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"Judson raised his hand
"Oh, yes, your brother. Well, you must be pretty worried," said Mr. Letellier, heartily.
tellier stated, steering the red elephant among the table covers.
"Yes, but why?" Juddy persisted, without interest.
"My name 's Judson," said Judson, reverting to his father's knee. "Why 'm I named Judson?"
"For your uncle, of course," Mr. Le
Eben bent his lips on the soft head. "Because he's the finest man alive," he said softly. "Will you excuse me, sir? I'd forgotten to 'phone some one."
He descended into Park Avenue and
turned down the wide, rain-pooled street. It was quite empty; only shuttered windows looked upon his going. The June sun had burned through the oily clouds of the morning and lit the drenched
flag of the armory
tower. Even so far off he could see a mustard uniform on the steps before the arched grill, and the wet granite beckoned him. People strolled or scurried from the pausing trolleys. No one passed Eben as he walked, cursing himself, down the pleasant, wealthy street, and he reasoned that New York, the world, would be like this vacancy with Jud gone from it, a stolid desolation, a sunny tomb.
He came to the last block of the east side,
which ends at the armory corner in a lawn, iron fenced, with almost rural shrubs and a faded Tudor house, inept residue of some less urban day. Eben kept his eyes on the armory tower, stupidly archaic, crushing the vista of further commerce, and brushed his hand on the pickets of the iron fence. A man in uniform cut obliquely from the subway stairs and came toward him. The color brought his gaze down, and he saw Judson, his artillery cap a little pushed from his brow, the trim coat lining his unchanged splendor,
the smile of contentment on his mouth, six feet away.
All Eben's love and desperation broke into a sound. He clutched the square bar of the fence until it seemed hot.
"Damn you! That's right, go on smiling! Go on hating me all you like, Juddy! But I'm coming, too."
The smile was gone before he said so much, and Judson raised his hand in a gesture as if he thrust something away. He stared at Eben with black eyes.
"Hated you, Ben? Hate? I don't know -what do you mean?" His cap slid off, and he stooped to pick it up; held it, shaking, in one hand, put it on again, still staring. "I don't understand. I wrote you, and you did n't answer me. I waitedI'd been waiting for you hours in the station that day, and you cut me. I don't know what you mean."
"You wrote me! No, Juddy, you did n't!"
"I did! I did!" cried Judson, beating his fist on the iron. "I did! That after noon! I posted it myself. I can tell what I wrote. And you never said you 'd forgive me; that you saw how it was. And you cut me! Could n't you see? I was crazy that morning in Gloucester. You were going away, and I was sick, sick as a dog. It was those damned doughnuts."
Eben shook his head because seeing Jud's face tore him, and hearing Jud speak
washed him of years.
"Get me back! I was going to get you back. You mean to say you were n't angry? I don't see how you were n't. How could I help smiling?' I 'd been waiting hours."
His eyes were gray now, and the smile came back, bringing no shudder with it.
"And I," Eben put in quickly, “was going down to enlist so I could be somewhere near you, see you maybe; not come back if you did n't. I wrote you just now, asking you to come to see me. It's gone to your office, Jud. You don't think I was ever angry! I was n't."
For a moment Judson was in heaven; then he groaned.
"You 're not coming to Mexico? No! for God's sake-Ben, if you do still love me, stay home. It won't be long. NothI'm as strong as a ing 'll happen to me. horse, and you 've got your wife and kids and your shoulder. Yes, I know. I know all about you. I 've kept people busy finding out about you. finding out about you. Ben, I 'phoned your place just now, and your wife told me you'd be back directly. I was just walking up; I swear I was.'
He had surged in so close to Eben that their sleeves touched.
"I never got any letter, Juddy. You've got to believe that. And seeing you smile. that way in the station, I thought you were done with me. What did you say? y?" Judson shut his eyes and bit his lip. Two tears had run down his cheeks, and the drying path of them gleamed.
"Just a sec. I can tell you exactly every word. Just a minute, Ben. It wentthis way."
Eben listened as the voice dropped word after word, nodding to the throb of it.
"I never got it, Juddy. Why did you smile at me that day in the station? I'd been waiting all fall. I was going to try to-soften you down somehow and show you I was all right-get you back-"
"You come along home with me, Juddy, and eat lunch. Ria's father's there. No, I won't go to Mexico. It may not be anything, anyhow. I've treated you like a dog. I won't hurt you again, ever. You have n't had lunch, have you?"
"I don't know. No, I have n't. I've got to be at the armory at ten."
"Well," said Eben, "it 's not two yet. And-when do you go?"
"Search me. I fixed up my will in case-" He got into step with Eben, turning north. "Gave it to young Jud. He looks like us, does n't he? I saw a picture. But he won't get it for a long time. By George! it's raining again!"
They began to chatter, with proud sidewise glances to be sure of reality. But Eben, marching along, could not be quite sure. By and by his hand slipped into the crook of Judson's elbow and clung there as they walked up the quiet street.
France and America, Partners
By JULES BOIS
Author of "L'Eve nouvelle," "La Douler d'aimer," etc.
HE great European War has already lasted long; it may still last long. Save for some unforeseen event, unhappily it can be brought to a closeand the fault is not ours-only through an increase of destruction.
