The Forbidden Trail. Honoré Morrow
it. In the brief moment as he stood with clenched fists and bowed head, waiting for the red mist to give way to his normal vision it seemed as if all his life passed in review before him tinged with the hot glare of his mental and spiritual tempests. Then, as many, many times before, he seemed to feel the gentle hand, that he had struck, laid softly on his forehead. He heaved a great sigh and looked up.
"The class is dismissed," he said. "Hallock, hold a snowball to your chin as you go home."
When the class had left the room, Roger washed his face at the sink in the corner, wiping his hands on a towel that was gray with age. Then, he dropped the towel and stood leaning against the table, head bowed, arms folded.
The gloaming increased. A cheerful whistle sounded in the hall and Ernest came in.
"Well, old top? Ready to go home?"
"Ern, do you know a girl named Anderson?"
"Yes, very pretty. Engaged to young Hallock, they say. What about her? Don't tell me you've begun to be interested again in petticoats."
"I had the deuce of a row with Hallock, just now," said Roger.
"Change your clothes as you tell me about it," suggested Ernest. "It's late."
Roger obediently started for the closet, talking from the door as he dressed. Ernest lighted his pipe and listened thoughtfully under the electric light he had turned on. He was a shorter man than Roger and stockily built. He was still very fair, with soft yellow hair already receding from a broad forehead. His eyes were beautiful, a deep violet, soft dreaming eyes that men as well as women trusted instinctively.
"I'm sure you've seen Miss Anderson," he said when Roger had finished. "She's a funny foolish little thing. Just the kind to attract an unsocialized grind like Hallock. I guess there was a good deal of a row in Rosenthal's class this morning. One of the seniors told me. Rosenthal said to Miss Anderson—say, Rog, you're not listening."
Roger picked up his hat. "I don't care what Rosenthal said. He always was a boor. The point with me is that I've lost my temper in the classroom for the last time. Come on, Ern."
They were crossing the snowy campus before Ernest spoke. Then he laid his hand on his friend's arm.
"The fool kid brought it on himself. I can see how he got worked up. You can be exasperating and he gave you what he'd like to have given Rosenthal. Nevertheless, no man can take a crack on the chin with a thank you, Roger."
Roger did not reply. They turned into River Street where the street lights flashed through the bare branches of the elms. An occasional sleigh jingled by. Lights glowed from pleasant windows where children were silhouetted against the curtains. Ernest stopped before the big, comfortable Wolf house.
"Come in to supper, Roger."
"I'll not be good company, Ern," but Roger's voice was wistful.
"Come along! Mother doesn't mind your grouches, and I guess the rest of us can endure one more."
Roger turned up the brick path that led to the door.
"Hello, boys!" Elsa called, as the front door slammed. "You're late!"
Elschen at twenty-nine was still very pretty in an unobtrusive way. Her yellow hair was thick and curly. Her eyes were like Ernest's and her skin was fair, with a velvety flush in her delicately rounded cheeks.
"Supper's ready," she went on. "Papa just came in. Don't keep him waiting, children."
Roger and Ernest went quickly into the dining room where Papa Wolf was just sitting down. He nodded to them over his spectacles, then helped himself to a slice of meat.
"Where's Mamma?" asked Ernest, passing the bread to Roger.
"Here, liebchen!" Mamma Wolf came in, carrying a steaming coffee pot. She set it down, then hurried round the table to kiss first Ernest, then Roger.
"You know Rog can't eat without you, Mütterchen," laughed Ernest.
"He doesn't get his manners from the Germans," snapped Elsa.
"Never mind! I've gotten the only home life I've known in eight years from them," returned Roger. He and Mamma Wolf exchanged an affectionate glance.
"Pass the biscuits, Elsa," said Papa Wolf.
"Going anywhere to-night, Elsa?" asked Ernest.
"Yes, we have choir practice every night from now to Christmas."
"The carols are beautiful!" exclaimed Mamma Wolf. "I heard them last night when I stopped by the church for Elsa. Ernest, pass your papa the preserves and put the cake where he can reach it. It's fresh, Papa, never fear. I only finished frosting it as you came in." Mamma Wolf looked at her husband a little anxiously.
"That Smithsonian man telephoned you again this afternoon, Ernest," said Elsa. "He wanted to call this evening and I told him to come along."
"I wonder what he wants," mused Roger. "He's been hanging round for a long time."
"Pass the biscuits, Ernest," from Papa Wolf. "The cake is very bad, Mamma."
"Oh, Papa, is it? And I took such trouble!" The distress in the gentle voice made Roger scowl.
"In America, Papa," Elsa's voice was mocking, "where you have lived for some forty years, it is not considered courteous to criticize the food at the table."
"Hush, Elschen! Papa can say what he wishes, always, to me. Is it not so, Karl?"
Papa Wolf pushed away his plate, wiped his mustache and leaned back in his chair with a smile and a sigh of repletion.
"You spoil us all, Mamma!" he exclaimed. "Elsa, Uncle Hugo comes to-night and we will have a little music. You will give up choir practice, just for once."
Ernest glanced at his sister apprehensively. She flushed resentfully. "But I must go, Papa!" she cried. "I take the salary the church pays me. I must sing well."
"Laughing and flirting with the new bass is not practice," returned Papa. "You stay at home to-night, Elschen."
Elsa glanced at Ernest, who shrugged his shoulders. Then she gave a long look at her father with eyes that were black with anger.
"Papa, I'm going to choir practice," she insisted.
Her father brought his fist down on the table. "Am I or am I not master in my own house?" he shouted. "Elsa, what you have needed was a German upbringing. You will stay at home to-night and make music with Hugo and me."
"Papa," said Elsa slowly, "I am twenty-nine years old and I can't endure this sort of thing much longer. Mother and I are just unpaid servants for—"
"Elsa! Bitte! Bitte sehr!" exclaimed Mother Wolf.
Elsa's dark look went to her mother, then to Roger, who was still scowling. Her lips trembled. She shrugged her shoulders and rising began to clear the table.
The three men went into the library and lighted their pipes. Papa Wolf, having with much difficulty persuaded his meerschaum to draw, parted his coat-tails and settled himself on the piano stool. Then he threw his head back while he touched a few quiet chords. He had a beautiful, massive head. Roger, ensconced in a deep Morris chair, thought, as he had thought many times before, that it was a head that should have belonged to an artist rather than to a dry goods merchant. The chords merged into a quiet melody. Ernest buried his head in the evening paper. Roger let his pipe go out and his face settled into lines that added ten years to his age.
The subdued clatter of dishes from the kitchen finally ceased and Elsa came through the room. Her father stopped her as she passed and put his arm about her waist.
"Sweetheart, don't be cross with me," he said. "It's just that Papa so loves to have his little girl with him."
Elsa put her hand on his gray head and looked down into his face but said nothing.
"Come now," he went on, "sing a