should have listened to, perhaps, but I was afraid of being too
severe, too lacking in sympathy with his youth, with the differences
in our natures, and, chiefly, because I knew he was largely the
product of his rearing. He was only fourteen when father died, and
to the day of her death mother allowed no one to correct him. She
indulged him beyond sense or reason; let him grow up with the idea
that whatever he wanted he could have. Restraint and discipline were
never taught him. As for direction, guidance, training--" Selwyn's
shoulders shrugged. "If I said anything to mother, cautioned her of
the mistake she was making, she thought me hard and cruel, and ended
by weeping. After her death it was too late."

"Doesn't he work? Does he do nothing at all?"

"Work!" Selwyn stopped. "He's never done a day's work in his life
that earned what he got for it. When he refused to go back to
college mother bought him a place in Hoge and Howell's office. They
kept him until he'd used up the capital put in the business, then got
rid of him. I offered to put more in, but they wouldn't agree.
Later, I got John Moore to take him in, but John now refuses to renew
their contract. He's absolutely no good. That's a pretty hard thing
to say about one's brother, but it's true. He's the only thing on
earth belonging to me that I've got to love, and now--"

Selwyn's voice was husky, and again he went to the window, looked
long upon the Square, and for a moment I said nothing. I could think
of nothing to say. From various friends of other days who came
occasionally to see me in my new home, I had heard of Harrie's wild
behavior of late, of Selwyn's patient shielding of him, of the
latter's love and loyalty and care of the boy to whom he had been far