and its possible meaning to Mr.\nHardy--all but himself.  He kneeled by the bed, at the side of his\nwife, and thanked God that his dear one was restored.  Suddenly he rose\nto his feet and spoke aloud, quietly, but clearly: \"Did you not hear\nsomeone calling?\"  His face was pale but peaceful.  He bent down and\nkissed Clara, embraced his sons, drew his wife to him, and placed his\nhand on Bessie's head; then, as if in answer to a command, he gently\nkneeled down again by his chair and as his lips moved in prayer the\nclock struck once more the hour of twelve.  He continued kneeling\nthere, nearer God than he had ever been in all his life before.\n\nThus Robert Hardy's Seven Days came to an end.","title":"Robert Hardy's Seven Days: A Dream and Its Consequences","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":39418}