A few Saturdays after the marriage in the little wayside church, Richard Procter reached home in a state of great excitement.

The family was in the dining-room. Mrs. Procter was polishing the drinking glasses. Though it was long past noon, Suzanna had just commenced to clear away the luncheon dishes. Maizie was shaking napkins, while Peter was in a corner pretending to play ball with the baby, very much to the baby's amusement.

Mr. Procter told his news triumphantly.

"At last," he cried. "Jane, John Massey is absolutely coming to see the machine this afternoon."

The color flashed up into Mrs. Procter's face.

"Oh, Richard," she cried; "perhaps—" but she did not finish her conjecture.

"He won't take The Machine away, will he, father?" Suzanna asked anxiously.

"No, not that particular one, little girl. There'll have to be others built. That is just the model."

At two o'clock Mr. Procter was in the attic working at the machine. At three, so interested had he grown, that he had really forgotten the expected visit of old John Massey. So it was a real surprise when Mrs. Procter ushered him in.

"Well, I'm here at last," said Mr. Massey. He looked over to where the cabinet stood. "Your machine is rather mysterious looking."

"Does it seem so? Here, lay your hat and coat on this table, Mr. Massey. Now I'll explain the purpose of the machine."

"Yes, that's what I'm most interested in, what it's for; what you expect to do with it."

Richard Procter turned an eager face to the capitalist.

"I'll start at the beginning," he said. "Have you ever stopped to think what would mean the greatest happiness to humanity?"

Mr. Massey coughed and moved uneasily. "Can't say I have. Food and drink sufficient for all, so I've heard your orator across the street announce."

Mr. Procter smiled. "That, yes, might bring content, but I'm speaking of spiritual happiness. Well, this is my idea of what would bring about a revolution in the sum total of world content. Each man at the work he was born to do.

"And having once reached that conclusion, I set about formulating plans for the building of my machine. An instrument so delicate that it could register a man's leading talent."

Mr. Massey moved away a little. He stared doubtfully at the inventor before the clearing thought came. Before him stood a madman, a wild visionary.

He looked over at his hat and coat. To stay was a mere waste of time, he realized that now. Still, there was Suzanna who had made a place for herself in his gruff old heart. The machine, he knew, could have no commercial value. Yet he remembered a few of Suzanna's values which were not based on the possession of money.

Well, for Suzanna's sake he would listen, go away and forget. So he seated himself, and waited condescendingly for the inventor to continue. He himself said nothing, for silence, he had learned, was golden.

Mr. Procter went on. "My first step in the work was to evolve what might be termed a system of color interpretation."

"I don't understand at all," said old John Massey sharply.

The inventor hesitated. Visionary, he might truly be called, but, too, he was sensitive and he had felt the capitalist's withdrawal as soon as the purpose of the machine was explained to him. But the end was a big one. He must not hesitate, so he went on.

"May I put it broadly without arousing your derision, that color sight was bestowed upon me. Just as my little girl Suzanna visualizes each day as a shape, so I've always seen people in color; that out of that sight I built my own science of color."

"Romance of color, you mean," returned John Massey harshly, "for so far as I can gain, there is no science about it. I deal in facts, Mr. Procter, not in air castles. Does the machine do anything, but stand there a silent monument to your dreams?"

Mr. Procter hesitated but a moment, then, "Come, Mr. Massey," he said, "take your place. Let us see what the machine says of you. Remember, please, it will register only your truest meaning, the purpose for which you were born; the part of you which never dies, which is never really submerged, regardless of a turning to false gods."

A little uneasy despite himself, Mr. Massey seated himself before the machine.

The inventor touched levers, opened and shut doors, lowered the helmet, adjusted the lens.

As the clicking sound commenced Mr. Massey stirred. "Keep very quiet," said the inventor, "and watch the glass plate."

Mr. Massey obeyed. Now a satiric smile touched his lips. He was almost enjoying this child's play.

But soon the smile faded, for in a moment there grew upon the glass plate standing between the two tubes a pillar of color, vivid yellow, tipped with primrose.

"What—what does that mean?" asked old John Massey.

The inventor lifted the helmet, and shut off his power before speaking. "According to my belief, my understanding of color significance, the reason for your being in this world, with, of course, interesting variations brought about by environment and education, is identical with that of Reynolds."

Mr. Massey started forward angrily, but he thought better of whatever he had in his heart to say. "Go on," he commanded gruffly.

"As a young man you had dreams of being a practical humanitarian," said Mr. Procter softly, "and undoubtedly with your opportunity you might have been a valuable figure in the world. You were endowed with vision. You saw the wrongs man labors under; as a youth you smarted because of those wrongs. And you saw the super-being man might become given equal chances."

"Like Reynolds—" repeated Mr. Massey after a time, on impulse—one immediately regretted.

"Like Reynolds, our great rough, fine-hearted Reynolds," said Mr. Procter, "the one whom you've had threatened with arrest because he harangued too freely on the street corner." He paused to finish impressively: "I see now that the man who throws away his spiritual birthright for a mess of pottage hates the one who keeps his in the face of all—poverty—misunderstanding—ridicule."

A silence dark as a cavern ensued. Mr. Massey at last got to his feet. He stood a long moment looking at the machine, then he glanced at the inventor, but when someone knocked softly at the door he started, revealing how far away from his immediate surroundings his thoughts had flown.

