Lettie [pp. 19-22]

L E T T I E
BY B. N. ROY
TI-IIS story is a bit of realism, though
the ideal is woven into it, like
threads of gold in a common warp,
-and this is the way it all happened.
When Lettie's mother died-she was
only a little past seventeen then-there
were left, besides herself, two mites of
children, a sister of six years, a brother of
four,-hardly more than babes,-and to
Lettie fell the care of them. Next to a
mother for the brooding and rearing of
children is a sister with motherly instincts
and sensibilities, especially if she have a
sober and dutiful bent of character.
Lettie was serious enough and conscientious, and so the little half-orphaned bits
of humanity were in good hands.
Lettie's character and personal traits
were traceable mainly to her father. John
Marlowe had been a machinist and inventor, and had not failed of rendering important and valuable service to his kind.
But like the majorityv of inventors, his
harvests of practical reward had been
meager,-only the gleanings, it might be
said, after others had reaped the full
sheaves. Hence it was that of those goods
which makle for comfort and cheer in a
home and promise security for life's autumn and winter he had for himself and
his loved ones but a modest supply. Friiurality, therefore, and economy had been
the necessitated rules of the household, and
the discipline thereof had made the mother
a patient toiler through long domestic
years, and had also borne a not unwholesome fruit in Lettie's character as she
grew up to share the responsibilities of the
household. There was not another girl of
her age in San Francisco who could be
more confidently trusted to cope with the
serious problems of life-if indeed they
must needs be faced and solved by one so
young.
It was not exactly poverty, to be sure, in
which they had lived. The little home on
Telegraph Hill had been paid for and was
clear of debt, and there were deposits in
the bank amounting to about eight hundred dollars, representing the savings of
many years. This was not wealth, but
there was a way in which John Marlowe
was a very rich man; that is, he dreamed
opulent dreams. As a practical mechanic
he was very exact and apt and clever, but
his inventivse turn was accompanied, or
perhaps was grounded in, a habit of see ing possibilities beyond the present status
and of imagining them brought already to
realization. Thus, dreaming often, and
dreaming well, not of what might have
been but of what might yet be for him
and his, he lived partly amidst pictures of
achieved prosperity, and so did not miss
altogether the sense of wealth and power.
One evening in December, when the rain
was falling, the children were all in bed,
and John Marlowe sat bv the fireside
dreaming another such dream. He had
been reading the evening paper and was
particularly interested in an account of the
new gold-mining fields of South Africa.
He fancied himself in that far world, and
finding there, perhaps, the opportunity to
place his almost perfected invention for
separating gold. If he could carry thither
a reliable improved method, that would be
just the chance to realize finally on the
securities of Fate. It might be that with
a single stroke he could hit the golden nail
at last on the head and drive it home.
And then he would come back, and for
Lettie and the little ones, and for himself
in his old age-he was fifty now-there
would be comfort, leisure and assurance.
With these thoughts in mind he lay down
for rest, but found little of it, for the
vivid dream kept on and it was only with
the late hours of the night that it passed
into those vaguer visions that accompany
sleep.
On the following morning he sought out
his old friend, the sea-captain, who had
made many a voyage between San Francisco and Cape Town, and who was soon to
sail again for South Africa with a cargo
of wheat. Of him he inquired as to the
possibility of carrying two passengers,
himself and another, to the Dark Continent. Receiving a satisfactory reply, he
returned home.
Two men!-it was for two that he had