there. Lane remembered him, in spite of the fact that the three years had aged and bowed him, and lined his face.
“Mr. Iden, do you remember me?” asked Lane. He caught the slight averting of Iden's eyes from his uniform, and divined how the father of Mel Iden hated soldiers. But nothing could daunt Lane.
“Yes, Lane, I remember you,” returned Iden. He returned Lane's hand-clasp, but not cordially.
Lane had mapped out in his mind this little interview. Taking off his hat, he carefully lowered himself until his back was propped against the tree, and looked frankly at Iden.
“It's warm. And I tire so easily. The damned Huns cut me to pieces.... Not much like I was when I used to call on Mel!”
Iden lowered his shadowed face. After a moment he said: “No, you're changed, Lane.... I heard you were gassed, too.”
“Oh, everything came my way, Mr. Iden.... And the finish isn't far off.”
Iden shifted his legs uneasily, then sat more erect, and for the first time really looked at Lane. It was the glance of a man who had strong aversion to the class Lane represented, but who was fair-minded and just, and not without sympathy.
“That's too bad, Lane. You're a young man.... The war hit us all, I guess,” he said, and at the last, sighed heavily.
“It's been a long pull—Blair Maynard and I were the first to enlist, and we left Middleville almost immediately,” went on Lane.
He desired to plant in Iden's mind the fact that he had left Middleville long before the wild era of soldier- and-girl attraction which had created such havoc. Acutely sensitive as Lane was, he could not be sure of an alteration in Iden's aloofness, yet there was some slight change. Then he talked frankly about specific phases of the war. Finally, when he saw that he had won interest and sympathy from Iden he abruptly launched his purpose.
“Mr. Iden, I came to ask if you will give your consent to my marrying Mel.”
The older man shrank back as if he had been struck. He stared. His lower jaw dropped. A dark flush reddened his cheek.
“What!... Lane, you must be drunk,” he ejaculated, thickly.
“No. I never was more earnest in my life. I want to marry Mel Iden.”
“Why?” rasped out the father, hoarsely.
“I understand Mel,” replied Lane, and swiftly he told his convictions as to the meaning and cause of her sacrifice. “Mel is good. She never was bad. These rotten people who see dishonor and disgrace in her have no minds, no hearts. Mel is far above these painted, bare-kneed girls who scorn her.... And I want to show them what
“Lane, you can't be the father of her child,” burst out Iden.
“No. I wish I were. I was never anything to Mel but a friend. She was only a girl—seventeen when I left home.”
“So help me God!” muttered Iden, and he covered his face with his hands.
“Say yes, Mr. Iden, and I'll go to Mel this afternoon.”
“No, let me think.... Lane, if you're not drunk, you're crazy.”
“Not at all. Why, Mr. Iden, I'm perfectly rational. Why, I'd glory in making that splendid girl a little happier, if it's possible.”
“I drove my—my girl from her mother—her home,” said Iden, slowly.
“Yes, and it was a hard, cruel act,” replied Lane, sharply. “You were wrong. You—”
The mill whistle cut short Lane's further speech. When its shrill clarion ended, Iden got up, and shook himself as if to reestablish himself in the present.
“Lane, you come to my house to-night,” he said. “I've got to go back to work.... But I'll think—and we can talk it over. I still live where you used to come as a boy.... How strange life is!... Good day, Lane.”
Lane felt more than satisfied with the result of that interview. Joshua Iden would go home and tell Mel's mother, and that would surely make the victory easier. She would be touched in her mother's heart; she would understand Mel now, and divine Lane's mission; and she would plead with her husband to consent, and to bring Mel back home. Lane was counting on that. He must never even hint such a hope, but nevertheless he had it, he believed in it. Joshua Iden would have the scales torn from his eyes. He would never have it said that a dying soldier, who owed neither him nor his daughter anything, had shown more charity than he.
Therefore, Lane went early to the Iden homestead, a picturesque cottage across the river from Riverside Park. The only change Lane noted was a larger growth of trees and a fuller foliage. It was warm twilight. The frogs had begun to trill, sweet and melodious sound to Lane, striking melancholy chords of memory. Joshua Iden was walking on his lawn, his coat off, his gray head uncovered. Mrs. Iden sat on the low-roofed porch. Lane expected to see a sad change in her, something the same as he had found in his own mother. But he was hardly prepared for the frail, white-haired woman unlike the image he carried in his mind.
“Daren Lane! You should have come to see me long ago,” was her greeting, and in her voice, so like Mel's, Lane recognized her. Some fitting reply came to him, and presently the moment seemed easier for all. She asked about his mother and Lorna, and then about Blair Maynard. But she did not speak of his own health or condition. And presently Lane thought it best to come to the issue at hand.
“Mr. Iden, have you made up your mind to—to give me what I want?”
“Yes, I have, Lane,” replied Iden, simply. “You've made me see what Mel's mother always believed, though she couldn't make it clear to me.... I have much to forgive that girl. Yet, if you, who owe her nothing—who have wasted your life in vain sacrifice—if you can ask her to be your wife, I can ask her to come back home.”
