With the first frost Judith closed her house at Braeburn and returned to the city. For a little while she rested quietly, recovering from the strenuous gaieties of the summer. Her friends—particularly the men—smiled when she said that she never had a vacation: but that was literally true. The demands upon her time were far more rigorous than were those of any business man of her acquaintance. In the conventional significance of the word her life was hardly toilsome, but it was none the less most arduously occupied.

There was the management of her huge house—in itself a task of no mean proportions. There were the board meetings of the various civic, religious and charitable organisations, to which she devoted a very conscientious interest. There were the inescapable appointments with her hairdresser, her manicurist, her masseuse, and the small army of personal attendants who joined their efforts in the conservation and embellishment of her body beautiful. There were the "courses" she must take, the books that must be read, and the plays that must be seen. And finally, as an end or as a cause—she never could determine which—were the luncheons, the receptions, the dinners, the calls, and the balls, which followed one another in never ending course and in never ending monotony.

After a few weeks of what was as near to inaction as she ever attained, Judith plunged anew into the rapid course she had swum since childhood. But for the first time in her life, she was consciously dissatisfied. For the first time she knew, and admitted that she knew, that her multifarious activities were not enough. There was something lacking. It was in such a mood that Imrie found her when he came up to see her one evening. For the first time in the years he had known her, there were little lines of discontent and ennui about her mouth. Her usual vivacity, her cheerful wit, seemed to have vanished, and in their place was a seriousness that was almost sullen, a conversational reserve that was almost hostile.

But he was not wholly sorry that he found her so. He had come on a mission of business, and he was rather glad that her attitude seemed to preclude anything savouring of the personal. He still felt somewhat sensitive at the recollection of the circumstances of their last meeting. He broached his topic quickly.

"I've brought the plans," he said briskly, "and some sketches. They are wonderful, I think. McKee has spent a lot of time on them. It won't be a Westminster, of course, but there will be nothing in this part of the country to compare with it."

He spread the prints out before her with a curious mixture of pride and enthusiasm and complacency; pride in this long-cherished darling of his heart, a St. Viateur's which should rival the most splendid temples of the old world; enthusiasm for the co-operation accorded by architects and designers; complacency for the magnitude of his own achievement. He was not aggressively self-satisfied: but he was far from insensible to the fact that he was extraordinarily young to be the rector of as rich and powerful a congregation as that of St. Viateur's. And a chance remark, overheard one day in the University Club, spoken by his bishop to one of his vestrymen, sounded not unreasonably in his ears—"He will go far—young Imrie."

But he was disappointed at Judith's reception. She fingered the drawings listlessly, and admired them without enthusiasm. His own eagerness cooled before her unexpressed indifference. He had come fired with his dream. Before her it paled and died to grey ashes. Its beauty faded, leaving only a question and dull pain. It was very dear to him. It represented achievement, success, glory—and all three won in the service of man and to the greater honour and glory of God: but Judith was dearer still. For her not to rejoice with him was to take all joy out of it. He sat wounded and silent, unable to go on, almost not caring.

"It will cost ... a great deal...." she said, more meditatively than interrogatively. He nodded, wondering at her tone.

"Do you think it's the best way to spend that much money?" she shot at him suddenly, her brows knitted. It surprised him, but he answered promptly:

"I know of none better."

She stared at him and through him for a moment. Then her mood seemed to change. She laughed metallically, and reaching lazily toward a silver box at her elbow, selected a cigarette and lighted it. It was a deliberate thrust. Always hitherto she had refrained from such indulgence before him.

"Come, Arnold," she said cruelly. "You don't honestly believe that, do you?"

The insolence of her pose, one knee over the other, the cigarette in her hand, the challenging note in her voice, hurt him more than her previous indifference.

"I don't think I can discuss that," he said, rather loftily.

Her smile faded. "Well, you ought to discuss it. You've got to defend it. You've got to prove it. Don't be absurd, Arnold."

He was dumfounded. It was so unlike her. He had never seen her in such a mood. But he ascribed it to the incomprehensible nature of womankind. He knew from the fiction he had read that women do very irrational things, frequently, if not as a general rule, saying the precise opposite of their meaning. He tried to change the subject. But to his surprise she refused to change with him.

"Don't people make you defend your position?" she persisted.

"No one has."

She was silent momentarily. Then she returned to the attack, almost doggedly.

"Well, then, let me be the first. This church will cost...."

"Six hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars," he supplied coldly. He regretted that circumstances had forced him into what was beyond dispute a refined form of beggary. But he had realised from the start that success of this sort was quite essential to eminence in the clergy, and he had resolutely fought down his distaste. But it angered him to be so brutally reminded of his status, particularly by a creature whom he sedulously deified. She seemed deliberately intent upon leaving the pedestal he had constructed for her.

