Jewel Weed

								

afternoon. Mr. Norris, Dick has promised to bring you with him to dinner
to-morrow. Till then, good-by."
"Come, Ellery, we'll face the music, now that the real attractions are
gone," said Dick.
Mr. Early extended two hands, ponderous in proportion to the rest of his
body, in fatherly greeting.
"Ah, Percival, my dear fellow, so you are done with Yale and back again
in St. Etienne? I welcome you out of the fetters of mere bookishness
into the freedom of real life, where it is man's business to serve, and
not to absorb."
Dick blushed guiltily as several surrounding ladies turned their
lorgnettes on him, but Mr. Early went on, undisturbed and very audible:
"I do not introduce you to Swami Ram Juna, because introductions belong
to the world of conventionalities, and he lives in that world where real
human relations are the only things that count; but I put your hand in
his, in token of the contact in which your spirit may meet his great
soul."
"Very good of you, I'm sure," murmured Dick, as the Swami bent his head
and gave him a penetrating look.
"You, too, then, are a seeker?" Ram Juna inquired in a low tone, but
with his delicate and distinct enunciation.
"Ah--I hope so," Dick answered hastily, and with an evident desire to
push the topic no further. "And this, Mr. Early, is my old chum, Norris,
who has come West to be on the editorial staff of the Star."
"The Star? It is the symbol of illumination. Is then your Star
devoted to the enlightenment of mankind?" asked Ram Juna, transferring
his fixed gaze.
"In a sense--yes," Norris faltered with a swift guilty recollection of
certain head-lines in last night's edition.
"He who writes must think. He who thinks goes below the surface. He who
goes below the surface is moving toward the center," said the Swami
oracularly.
Mr. Early's broad face expanded into a benevolent smile, and an oncoming
instalment swept the young men away.
"Does Mr. Early learn his remarks by heart?" asked Norris.
"I don't know. But let us be seekers. Let us seek dinner, and fresh air.
Give me fresh air--anything but Nirvana!"

CHAPTER II
MOTHER AND SON

To have been captain of the foot-ball team, which some student of
sociology has called the highest office in the free gift of the American
people, might seem glory enough for one life; but Richard Percival was
of such stuff that all past triumphs became dust and ashes. He was
greedy of the future. Now that the doors of college were fairly closed,
that career became to him but as a half-dreaming condition, before one
wakes.
On this summer evening, however, it was easy to prolong the dream, since
the hour was one for quiet of body and for wandering visions. The room
was large and suffused with that restfulness which comes to homes where
serene and thoughtful lives have been lived. There were long straight
lines; there was a scarcity of knickknacks; there were pictures gathered