New Name by Grace Livingston Hill

went through his heart. Yes, Bessie had a good, sweet look like this girl, and Bessie would have had eyes of scorn for anyone who was not true to the core. Up in heaven somewhere, if there was such a place as heaven—and now that he was sure he had lost it, he began to believe that there was—Bessie was looking down on him with scorn. A murderer, he was, and a coward! Here he was, sitting at a meal that was not his, wearing a suit and a name that were not his, hearing God’s blessing invoked upon him and his, and too much of a coward to confess it and take his medicine. Obviously he could not steal out now with that blue dress blocking the way. He must stay here and face worse perhaps than if he had never run away. What had he let himself in for in assuming even for a brief hour another man’s name and position in life? It was clear that this Allan Murray, whom he was supposed to be, was a religious man, had come from religious parents; so much of his newfound character he had learned from the minister’s prayer. Now how was he to carry out a character like that and play the part? He with the burden of a murderer’s conscience upon him!
    The “blessing” was over, to his infinite relief, and a bevy of girls in white aprons, with fluttering ribbon badges and pretty trays, were set immediately astir. The minister turned to him with a question about the wreck, and he recalled vaguely that there had also been a word of thanksgiving in that prayer about the great escape he was supposed to have made. He grasped at the idea eagerly and tried to steer the conversation away from himself and into general lines of railroad accidents, switching almost immediately and unconsciously to the relative subject of automobile accidents, and then stopping short in the middle of a sentence, dumb, with the thought that he had killed Bessie in an automobile accident, and here he was talking about it—telling with vivid words how a man would drive and take risks and get used to it. Where was it he had heard that a guilty man could not help talking about his guilt and letting slip out to a trained detective the truth about himself?
    His face grew white and strained, and the minister eyed him kindly.
    “You’re just about all in, aren’t you?” he said sympathetically. “I know just how it is. One can’t go through scenes like that without suffering, even though one escapes unscathed himself. I was on a train not long ago that struck a man and killed him. It was days before I could get rested. There is something terrible about the nerve strain of seeing others suffer.”
    And Murray thankfully assented and enjoyed a moment’s quiet while he took a mouthful of the delicious fruit that stood in a long-stemmed glass on his plate.
    But the minister’s next sentence appalled him:
    “Well, we won’t expect a speech from you tonight, though I’ll confess we had been hoping in that direction. You see, your fame has spread before you, and everybody is anxious to hear you. But I’ll just introduce you to them sometime before the end of the program, and you can merely get up and let them see you officially. I know Mr. Harper will be expecting something of that sort, and I suppose you’ll want to please him. You see, he makes a great deal of having found a Christian young man for a teller in his bank.”
    The minister looked at him kindly, evidently expecting a reply, and Murray managed to murmur, “I see,” behind his napkin, but he felt that he would rather be hung at sunrise than attempt to make a speech under these circumstances. So that was his new character, was it? A Christian young man! A young Christian banker! How did young Christian bankers act? He was glad for the tip that showed him what was expected of him, but how in thunder was he to get away with this situation? A speech was an easy enough matter in his own set. It had never bothered him at all. In fact, he was much sought after for that sort of thing. Repartee and jest had