Again she was silent, surveying him with a smile that he thought was unpleasantly cynical. It seemed also that there was a noticeable admixture of contempt for him. His anger gave way to pain. He racked his brain for an explanation of her attitude.

"That's a great deal of money," she said unpleasantly. "And with it you're going to build a marble palace on our finest street. Do you know what I think, Arnold?" she added, not unkindly. "I think you've gotten art and religion mixed."

He shrugged his shoulders at that, not knowing how to reply, and she went on, her tone changing imperceptibly, as she spoke, from a scarcely concealed bitterness, to one that was almost argumentative.

"In theory, of course, the Church is for the lame and the halt and blind, the poor and the sick and the friendless, isn't it?"

He nodded, feeling curiously uncomfortable. He did not like to have his mission in life subjected to such matter-of-fact analysis, and besides, it filled him with a vague interrogation.

"Well, what will this wonderful church do for the poor and the...."

"We are to have a gymnasium and a library and...."

"What nonsense," she snapped. "You're going to have them all miles from the nearest poor. That's an absurd answer."

"Judith, what is the matter?" he pleaded. "You were never like this before."

She ignored the question.

"Why aren't you honest?" she countered. "Why don't you admit that it's all for the Wynrods, and the Wolcotts and the Warings and the ... why don't you admit that it's just a monument to pride, pure and simple?"

He was aghast. Also he was offended, to the depths of his soul. She had trampled deliberately on what was dear to him, and subtly, but no less certainly, she had made an implication which roused in him all the resentment of which he was capable. But the very thought of resentment brought with it the recollection of all his professional training. Arnold Imrie was perilously close to a very human display of temper, but the Reverend Arnold saved him.

"For some reason," he said slowly, in a manner that to her savoured of the pulpit, "you seem unwilling to discuss this matter reasonably. I don't think you are fair to it—or to me—which is unlike you. Some other time, when you are in a different mood, we will perhaps talk about it again." He rolled up his plans and rose. "I will bid you good evening, Judith."

"Very properly rebuked," laughed Judith insolently. "I admire your self control. But you're so proper, Arnold. If you were only a little more ... oh, well—but I haven't been condemning you—entirely. It's what you stand for. It isn't that you're a snob—but you're being—doing—oh, I'd like to put things as clearly as you can. I'd make you understand me, if I only knew how to. But I...."

"I think I understand very well," he interrupted sharply. A thought, a half-formulated suspicion, had flitted across his mind.

"No, you don't. You think I'm poking fun at you—just to be nasty. It isn't that. I'm serious—really. Only somehow—you don't impress me as much as you used to. You—your ideas—what you stand for—oh, they don't seem to very much matter. Your kind of religion seems to me—I've thought it more and more—it seems to me a sort of hobby. It's just for Sundays."

He stared at her aghast, seeming to waver between grief and righteous anger. But he said nothing. She went on coolly.

"I guess the trouble with you, Arnold, is that you're too much of a clergyman—not enough of an ordinary sinful man."

He wavered no longer. His suspicion crystallised into certainty. His words came through his teeth as if shot from a cannon. The Reverend Arnold Imrie, for the first time in years, lost his temper, and lost it with a completeness and animation that was magnificent. He turned suddenly and glared at Judith, his face pale. Then he shot a trembling finger at her.

"So," he snapped. "Six weeks of this—this—anarchist—can shatter the faith of a lifetime. Such a faith. A Wynrod, too.... It is—I dare not say what it is."

But he did dare. He launched into a passionate diatribe, which to Judith, listening patiently, sounded very much like a funeral oration over the body of a notorious scoundrel, so compounded it was of scorn and pity and utter certainty of ultimate damnation and complacent self-satisfaction that he was not as such. It was accompanied by familiar pulpit gesticulations, used so long that they had become unconscious. As he talked he paced back and forth, pausing now and again to emphasise a point with a resounding thump on his hand. It was excellent—oratory. But all through she had the feeling that it was only a sermon, that the recital of her iniquities, so vividly phrased, was only academic. And as he made his peroration, more from a lack of breath than a lack of ideas, she laughed—mirthfully, unrestrainedly.

He stopped as if shot. He stared at her as if he could not believe his ears.

"Very wonderful, Arnold," said Judith lazily, "but very absurd."

