In the postscript there was a word that brought not a little hope and comfort.  “One thing in addition.  No more Galician festivals for me.”  It was a miserably cruel letter, and it did its miserably cruel work on the heart of the little white-faced lady.  She laid the letter down, drew from a box upon her table a photo, and laid it before her.  It was of two young men in football garb, in all the glorious pride of their young manhood.  Long she gazed upon it till she could see no more, and then went to pray.

It took Irma some days of thought and effort to prepare the answer to her letter, for to her, as to Kalman, English had become easier than her native Russian.  To Jack French a reply went by return mail.  It was not long, but, as Jack French read, the easy smile vanished, and for days he carried in his face the signs of the remorse and grief that gnawed at his heart.  Then he rode alone to Wakota to take counsel with his friend Brown.

As he read, one phrase kept repeating itself in his mind:  “The responsibility of leaving Kalman with you, I must take.  What else can I do?  I have no other to help me.  But the responsibility for what you make him, you must take.  God puts it on you, not I.”

“The responsibility for making him is not mine,” he said to himself impatiently.  “I can teach him a lot of things, but I can’t teach him morals.  That is Brown’s business.  He is a preacher.  If he can’t do this, what’s he good for?”

And so he argued the matter with himself with great diligence, and even with considerable heat of mind.  He made no pretence to goodness.  He was no saint, nor would he set up for one.  All who knew him knew this, and none better than Kalman.

“I may not be a saint, but I am no hypocrite, neither will I play the part for any one.”  In this thought his mind took eager refuge, and he turned it over in various phrases with increasing satisfaction.  He remembered with some anxiety that Brown’s mental processes were to a degree lacking in subtlety.  Brown had a disconcertingly simple and direct method of dealing with the most complex problems.  If a thing was right, it was right; if wrong, it was wrong, and that settled the matter with Brown.  There was little room for argument, and none for compromise.  “He has a deucedly awkward conscience too,” said Jack French, “and it is apt to get working long shifts.”  Would he show his sister-in-law’s letter?  It might be good tactics, but that last page would not help him much, and besides he shrank from introducing her name into the argument.

As he approached Wakota, he was impatient with himself that he was so keenly conscious of the need of arguments to support his appeal.  He rode straight to the school, and was surprised to find Brown sitting there alone, with a shadow on his usually cheery face.

“Hello, Brown!” he cried, as he entered the building, “another holiday, eh!  Seems to me you get more than your share.”