"That was my boy. I am his father. What has become of him? Where is he now? Flesh of my flesh, is he handicapped by the stigma I placed upon him? Is he, perchance, groveling in the gutter, because I cast him off--had no thought or care for him--"

"Now, look here--"

"Listen. I became a father, then shirked the responsibility of fatherhood. A new word rings in my ears, 'FATHERING.' I can see its mighty import. I who have spoken the words of the great Father for these many years, have not followed His example. Listen, brother: if that son of mine is alive, and I believe he is, I am going to find and claim him--and not once more do I preach until I do."

The brother was somewhat alarmed, showing it in his countenance.

"You may think I am out of my head; but I never was saner in my life. My thoughts are as clear as a bell, and now that I have said what I wanted to, I feel better. That's all--don't you worry about me. Now go to bed.

You are to be off in the morning, you know. Good night."

As Gilbert walked out, his mind not altogether clear about his brother, Lucy was at the door waiting to bid her father good night.

"May I come in?" she asked.

"Yes; come along."

"I wanted just to say good night."

"That's right, my girl; and where is Chester?"

"He--I don't know. I think he's retired."

"You're looking so well, these days. Are you happy?"

"Yes, daddy; so happy--and so much better, I believe."

"All right--there now, good night. If Chester is without, tell him to come in a moment."

She kissed him again, then slipped out. Presently, Chester entered.

"Did you wish to see me, Mr. Strong?"

"Yes--that is, just to say good night--and to tell you that I am better--and also to thank you for taking such good care of Lucy."

"Why, I assure you--"

"Wait a moment. Stand right where you are, there in that light--you'll excuse a sick man's humors, I know; but someone told me today that we two look very much alike. I was just wondering whether it was a fancy only--but I can't tell, nor you can't tell. It always takes a third person to say."

"Yes; I suppose it does," laughed Chester. "But I don't object to the resemblance."

"Nor I, my boy. Come here. Continue to take good care of Lucy. She's a good, sweet girl." The man arose, as if to be off to bed. Chester put his arm around him.

"Let me help you," said the young man. "You are not very strong yet."

"Thank you." He put his arm about Chester's neck so that the stronger man could nearly carry the weaker. As they walked slowly across the room under the lamps anyone could see a striking resemblance between the two men. As they said good night and parted at the father's door, the older man's hand patted softly the young man's cheek. Chester felt the touch, so strange that it thrilled him. "That was for Lucy's sake," he said to himself as he sought the quietness of his own room.

There were no apparent reasons why Chester Lawrence should not accompany Uncle Gilbert to Liverpool, so neither Chester nor Lucy tried to find any. Plans for meeting in London and on the continent were fully matured and understood. The separation would be for a week or fortnight at most.

Lucy and Aunt Sarah waved their goodbyes as the train drew out of Cork for Dublin.

Chester now understood why Ireland was called the Emerald Isle. Green, green, everywhere--fields and hedges, trees and bushes, bogs and hills--everything was green. Uncle Gilbert gave him full information on all points of interest.

At Dublin they had a few hours to wait for the boat, so they looked around the city, not forgetting the beautiful Phoenix Park. It was evening when they went on board the steamer and to bed. Next morning, they were awakened by the rattling of cables and chains as they slid into a dock at Liverpool.

Chester and Gilbert Strong parted company at Liverpool, the latter to attend to the business which had brought him there, the former to seek a place of lodging. First he found 42 Islington, the headquarters of the mission, introduced himself to the elders in charge, and asked them to direct him to some cheap, but respectable lodgings. He was shown to a nearby hotel where the missionaries usually put up, where he obtained a room. Then he went to the steamship company's office at the pier, obtained his trunk, and had it taken to his lodgings. After a bath, a general clean-up and change of clothing, he was ready for the town, or all England for that matter.

He went back to "42" for further information. He noticed that the slum district of the town pressed closely on to the office quarters, and he saw some sights even that first afternoon which shocked him: dirty, ragged children, playing in the gutters; boys and girls and women going in to dram shops and bringing out mugs of beer; men and women drunken.

One sight specially horrified him: a woman, dirty, naked shoulders and arms; feet and legs bare; a filthy skirt and bodice open at the breast; hair matted and wild; reeling along the pavement, crying out in drunken exclamations and mutterings. It was the most sickening sight the young man had ever seen, and with perhaps the exception of a fight he witnessed some days later between two such characters, the worst spectacle of his life.

All this sordid life so strange and new, drew the attention of the young westerner. Especially did 42 Islington interest him; for this was an historic spot for "Mormonism." From here the early missionaries had sent forth the message of salvation to Great Britain, in fact, to the whole of Europe. Here within these dingy rooms had trod the strong, sturdy characters of the pioneer days of the Church. Perhaps in some of these rooms Orson Pratt had written his masterly presentation of the gospel.

In those days, very likely, there were not so many noises of traffic and restless humanity. Perhaps such men could take with them the peace and sublime solitude of their home in the Western Mountains into the confusing din of the big city, and remain undisturbed. And these were happy, even as the present elders were, laboring, with a clear conscience for the salvation of souls. There came to Chester, as he thought of these things, an expression he had read: "Outside things cannot make you happy, unless they fit with something inside; and they are so few and so common that the smallest room can hold them."