Flouted to the depths of his soul, Imrie gathered up his papers anew. It was as if a priest, praying passionately to his idols, had suddenly raised his eyes to find them with their thumbs to their noses. It was a ghastly dream. He was like a ship that has dragged its anchor. He was drifting in uncharted waters. The most dependable of his flock, the dearest of his friends, the star of the best that was in him, had deliberately, thoroughly, and without any effort at concealment, held up all that he held sacred, to ridicule. His chagrin showed in his face, and Judith was a little appalled by what she had done. But she would not have recalled a word or a glance. She was sorry to see his pain, but for all its harshness, she felt that he would emerge better for the treatment. The mind needs an occasional physic, no less than the body. She had rocked the ponderous bulk of the Reverend Arnold Imrie on its foundations. If it settled back into its original place, none the worse for the rocking, so much the better for the foundations. If it did not, ... well, the new position could not be less satisfying than the old. And there was a possibility that it might be better.

She smiled back at his frigid bow with the feeling of a mother who has spanked an obstreperous child.

"For the good of your soul, Arnold," she whispered under her breath, "and the greater honour and glory of God."

For a long time after Imrie had left, she pondered, trying to put in a phrase the exact idea she had meant to give him. Finally it came to her, in a single word—honesty. And then, as an inevitable corollary, came the thought of the man who exemplified honesty as did no one else she knew. She thought of that deprecating little lift of his hands—so characteristic, so significant. With a smile that was not without tears, she picked up a book and made an effort to read.

The next day was Sunday. As she dressed she tried to decide whether she would go to church or not, and concluded that she would not. There were a number of books, she thought rebelliously, which would prove more profitable than Arnold's sermon. So, after breakfast, she made herself comfortable by the window in the library, and began one—one of the many, incidentally, which Good had sent to her. She saw him infrequently, but his books came constantly, and she often wondered if he appreciated the subtle compliment he paid her with each one of what she knew must be a slender treasure. They came spasmodically, as if he rushed them to her when some fancy was hot in his mind. There would be a poem, with characteristic comment all around the margins of the page, and an injunction on the fly leaf to "skip the rest"; or a ponderous volume of economics, with the information that it was poppycock, save for a paragraph on page 266. Sometimes it would be only a pencilled scrap of paper, with an amusing anecdote thereon, or just an illuminating epigram. He seemed to wish to share with her the pleasures of his mind. No one had ever shown that wish to her before.

The volume in her hand had come from him only a day or two before. It was thick and heavy and very austerely bound. It surprised her to see that it was new. He seldom sent her new books. She glanced idly through the pages before she happened to note the title. Then her whole manner changed. It was as if someone had spoken to her sharply. The words burned themselves into her consciousness. The small gilt letters shouted like live things. "Proceedings of the Congressional Committee of Inquiry into the Conditions Obtaining in the Algoma Mine Fields."

As she went on from the title to the contents, her indolent apathy changed rapidly to intent immersion. Occasionally her fingers clinched involuntarily and her eyebrows knitted. Once she even dropped the book and covered her eyes with her hands. It was a terrible narrative which unfolded itself before her, made more terrible by the emotionless dispassion of the telling. It was a story of bribery and corruption, of murder begetting murder, with the stupid folly of more murder as its cure, of the weakest and most helpless paying the price, of race hatred, of greed,—the whole nauseous catalogue of human frailties was laid before her, with less feeling than the Homeric catalogue of ships.

As her imagination took fire, it seemed to her that the poison of selfishness, festering in a far-away hole in the ground, had oozed out and over the land, marking its slimy trail in legislatures, in churches, in the homes of the highest, until, finally, it had reached her own library. She grew sick and faint as the pestilential tale expanded, and horror was piled upon horror.

The indictment made one thing clear. Algoma was not a mere morbid growth, to be extirpated by force, but an evidence of disease: and a disease, not of individuals or of classes, but of a civilisation. The roots of that disease were not, as a circular from a mine manager had said, in the "tyrannous labour unions." They went far deeper than that. They were in her own heart and brain. They were in the hearts and brains of every man and woman in the world.

It was the explanation of the mine owners, she knew, that they fought for "the right of the American workman to work for whom, what and when he pleased." It was the defence of the miners that they fought for the power of organisation.

Both quarrels were just, she felt with a terrible sense of hopelessness: both demanded the right to rule. Both would fight to the death for that right. It was folly to hope for an equal division of power. The line was too fine, too fluctuating. One or the other must lose. Talk of concessions, of improvement of conditions, only obscured the issue. She put herself momentarily in the place of the employers, the men of her class, the men she knew: and her jaw hardened. Freedom was the essence of American life. She would never permit those who took her bread to dictate what and how she should give it. She would fight to the end for her freedom.

