One day she said to Paul (they were driving home together through a bit of woodland, the horses stepping softly on the mould of fallen leaves)--“I don't expect you to account for every dollar of mine you spend in helping those who can be helped that way. You have a free hand.” “I understand,” said Paul. “I have used your money freely--for a purpose that I never have accounted for.” “Don't you need more?” “No; there is no need now.” “Why is there not?” Paul was silent. “I cannot go into particulars. It is a long story.” “Does the purpose still exist?” his mother asked sharply. “It does; but not as a claim--for that sort of help.” “Let me know if such a claim should ever return.” “I will, mother,” said Paul. * * * * * There came a day when mother and son reaped the reward of their mutual forbearance. There was a night and a day when Paul became a boy again in his mother's hands, and she took the place that was hers in Nature. She was the priestess acquainted with mysteries. He followed her, and hung upon her words. The expression of her face meant life and death to him. The dreadful consciousness passed out of his eyes; tears washed it out as he rose from his knees by Moya's bed, and his mother kissed him, and laid his son in his arms. The following summer saw the club-house and all its affiliations in working order. The beneficiaries took to it most kindly, but were disposed to manage it in their own way: not in all respects the way of the founder's intention. “To make a gift complete, you must keep yourself out of it,” Mrs. Bogardus advised. “You have done your part; now let them have it and run it themselves.” Paul was not hungry for leadership, but he had hoped that his interest in the men's amusements would bring him closer to them and equalize the difference between the Hill and the quarry. “You have never worked with them; how can you expect to play with them?” was another of his mother's cool aphorisms. Alas! Paul, the son of the poor man, had no work, and hence no play.