But the world does not come to an end: it is simply transformed. Death is only one aspect of eternal life; destruction is only the troubled sleep of resurrections. Let us turn our eyes for a moment from this wild crisis. We know that it will end in the triumph of right. Let us try from now on not to picture in mind a theoretical renascence of the dreams of visionaries, but to correct the balancesheet of our deficits, to face our difficulties like men, and, recognizing our mistakes and meditating on our faults, strive to escape their recurrence. Let us seek the remedies that exist for all ills.
But how reconstruct? Reconstruct the body and the soul? It is not too early to consider all this, because it will demand much time and attention. We must deliberate, discuss, exercise our critical faculties, cultivate enthusiasm, coördinate our endeavors. During peace Germany had prepared for war; we must not await the end of war to prepare for peace.
WHEN the husbandman sees his fields laid waste by hail, storm, drought, or fire, if he is wise he does not wring his hands, curse the heavens, or collapse in fruitless despair; but he turns to his granaries, where in years of abundance he has put aside a reserve store of wheat and provender, and at once prepares for a new sowing and a new harvest. In just such a sense Europe has a granarya granary that has made itself. America is that granary. For several centuries certain men, fired
by the love of adventure or impatient at the restraint imposed on them by old laws. or too constricted territory, have crossed the Atlantic to form themselves into a new nation, freer, more energetic, more idealistic, and at the same time more practical, settling there in an immense land the degenerate natives of which, in their ignorance of any way to turn it to the best account, had left barren of man's cultivation.
Sometimes these hardy pioneers had sought unknown regions under the spur of persecution; sometimes they had gone through a longing for adventure, drawn to the New World by the great expectations it held out. They were not exiled; they uprooted themselves from their country's soil, impelled by that migratory impulse that in the past as well as to-day has always been the point of departure of new civilizations.
Now, these men, after having won their independence through a foreign war, and cemented their different racial tendencies and aspirations by civil war, have enjoyed and continue to enjoy a security and prosperity that their native lands no longer know. But although they are Americans. and only Americans, they cannot forget, and ought not forget, that their ancestors were Europeans. Most certainly they have worked out their own destiny in the New World: they have cleared the land and peopled the wilderness, with their own hands they have built opulent and flourishing cities that rival the most famous cities of ancient times; but this stupendous economical and moral development they have accomplished well through the European training and culture that they carried with them, and which have brought forth results wholly unexpected.
Their boy was born at Mamaroneck, and fat Arthur came out next day with an expensive coral teething-ring.
"Oh, gorgeous!" said Eben. "Jud 'll be crazy over it. Take it up an' see if he yells."
Time passed. Men nodded to Eben in the streets and apologized, saying how much he looked like a young chap at their broker's down-town. He declined invitations to dinners at the Princeton Club. He avoided Wall Street, this easily enough. He had a sweetly painful morning when Marie bore him twin sons, and he was plagued by curly heads seen across theaters, wide shoulders that swung by in the twilight. He bought back Edgar's house near Gloucester, and wheeled little Jud along the crescent beach. His name went into "Who 's Who" before Europe took to war, and he had bad nights remembering Jud's military passion. A great broker smirked to him at a dinner party over his brother.
"Travels for me. Customers think he 's the best ever."
"He is," said Eben, proudly.
They had many friends, dull and interesting, and the babies had the proper diseases of babies, and Eben allowed a pastel of little Jud to appear in a Sunday edition, hoping that the smile for this would have no hate behind it. The daily pain gave birth to a deep ambition. Judson need not despise him. Art harpies shrugged and said he had no "temperament." His studio was as ascetic as a sick ward. Popular actors sent their valets to price portraits, ladies adjured him to give them some little thing for the Belgian relief.
"And I wish you 'd be in the tableaux," Your said one, "in the Greek scene. brother is, and the pair of you—”
"I'm so sorry," Eben said.
He did not see the Greek scene. Marie did. He knew she would, and that night managed to look asleep when she came home. The photograph in the Sunday paper he laid carefully away in a desk of his studio. No dust gathered on it.
"A man would think you were twentysix hundred 'stead of twenty-six," Arthur complained. "Why won't you go to the Marengo?"
"Such a jam," said Eben.
It would be hideous to meet Judson in a crowd. But he began to feel that he I could endure this for the sake of knowing
Arthur shifted from foot to foot and twisted his mustache.
"I wrote Jud," he said.
Eben looked up from the ring and out past Arthur down the melting lawn to the roof of the church where the boy would be christened.
"Thank you. I'd-let's go up-stairs." But Eben and his heir were the only
Harlands at the christening. Marie put a jeweler's box and its cup away in her father's safe, saying nothing, and left it there when they moved to an apartment off Park Avenue.
. . . and lived for eight months in Paris, while he studied under Roll"
that his brother's skin was still whitely smooth and his arms as full of grace. The spring sent his soul wandering, and he dreamed of his brother. They were no longer boys, and love had outlasted the old nearness; it might still leap a gate. In his dream he said to Judson: "You don't hate me. You can't." And Judson changed the smile to a brother's grin. "What makes you so restless?" asked Marie.
"Oh, I don't know. The rotten
weather, this Mexican row. Remember I was born in Texas."
Marie wiped milk off young Arthur's chin.
"I've often thought what a fine soldier you 'd make, dear. You 're so self-controlled and you 'd look so splendid. And your men would do anything for you."
Eben blushed. He was perpetually surprised that she could love him at all, a man his own brother hated, a man who could lie in her breast and long for an