Then, resolutely, she put herself in the place of those who demanded that she yield that freedom. Unconsciously her fingers clenched. She saw quite clearly that "freedom" took on a different meaning then. It became "tyranny." These creatures who came up out of the earth to burn and destroy, who flouted law and the rights of property, were but fragments of mankind's never-ending fight for liberty. Though, in their groping progress toward the goal, they wallowed in blood and folly, destroying the good with the bad, murdering the saints with the sinners, none the less were they a part of the blundering march of democracy.

Algoma was but an outpost of a struggle that was universal. The crust of convention and pretence had burst through momentarily, and the seething cauldron, full of the molten future, was exposed to frightened eyes.

As the hours passed, a new point of view took form in Judith's mind, and things which had always been quite clear now seemed not clear at all. She had never been more thoroughly muddled in her life, but she realised with a sense of satisfaction that the very confusion of her mind indicated the wiping away of those specious answers to all questions which had been an absolute preventive against any real speculation. Her slate was blank. There was room for new writing.

But over and over again recurred the question, "Why don't people think about these things?" She wanted to rush out and wipe the slates of her friends clear of their comfortable sophistries. She wanted to make them understand that because a man preached change he was not as dangerous as the man who preached inaction when there was a volcano under their feet. Why must they always destroy their Cassandras?

She was at a pitch of exaltation which she had seldom attained before when John Baker, the most phlegmatic person she knew, was announced.

He greeted her seriously, as he greeted everyone, and accomplished the conversational preliminaries in the fewest possible words. Then he made clear the purpose of his visit.

"I have bad news for you," he said calmly.

"Yes?" Judith's manner was as placid as his own, though a thousand questions flashed across her mind.

He cleared his throat. "It is a fact that even the shrewdest men make bad investments—indefensible investments," he said profoundly, as if the discovery were his own.

"Oh...." Her fears vanished. He was the harbinger only of financial trouble.

"Your father," he went on without haste, "was an extraordinarily shrewd man. But even he...."

"... made bad investments?"

"Exactly."

"Well ... tell me the worst—I am brave," she laughed.

"For some reason, impossible to explain, he became possessed of a majority of the bonds of The Dispatch. It is a curious thing. He must have known that a newspaper presents the worst possible field for inactive investment. No property changes more rapidly in transition from a going condition to a forced sale."

"What about the bonds?"

"That is my bad news. The Dispatch has not been financially successful for years. The present owners have resolved to give up the losing struggle."

"I see. But where does that affect me?"

"You hold their bonds. They intend to default on the payment of further interest—and, of course, principal as well."

"Oh...." Judith felt that she should evidence dismay at least sufficient to match Baker's gravity. But there were too many unpleasant things in the world for her to furrow her brow over the loss of a few thousands from her annual income. An admission of that, she knew, however, would shock him: so she contented herself with a noncommittal monosyllable.

"You will lose heavily," he continued. "The bonds constitute a first lien on the property, to be sure, but most of the property consists of good-will, which is not very good, so I'm told. Really all you can hope for is the proceeds from the sale of the machinery and furniture. They'll sell for only a fraction of their value, too. Really, it's quite too bad." The genuine regret in his voice almost made her smile. It was so incongruous that he, who lost nothing, should be so much more affected than she, who lost everything.

"What will become of the paper?" she asked.

"Following foreclosure proceedings a receiver will be appointed, and in the course of time it will be sold at auction—that is, a sale will be held."

"But you don't think anyone will buy it?"

"It is hardly likely."

"Then the paper will be on my hands?"

"Yes—on yours and on those of the other bondholders," he admitted regretfully.

"A nice white elephant!" she cried.

His face brightened ever so slightly. "There's just a bare possibility that we can sell it. Even if we got only a fraction of its worth it would be better than nothing at all."

"Of course," she agreed. Her manner seemed to indicate that her thoughts were far away.

"There is a group of men," he continued, "wealthy men, who have talked more or less seriously of purchasing a newspaper that would give voice to the conservative element. They feel that they would be doing a public service in offsetting the demagoguery and sensationalism of most of the popular press. I don't know how serious they are, or how much they are prepared to spend. It's just a possibility. Still...."

"Who are these men?" asked Judith sharply.

"Well, there's Parker Ralston, and Anderson LeGore, and Henry Waring and...."

"I see." There was a curious note in Judith's voice which Baker was unable to explain, and she seemed to stare at something beyond and behind him. The suggestion of someone else in the room was so strong that he turned around. But all he saw was a pile of books on a chair. They were too far away for him to note that one of them was severely labelled "Proceedings of the Congressional Committee of Inquiry into the Conditions Obtaining in the Algoma Mine Fields."

