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 mother, but of everything in any way related to her or connected with her.

She seldom punished them. She didn't have to. Without lifting her voice to rage or her hand to strike, she could inspire unreasoning terror, almost instantaneously in almost anyone.

A day came when Edward's brother John—the oldest of the children—a brave, likable boy of eighteen, did not come home from Mr. Harrington's school in Westchester. He had, it seems, failed in a trivial examination and durst not bring the report of that failure home to his mother. So when he came to Westchester station with the Bartow, Pelham Manor and New Rochelle children, and saw that the up train and the down train were pulling in at the same time, he slipped around the rear end of the up train and boarded the other. When the down train got to Van Nest and nobody was looking, he flung his school-books out of an open window; while it stopped at West Farms he rose and marched boldly forward until he came to the smoker. Here he breathed deeply the perfume which is dearest to the persecuted American male—tobacco smoke.

It is curious that the boy John left his brothers and sisters, his father, his school and his schoolmates, but most especially his mother, with a passion of regret. He had a tender and sentimental