Winner Stories

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responsibility of making a martyr of such a man as Mr. Luke
Raeburn. Emphatically disclaiming the slightest sympathy with Mr.
Raeburn's religious views, we yet
But Erica could read no more. Whatever modicum of charity the
writer ventured to put forth was lost upon her. The opening
sentence danced before her eyes in letters of fire. That morning
she met Brian in the passage and drew him into the sitting room.
He saw at once how it was with her.
Look, she said, holding the newspaper toward him, is that true?
Or is it only a sensation trap or written for party purposes?
Her delicate lips were closed with their hardest expression, her
eyes only looked grave and questioning. She watched his face as he
read, lost her last hope, and with the look of such anguish as he
had never before seen, drew the paper from him, and caught his hand
in hers in wild entreaty.
Oh, Brian, Brian! Is there no hope? Surely you can do something
for him. There MUST be hope, he is so strong, so full of life.
He struggled hard for voice and words to answer her, but the
imploring pressure of her hands on his had nearly unnerved him.
Already the grief that kills lurked in her eyes he knew that if her
father died she would not long survive him.
Don't say what is untrue, she continued. Don't let me drive you
into telling a lie but only tell me if there is indeed no hope no
chance.
It may be, said Brian. You must not expect, for those far wiser
than I say it can not be. But I hope yes, I still hope.
On that crumb of comfort she lived, but it was a weary day, and for
the first time she noticed that her father, who was free from
fever, followed her everywhere with his eyes. She knew
intuitively that he thought himself dying.
Toward evening she was sitting beside him, slowly drawing her
fingers through his thick masses of snowwhite hair in the way he
liked best, when he looked suddenly right into her eyes with his
own strangely similar ones, deep, earnest eyes, full now of a sort
of dumb yearning.
Little son Eric, he said, faintly, you will go on with the work
I am leaving.
Yes, father, she replied firmly, though her heart felt as if it
would break.
A harmful delusion, he murmured, half to himself, taking up our
best men! Swallowing up the money of the people. What's that
singing, Erica?
It is the children in the hospital, she replied. I'll shut the
window if they disturb you, father.
No, he said. One can tolerate the delusion for them if it
makes their pain more bearable. Poor bairns! Poor bairns! Pain

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