"If I was unwilling to sell out to those men," she said suddenly, "what then?"

"You couldn't refuse. The sale would be held by the receiver, for the benefit of the other bondholders as well as yourself. Besides, why should you refuse even two cents on the dollar, when refusal would mean nothing?"

She ignored his question. "Suppose I wanted to get possession of the paper myself?"

"What in the world would you want it for?"

"Well, just for fun, let's suppose I did want it. How could I get it?"

"You could purchase the other bonds, and at the termination of the receivership the paper would revert to you, unless you chose to sell."

"How long would that take?"

"About eighteen months."

"And if I wanted it immediately?"

"What are you talking about, my dear child?"

"Never mind that," she cried impatiently, "we're just supposing, you know. The point is, how could I get it right away?"

"Well, you might purchase the paper from the present owners for a nominal sum—merely assume their obligations. That would mean that if you wanted to keep it you'd have to meet the interest on the bonds and ultimately, the principal too."

She was thoughtful for a moment, her chin on her hand. Then her question came sharply. "What would that cost?"

"The bonds?"

"No, immediate possession."

"That depends. It's hard to say, offhand."

"Well, approximately?"

"Oh, comparatively little. Just a nominal sum. It's really nothing more than a consideration to make the transaction legal. The expense wouldn't come until later. But why, my dear girl...."

"This is all just supposing, you know," she interrupted with a smile.

"Very well, just supposing—but why should you even suppose such a plan? Why should you want to take over a proposition which has been demonstrably unprofitable, even in skilled hands?"

"How about Mr. Waring, and this man Ralston, and Anderson LeGore?"

"But they're very wealthy."

"Yes, but so am I wealthy," she said ingenuously.

He was momentarily nonplussed. "But they would manage it for a purpose, rather than for profit," he cried.

"Well, suppose I wanted to manage it for a purpose rather than for profit?"

Baker rose and put his hand on her shoulder, as a suspicion took form in his mind. "Judith—you're not ... serious?"

She tossed her head and smiled enigmatically. "And if I were?"

He had no reply ready for that elfish question, so obviously, it seemed to him, designed for the purpose of arousing him to argument. And when he was silent, that guess seemed to be confirmed, for Judith's momentary animation faded. She put her question quite indifferently.

"I suppose there's nothing for me to do, is there?"

"Oh, no. I just dropped in to prepare you for anything you might read and wonder about. Things will take their course. Just don't worry."

Judith concealed a smile as she assured him that she would not. "When will they officially default?" she asked.

"Oh, in a week or two."

"Well, let's hope for the best."

"Yes, I have great hopes of this Waring-LeGore-Ralston combination. It is quite possible that something may come of it. But don't be too sanguine," he added, as if fearful that he had raised her hopes unduly.

Judith wandered about restlessly after he left her. John Baker would have been shocked indeed had he known the thoughts coursing in her brain. But she was not permitted even to muse for very long.

In a few moments Roger came in, looking very tired and depressed. But at her solicitous inquiries he was noncommittal. He picked up a newspaper and read for a moment, listlessly. Then he threw it down.

"Where were you last night?" she inquired, with a suspicion born of long experience.

"Molly's," he replied shortly.

"That all?"

"Yes."

"Why so solemn, then?"

He lit a cigarette and flicked the match deftly into the fireplace. "Oh, we had it out, and she—said things."

"What things?"

"The same line you get off. About my not doing anything—and all that."

"About not working, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Well—you have been a little slow at getting started, haven't you?"

He fired up hotly at that.

"And what if I have? It hasn't been for lack of trying, let me tell you. I've been doing my best to get a job ever since I said I would."

"And you can't get one?" Judith smiled incredulously.

"No. Oh, of course there's plenty of chance to invest some money and be treasurer and all that, but I mean a regular job. I've tried everywhere." He hung his head dejectedly.

"What seems to be the trouble?"

"Those who know me know me too well. And those who don't know me—don't know me," he answered cryptically. "And I don't know anything, myself."

"I'm so sorry," she said helplessly.

"How do you suppose." He switched the topic suddenly. "How do you suppose a chap without any pull or any friends—a fellow like Good, for instance—gets jobs?"

Before the echo of Roger's words had died from the air, a maid stood in the doorway, announcing the presence of Good himself.

"Why not ask him?" said Judith obviously. And when the tall man came in, still dressed in his familiarly shabby brown suit, Roger put the question.

"How did I get my first job," he repeated slowly, with a twinkle in his eye. "Well—I asked for one—and I kept on asking for one until I got it."

"But that's just what I've done," protested Roger.

"Perhaps you're more particular than I was."

