The men who had taught him, and those who had taught them, had been Bible-reading, Hell-fearing men who had moved out of New England and into western Pennsylvania and Ohio and on into Indiana and Illinois in advance of the vanities and despising them. When these men ceased to go westward and when they settled and luxury and easy-living came about them, they did not therefore cast off their stern ideas; on the contrary they founded colleges to train men to their ideals of Christian service and seminaries to teach their creed of high-thinking and self-discipline to combat the new allures to self-indulgence.
They enlisted in a losing fight but, to the end, they fought the fight—most of them; they finished their course so keeping their faith that they inspired a few, at least, to devote their lives to keep up the combat. To Ephraim Herrick, the long, hard example of his own struggle never seemed so despised as now when he stepped into this room of his son which the girl, who a moment ago was idling at cards with her hair over her shoulders, shared with his David.
He was in distress, Fidelia saw; and she saw that he was perspiring and she longed to unbutton his coat. She could not do that so she crossed to the bedroom door and brought ice-water to him. It was in a gayly painted carafe upon a lacquer tray with two iridescent glasses and these elaborate trappings for a swallow of water offended him; but he drank.
He sat down and Fidelia seated herself upon her painted chair and watched him. He had come with a determination in no way to compromise with the duty