Suzanna entered. "Here's David, daddy," she said. "He wants to talk with you."

David entered. "I had some time," he said, "and I wanted to see the machine again."

"Glad to see you," said the inventor heartily. "Mr. Massey, this is my friend, David Ridgewood, Graham Woods Bartlett's gardener."

"How do you do, Mr. Massey," said David. "I've seen you before, of course. Heard of you often."

John Massey did not answer at once, since he was somewhat at a loss. He had not been in the habit of meeting socially his friends' gardeners. At last he blurted forth.

"How d' do. I've had a look at Procter's invention."

"Ah, yes, I supposed so," said David. Then: "Isn't the thought back of that machine wonderful?" Which ridiculous question quickened again all the Eagle Man's combativeness. He spoke with a fine candor.

"The thought may be wonderful, young man. I'll not pass on that. But plainly I can't see where the commercial value of the machine comes in."

David and Suzanna fell back from the cloud which gathered on the inventor's face.

"The commercial value!" he cried. "Have I spent my life working merely that the capitalist may make more money? I tell you, sir, that I have worked only for the betterment of the race. And to you, John Massey, I am giving the great opportunity."

"Well, out with it. Where's the great opportunity?" asked Mr. Massey testily. "To my mind you haven't an article with a wide enough appeal."

"Wide enough appeal!" cried the inventor. "My dear sir, it has an appeal world-wide, and you are to make it of such appeal." He paused to continue impressively: "John Massey, I offer you the opportunity of endowing an institution which shall be built to use my machine. To that institution young men of impecunious parents may come to discover their leading talent."

"If there is a leading talent, will it take your machine to discover it?" asked John Massey.

"In most cases, yes. How many young men fail to discover until too late what life work they are best fitted for, unless they possess a talent so strong that it amounts to genius. How many of necessity are sent out into the world at an unformed age to slavery in order that they and their dependents may live. What chance or time have they, grinding away at any work which brings a dollar, to know for what work they are most suited. They know only when it is too late that they are bound by chains, crucifying themselves daily at tasks they hate, and for which they have no natural adaptation."

He paused, only to continue with fire: "Or, if they have ambitions, know what they would best like to do, how helpless they are. No money, no opportunity."

"I'll warrant, Mr. Massey," put in David, "that there are many men employed in your steel mills who by natural inclination are totally unfitted for their jobs. Now, wouldn't scientific investigation in their early manhood have helped to find for them the right place and so added to their happiness?"

"Well, I'm not interested in that part of the question; their happiness has nothing to do with me," returned John Massey. "I pay 'em their wages and that's enough. And I don't believe that every man is born with a special talent. They all look alike to me mostly."

"Every man is born with the capacity to do something in a way impossible to another," said the inventor with conviction. "There are no two persons alike in the world."

John Massey smiled. He really now felt that he was being entertained. Such another rare specimen as this inventor with his ridiculous contentions would be hard to find. So he said pleasantly: "And after the machine has recorded its findings, what then?"

"Then you, and other men like you who have accumulated fortunes—"

"Stop!" cried the capitalist. "Let me finish for you. After the machine has done its work, I'm to have the privilege of paying for the professional education or trade of these same impecunious young men."

"Exactly, sir. The institution you endow might be called the Temple of Natural Ability Appraisement. There the poor in money, but the rich in ambition may come; there the fumblers, the indecisive, may come to be put to a test. Ah, yours can be a great work."

"A great opportunity for you, Mr. Massey," emphasized David, the gardener. "I envy you."

"You'd help out, wouldn't you, Eagle Man?" Suzanna now cried with perfect faith in his good will. "You see, you'd have to when you remembered that there's a little silver chain stretching from your wrist to everybody else's in the world. It must be rubber-plated, I guess."

"What do you mean?" asked the Eagle Man, involuntarily casting his glance down to his wrist, his flow of satire dammed.

"That's what Drusilla told me; we all belong. And you can't do something mean without breaking the chain that binds you to somebody else."

"Ah, my dear," said the Eagle Man, letting his hand fall upon her bright hair, "you belong to a family of impossible visionaries." He looked over at Suzanna's father, and his face suddenly grew crimson. "Were you in earnest, Procter," he cried, "when you told me in Doane's hardware store that your machine meant a big opportunity to me—were you jesting?"

"Jesting! Why, I've pointed out your opportunity, plainly."

"Shown me how I can throw a fortune away!"

After a moment Mr. Procter replied: "We speak in different languages. By opportunity you can see only a chance to make more money."

"Any other sane person makes the same guess," Mr. Massey replied.

The inventor's face grew sad. He had dreamed of John Massey's response, a dream built on sand, as perhaps he should have known. But hope eternal sprang in his heart, and the belief that every man wished the best for his brother.

The silence continued. To break it Mr. Massey turned to David.

"Your friend seems to think he has but to put before me the need for charity and I shall thank him effusively."

David spoke slowly: "My friend should have known better. He forgot, I suppose, your slums where you house your mill hands."

"What do you mean by that?" Mr. Massey began, when an exclamation from Suzanna, who was standing at the window, turned his attention there.

"See, there's a big fire over behind the big field," she cried excitedly. "Oh, look at the flames! The poor, poor people!"

David sprang to the window. "It's over in the huddled district," he cried. A fierce light sprang to his eyes. "Where most of your men live with their families, John Massey. I wonder how many will escape."