"I'm not a bit particular," cried the younger man earnestly. "I'd do anything. I've gotten over being particular."

"No, my boy, you haven't," smiled Good. Then a faint shadow crossed his face, and he added softly, "You've never been hungry."

Judith hoped that he would amplify the intimation. But as so often happened, he began a theme only to dismiss it. His tone changed and he turned briskly to her.

"Well, Miss Wynrod, why don't you do something to help the lad?"

"Me?" she echoed in surprise. "What can I do?"

"Would you be willing to spend some money—quite a large sum, too, as such things go? Not very large for you, though," he added with the reflective candour that never failed to astonish and delight her. "Would you invest something—to see him well started in an enterprise of the utmost—value?"

Roger's curiosity was plain on his face. But Good seemed only to watch Judith narrowly. She looked wonderingly up at him, as he stood, half-smiling, before her.

"Have you a definite opening?"

"Perhaps," he said quizzically.

"On what does it depend?" she asked, fencing with him.

"On you!"

"Oh, please don't be absurd," she cried, as her interest got the better of her. "Do tell me what this is all about."

"And where do I figure?" asked Roger, with a touch of annoyance in his voice. "As far as I can see you're talking to Judith. Where do I get off?"

"It concerns her as much as it does you," said Good shortly, his smile fading and the vertical lines deepening between his eyes, a plain sign to Judith that he was far from badinage. "In fact," he added seriously, "I think it concerns her even more."

"Then perhaps my absence would be preferable to my company?" demanded Roger with considerable asperity. Good's reply surprised both him and his sister.

"Yes," he said, "I think it would. If you'll leave us for a bit, I'll tell your sister what's on my mind. Then, if she likes, she can tell you."

Roger jumped to his feet. "Well," he cried, "it strikes me that you're disposing of me pretty easily. I'm of age, you know."

"If you say much more," said Good mildly, "I'll be tempted to clear out and try an interview with your sister some other time. Now—if you please."

As soon as the sound of Roger's grumbling had died away, Good burst abruptly into speech.

"Miss Wynrod," he said curtly, "before I put my proposition to you, I want to know whether you are prepared to spend some money for that boy's future—not to speak of your own?"

"How much money?" she asked, principally to regain the poise that his inexplicable earnestness had driven from her.

"A good deal."

She smiled faintly. Would she spend "a good deal" for Roger? The thought almost made her laugh aloud. But she controlled herself, and her reply was almost indifferent in tone.

"Yes—if I thought the plan promised well."

"I knew it, of course," cried Good. Then he drew his chair closer to hers, and emphasising his points with his long forefinger against the palm of his hand, began.

"To begin with, Miss Wynrod, you know how I feel toward the press. We've talked it over often. You know I believe that to turn this old world over and set it on its feet where it belongs, all clean and sound and sweet, the first thing we've got to have is truth—truth, truth, always truth and more truth—nothing whatever but truth, nothing evaded or concealed. In a word, we've got to have a free and a candid press. You understand all that, don't you?"

His eyes clouded and a look of anxiety came into them. But it was dispelled at her answer.

"I'm not deaf, Mr. Good."

"Well...." He stopped and scratched his head as if something eluded him. "I'm so full of it all—all the time—that I don't know where to begin. It's my great dream. Every dreamer has one particular dream. This is mine. I've been on the hunt for my chance. Now when it seems to be here I don't know how to seize it. I'm afraid of saying the wrong thing and spoiling it all. For years I've been looking for a millionaire—some one to endow my dream. You're the one I've picked. You understand, I think. I don't seem so crazy to you. And you've got the stuff in you to stand the gaff when things go hard. It's not so hard to get money, but sympathy ... faith ... people stop when the light goes out. You're different. You'd go on. You ... do you follow me?"

He stopped and surveyed her anxiously. The deep creases over his nose, his short sentences, the sharp nervous movements of his hands, all betrayed the stress under which he spoke. It would disappoint him, perhaps stop him altogether, if she said that she did not follow. But as she assured him that she did, she wondered how much of his meaning she really missed. Nevertheless her manner seemed to satisfy him.

"If I went to you and asked for money to build a hospital or a school, or a church—"

She looked up sharply at that. But it was plain that there was no covert meaning in his words. He went on intently.

"You'd think that understandable enough. You'd probably hand it over. But, Miss Wynrod, I want your money for something of greater value to society than all the churches and hospitals put together. I want you to put your money to work clearing up this muddled old world of ours by bringing sunshine and oxygen and hope and understanding into men's minds. I want you—how can I possibly make clear to you how much I want it—I want you to—to—buy ... a newspaper!"