That same evening there was a meeting of the Saints which Chester attended. The congregation was small, much smaller even than those of Chicago. Most of the people present appeared to be of the humbler, working classes; but there was the same light in their faces as that which shone in faces on the other side of the world, when enlightened by the Spirit of God. Everywhere, Chester noticed, this Spirit was the same, giving to rich and poor, learned and unlearned alike, the joy of its presence.

"Come around tomorrow, and we'll take a look about the city," said one of the elders to Chester. "Sitting cramped over a desk day after day, makes it necessary for me to get out once in a while."

The afternoon of the following day, Chester called for his friend in the office, and they set out. "I want you to get rid of the first impressions of Liverpool," explained the elder. "I want you to get away from the noise and dirt to the green and quiet and beauty of the town."

First they took a car to the Botanical Gardens, looked at the flower beds and inspected the palm-house. Then they walked across the open to the farther side, followed a short street or two into the big, open grass-covered Wavertree Playground. Thence it was a short walk to Sefton Park with its varied and extensive beauties. They watched the children sail their toy crafts on the lake. There were some men even, trying out model boats. The bird cage was interesting. The grotto, as usual, was hard to find. The palm-house took a good part of their time, for the beautiful statue of Burn's Highland Mary, gleaming white from a bed of green, took Chester's attention, as also the historical figures surrounding the house. One of these was of Columbus with an inscription claiming that he had very much to do with the making of Liverpool, which is no doubt true.

The weather was fine, the air was balmy; many people were out. Chester and his companion strolled about the walks and across the velvety stretches of grass. They watched for a time, a "gentlemanly game of cricket," but it was too slow altogether for the Americans.

It was well towards sundown when the two young men took a car back to Islington. "Another day we'll see Newsham Park, and the country around Knotty Ash way. Then again, there is some beautiful country up the Mersey and across to Birkenhead." The visitor was grateful for these offers.

That evening Chester addressed some post-cards to his few friends in Chicago, one to Hugh Elston, one to Elder Malby in London, and one to Lucy May Strong, Kildare Villa, Cork, Ireland. He lingered somewhat over this latter, lost somewhat in wonder at recent events. Was not this ocean trip and the Irish experience a dream? The noise and smoke about him were surely that of Chicago, and he was sitting in his room there in his normal condition of homelessness and friendlessness? Had he not that day been out with an elder from the Chicago Church office to Lincoln Park and the lakeside? Surely Lucy and the minister, and Kildare Villa and Blarney were figments of a pleasant dream! Chester walked back and forth in the small room. He stopped before a dingy map of Great Britain on the wall. His finger touched Ireland, moved southward, and stopped at Cork. Yes; there _was_ such a place, any way, so there must be Shandon Bells and the Blarney Stone, and a rustic seat under the trees at Blarney Castle. Well, if all else under the sun were imaginary, that hour of bliss at Blarney when Chester told Lucy he loved her, and Lucy told Chester the same sweet words--that was real. He would live in that reality, for it far surpassed his dreams.

Chester looked again at the post-card he had addressed to Kildare Villa, placed it aside, and wrote in its place a long letter.

CHAPTER X.

Twenty miles out of London. The sun is shining, and the train glides along by green fields, hedges of hawthorn, and blossoming trees. England looks to be the huge, well-cared-for farm of a very rich man. This may be explained by the fact that England is an old country, having been plowed and planted and harrowed for close on to a thousand years before America was discovered. This long period of cultivation gives the country-side a mellowness and well-groomed look. The vaporous sunlight softens all the outlines, hides the harsh features, and gives the landscape its dreamy, far-away, misty loveliness. There seems to be no angles in the scene; field melts into field, and hedge into hedge, with here and there a ribbon of a road which seems to join them rather than to separate them. The houses are of brick or of stone, many partly hidden under the climbing ivy or roses.

Chester Lawrence is accompanying Elder Malby eastward from London through Kent to Margate and Ramsgate on the coast. Elder Malby is to attend to some Church duties, and Chester, by invitation, was glad to accompany him. It was the young man's policy to keep in touch as much as possible with the elders and their work, and he was getting somewhat of the missionary spirit himself. He was greatly enjoying this ride through the beautiful country.

"It's really wonderful," said Chester, looking out of the car window, "this coming from London into the country. Where are all the people? Are they all in town? Some cows are browsing in the pastures, and sheep scurry about as the train flies by, but where are the people who have made this great garden?"

"You must remember," explained Chester's companion, "all this has not been done hurriedly by many people within a short time. What the Englishman doesn't do today he can do tomorrow; and so centuries of work by a few men has produced what we see."

"Well, I do occasionally see a few slow-moving men and women, somberly clad in grays and browns. These, I suppose, are the sturdy supporters of their country."

"Here is something I clipped from an American magazine," said Elder Malby, "which impressed me with its peculiar truth." He read:

"'England is London says one, England is Parliament says another, England is the Empire says still another; but if I be not much mistaken, this stretch of green fields, these hills and valleys, these hedges and fruit trees, this soft landscape, is the England men love. In India and Canada, in their ships at sea, in their knots of soldiery all over the world, Englishmen must close their eyes at times, and when they do, they see these fields green and brown, these hedges dusted with the soft snow of blossoms, these houses hung with roses and ivy, and when the eyes open, they are moist with these memories. The pioneer, the sailor, the soldier, the colonist may fight, and struggle and suffer, and proclaim his pride in his new home and possessions, but these are the love of a wife, of children, of friends; that other is the love, with its touch of adoration, that is not less nor more, but still different, that mysterious mingling of care for, and awe of, the one who brought you into the world.