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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," said one, "in the Greek scene. Your brother is, and the pair of you-' "I'm so sorry," Eben said.

"9

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 could endure this for the sake of knowing

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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.

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

"Oh, I don't know. The rotten could lie in her breast and long for an

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མར་པ་ ་མ་ ་ ང་ ་ ་ན་

hour of mere talk with that brother. He "Judson Harland, son of the late Captain kissed her humbly.

Eben Harland, killed in action." It jerked before him on the rainfalls.

"If there is a row I sha'n't go," he said. "I'd worry about the kids an' you so I'd forget to shoot and get court-martialed."

"He 's nearly mad," said Marie to her brother later.

"You never forget anything, Ben."
"No," Eben said; "I don't." Presently,
because he would not dishonor her with a
lie, he said:

"So am I," Arthur said, his eyes scarred
under with black. "If Jud goes and gets
killed he 'll never- You never saw them
together. Don't say a word."
"Is he ordered?"

"And it's worse than ever right now, my not forgetting. It's that that 's making me so miserable. I can't help it, Ria."

"He's in this new thing," said Marie, "the armored motor battalion. Sid Waters told me."

How splendid he must look in khaki! Eben thought. Then all his imagination glittered to a scene of dusty cactus and the smile fixed on approaching death, the fair body.

"O Ben," cried his wife, "I should n't have told you!"

THAT night the newsboys had a fresh sur-
prising bellow from the wire, and the next
day a man in Washington called on the
militia of the several States to protect the
border.

"By gosh!" said Arthur, "do you see me sweating under a cactus-tree? Let's go to a revue to-night."

Eben assented. His girl model was sniffling for a brother in the Sixty-ninth, and Marie's eyes were gleaming at his face. He was in hell, sending out hourly for the extras that might tell him what regiments were under arms; and in the rainy glare of Broadway he saw Judson through their taxicab window, glorious in his khaki service cap on the guard of an open car splashed with uniforms. And he sat until dawn, his arms gripped under his knees, glaring at the dark.

"I can't work," he told Marie. "Have 'em tell the models to go to blazes."

The streets showed spurts of mustard cloth while he tramped, and he met men he knew, savagely irritated, uplifted, awkward in stiff belts. In his imagination he heard the trailed notes of the dead march; the volley of a burial squad came back from the shadow of Fort Leavenworth.

"Can't say. How can a man go on loving a fool that won't even come to his wedding? The "

"He does. Let it go," said Marie, sternly.

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war. Her brother was in the Seventyfirst.

"Oh," said Eben, "that 's just down. here at Thirty-fourth Street, the armory."

She was going down to see her brother, it appeared. Eben gave her his letter to post, and carried Juddy, plus the elephant, into the dining-room. He would have taken the twins also had that been sensible. He wanted anything dear. about him for chains to his feet.

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"Judson raised his hand
in a gesture'

""

"Oh, yes, your brother. Well, you must be pretty worried," said Mr. Letellier, heartily.

"My name 's Judson," said Judson, reverting to his father's knee. "Why 'm I named Judson?"

"For your uncle, of course," Mr. Le

tellier stated, steering the red elephant among the table covers.

"Yes, but why?" Juddy persisted, without interest.

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,

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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!"

you

"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.'

99

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."

99

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.

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