He stopped and waited for her to speak. But she could only echo the word stupidly. Then she managed to convey to him that she wanted him to go on. He did, but his voice seemed to have lost something of its intensity, and his words came with more confidence.

"Yes. I've told you so indirectly many times. But I never made it personal, partly because I hated to put my hopes to the test, partly because there seemed no opening. Now I have the opening. The divinity that shapes our ends is doing its best for me, it seems. I learned yesterday that The Dispatch would sell out at a ridiculous figure. That made me screw my courage up to the testing point. I came up this morning to tell you about it. Then your brother—why, it couldn't have worked out better for me! The opportunity his future offers as a lever to move you ... well, Miss Wynrod, what do you think?"

She laughed unaffectedly at that.

"What do I think? Heavens. How can I think. You fire an entirely novel idea at me and expect me to answer at once. You've stunned me."

"But it's not new," cried Good. "We've talked the idea of this over a hundred times."

"The oldest thing in the world is new when it's applied to one's self for the first time," said Judith sententiously.

"Still, it isn't really new, is it?" he persisted.

"Well—not entirely," she admitted.

"Of course not. It's Roger's part in it that's new. That bewilders you, of course."

"What is his part?" she interrupted.

"Running a newspaper is exactly like running any other kind of a business—only harder. He'd be the manager—with assistance of course—with a chance to make all out of himself that he can. He'd be your representative."

"I see," she said thoughtfully. "That seems to dispose of him. Now where does Brent Good fit into the scheme of things?"

"Wherever he fits. Give him $15 a week and he'd fit anywhere. That would be enough of a raise over his present honorarium to justify him in changing."

"You're joking," she cried.

"About the salary? Not a bit. It's enough. Besides, it leaves room for promotion. As a matter of fact I've been told by potential employers that it was too much."

Good was silent then, and Judith also, each waiting for the other to speak. But it happened that the silence was finally broken by Roger, whose impatience had become too much to bear any longer.

"Well," he said from the doorway, with a most elaborate attempt at casuality. "Is the great mystery about to be revealed?"

Good looked inquiringly at Judith, and she motioned to Roger.

"Sit down, Roger," she said quietly. "Mr. Good has a plan to offer." Then she hesitated momentarily. "If the idea appeals to you—I am prepared to back you."

Good turned a startled but grateful gaze upon her. But she affected not to see him. He turned quickly to Roger. Eloquently and passionately he described the opportunity he offered. Judith, entranced in spite of herself, followed him intently, while Roger, from derision, went successively into interest, to close attention, and finally to unbounded enthusiasm. Judith divined the subtle flattery with which Good concealed his profounder motives: to the young man he was only opening up an alluring vista of personal glory.

"Well, Roger," said Good finally, "what's your verdict?"

Roger turned to his sister, his eyes shining. "It's great!" he whispered. "Will you go through with it, sis?"

Judith heard him only vaguely. Her thoughts, strangely enough, were with Imrie and his church. But she nodded affirmatively. She seemed only to be granting another of the endless string of permissions that had marked her maternal care of him through the years. And the way in which he ran to her and threw his arms about her and hugged her, was very familiar. His part in it all seemed curiously unreal. But Good's calm voice brought home to her the magnitude of the step upon which she was so blithely deciding.

"One thing, Miss Wynrod. The Dispatch can be bought for very little. But the kind of paper you are going to make out of it won't make much money—not for a while. It may cost—quite a little. Do you understand?" he added sharply, his eyes seeming to speak to her alone.

She caught their message. "Yes," she said calmly; "I understand perfectly."

Good rose, and pulled a pair of well-worn gloves from his pocket.

"You'll have to act quickly."

"Why?"

"There's a syndicate of reactionaries ready to take it, I'm told. Talk it over, you two—discuss the bad parts mostly. I'll call you up in the morning. Then, if you want to go through it, get your lawyer and we'll settle it up. Good-bye."

"Oh, wait," cried Roger. "There's a million questions I want to ask you."

"No. You two talk it over. I'm out of it—till to-morrow." And with that he seized his hat, and in a moment was striding down the avenue. Judith watched him from the window until he was out of sight. Then she turned to Roger.

"Does it really appeal to you, lad?" she asked wistfully.

"It certainly does," he cried with enthusiasm. "And besides I don't see how I'll ever get into business unless I buy my way in. This is a chance in a million. There's money in newspapers. Look at The Press. Why, you couldn't buy its stock—not at any price."

