"I got good boys all round," she wept. "I always said it; an' now folks know." * * * Luke lay on the old settle, thinking. In the air-tight stove the hickory fagots crackled, with jeweled color-play. On the other side Tom sat whittling silently--Tom, who would presently whittle no more, but rise to be a man. It was incredible! Incredible that the old place might some day shake off its shackles of poverty and be organized for a decent struggle with life! Incredible that Maw--stepping briskly about getting the supper--should be singing! Already the room seemed filled and warmed with the odors of prosperity and self-respect. Maw had put a red geranium on the table; there was the crispy fragrance of frying salt pork and soda biscuit in the air. These the Hayneses! These people, with hope and self-esteem once more in their hearts! These people, with a new, a unique place in the community's respect! It was all like a beautiful miracle; and, thinking of its maker, Luke choked suddenly and gulped. There was a moist spot on the old Mexican hairless right under his eyes; but it had been made by tears of pride, not sorrow. Maw was right! A hero's folks hadn't ought to cry. And he wouldn't. Nat was better off than ever--safe and honored. He had trod the path of glory. A line out of the boy's old Reader sprang to his mind: "The paths of glory lead but to the grave." Oh, but it wasn't true! Nat's path led to life--to hope; to help for all of them, for Nat's own. In his death, if not in his life, he had rehabilitated them. And Nat--who loved them--would look down and call it good. In spite of himself the boy sobbed, visioning his brother's face. "Oh, Nat!" he whispered. "I knew you'd do it! I always said you'd do somethin' big for us all." CHING, CHING, CHINAMAN[20] [Note 20: Copyright, 1917, by The Pictorial Review Company. Copyright, 1918, by Wilbur Daniel Steele.] BY WILBUR DANIEL STEELE From _The Pictorial Review_ How gaily we used to chant it over Yen Sin's scow when I was a boy on Urkey water-front, and how unfailingly it brought the minister charging down upon us. I can see him now, just as he used to burst upon our vision from the wharf lane, face paper-white, eyes warm with a holy wrath, lips moving uncontrollably. And I can hear his voice trembling at our heels as we scuttled off: "For shame, lads! Christ died for him, lads! For shame! Shame!" And looking back I can see him there on the wharf above the scow, hands hanging, shoulders falling together, brooding over the unredeemed.