afield, he turned his face to the sky in his lonely sorrow,
and when he cried to Heaven there was a silence.

So his heart curdled, and you kind gentlemen of the
jury who are to pass on the case of John Barclay in this
story, remember that he was only twenty years old, and
that in all his life there was nothing to symbolize the joy
of sacrifice except this young girl.All his boyish life she
had nurtured the other self in his soul, — the self that
might have learned to give and be glad in the giving.
And when she went, he closed his Emerson and opened his
Trigonometry, and put money in his purse. ¹

There came a time when Ellen Culpepper was to him as
a dream.But she lived in her mother's eyes, and through
all the years that followed the mother watched the little
girl grow to maturity and into middle life with the other
girls of her age. And even when the little headstone
on the Hill slanted in sad neglect, Mrs. Culpepper's old
eyes still saw Ellen growing old with her playmates.And
she never saw John Barclay that she did not think of Ellen
— and what she would have made of him.

And what would she have made of him? Maybe a
poet, maybe a dreamer of dreams — surely not the hard,
grinding, rich man that he became in this world.

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