Tears forced themselves into Judith's eyes. She wondered if she ought to let Roger deceive himself. She knew all too clearly that Good's ambitions lay not along the route of money. She wondered fearfully if he could transform Roger's ideals from the conventional worship of profit-taking to something less substantial and less understood. But as she thought what he had already accomplished with the boy, her fears vanished, giving place to a feeling of awe. What was the secret of this man's fascination, that he could force her to yield implicit faith to his lightest word? What caused him to be able, not merely to convert her to the most amazing ideas, but actually to make her join him in the propaganda? She had a premonition of what John Baker would say when she told him her decision. Then the recollection of the salary which Good had proposed for himself came to her, and she smiled.

All that day and until far into the night, she and Roger discussed the great idea. Or rather, Roger talked and planned and dreamed, and she listened. And as she listened to his enthusiasm, the first of his life over anything really worth while, her resolution crystallised. If she could give money toward the building of a church in which her interest was undeniably decreasing, she could give money toward the building of her brother into manhood. And she was far from overlooking the opportunity for herself. She had never heard of a woman going into the publishing of newspapers, but Good's enthusiasm for the high ends to be attained had fired her more than she realised, and as the hours passed, she flamed higher with real enthusiasm for what had, at first thought, seemed the wildest of wild projects. Before she retired, her mind was quite made up. She, idler and parasite, would play a part in the world of affairs.

The next morning, calm but determined, and speaking her thoughts in few words, she was in John Baker's office. Briefly and clearly, she made known to him the resolution she had taken. His jaw dropped as he listened, and his usual immobility of countenance quite deserted him. He tried to smile.

"So you want to buy it, eh?" To conceal his amazement, he walked to the window. "Why don't you throw your money out here?" he asked. "You can lose it that way with less trouble."

Judith had no answering smile. Her eyes narrowed and her lips formed a little straighter line.

"Will you draw up the papers for me, John? I've phoned Mr. Good, and he will be here any minute."

"Mr. Good, eh? You have a good deal of faith in him, haven't you? So he's the nigger in the pile, is he?"

"Have you any reason not to have faith in him?" Baker was silent, and a curious expression, which she could not fathom, formed on his face.

"No," he murmured finally, with what seemed like an effort, "I have not."

"Personally I have the utmost confidence in him," said Judith with a shortness which brooked no further discussion of the topic. Baker looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. Then he pressed a button on his desk.

"It's your funeral, Judith. I never thought you were a fool...."

"Before?" she interrupted, with her first smile.

It was significant that he made no reply.

In due course Good arrived, accompanied by another lawyer, a tall, thin man, with a prodigious moustache, who said absolutely nothing that was intelligible to her. While he and Baker were conferring, Good drew her into an ante-room and closed the door.

He was greatly agitated, and the perspiration kept coming out on his forehead in spite of his constant efforts to wipe it away. He presented a curious contrast to her perfect calm.

"Miss Wynrod—before we go into this thing—you must know what it means—absolutely. I mustn't hide anything."

"Don't I know all?" She lifted her eyebrows. She smiled inwardly as she thought how much more she knew about it than Good did.

He paced nervously in front of her. "I hope so. I don't know. But you must."

"What is lacking?"

"It's going to cost—more than the purchase price—"

"I know that."

"It's going to cost more than you guess—incalculably more."

"I don't understand."

"I know—but you must. We're going to dedicate this paper to one thing—the truth. Sometimes the truth isn't easy to tell. The telling of it may bring you—it may—oh, don't you see—those closest to you—dearest to you—they may be the least able to stand the truth. You don't know what it means. You can't. Are you ready to forsake—all? ... I mean that literally, Miss Wynrod." She had never seen him so utterly excited, so moved to the depths. "Are you ready to give up everything that has been dear to you in the days that are gone, for this crazy ideal? For if you are not," he finished with a solemnity that brought a queer lump to her throat, "I had much rather that you stopped before you began."

She rose and faced him, and her eyes looked steadily into his. They gleamed dull grey, like the hulls of battleships on the fighting line, and her chin was grimly firm. The stock from which she sprang had been a pioneering stock, and none who bore the name of Wynrod, in days when life was simple but hard, had turned back when once their hands were on the plough. Their sturdy courage was in her blood, and the echo of that Hugh Wynrod who had defied his King and left all that life had held dear for him, to seek a new life in a new world, for the sake of an ideal, sounded in her vibrant voice.

"I understand, Mr. Good. I am ready—for anything."

"It means—fight—always," he said softly.

"I have played always. I want—fight."

"Then shake," he cried. "We'll go through—to the end!"

"To the end," she echoed, as she seized his outstretched hand. Then the tension snapped suddenly.

"How absurd," she laughed. "We're behaving like pirates in a melodrama. Let's go in the other room and be rational people."

But Good did not even attempt to smile.