The next afternoon Good got together an account of his stewardship and went to see Judith, who was at Braeburn. He took the four o'clock train.

Several stations out, a roughly dressed man entered the car and took the seat next to him. Presently he asked for a match, and with that as an opening, requested what, with delicate euphemism, he characterised as a "loan" of a pipeful of tobacco.

"When were you discharged?" asked Good quietly, as he handed over his pouch. The man changed colour and seemed to shrink visibly into the corner of his seat.

"Who the ... I haven't been discharged," he stammered.

"Deserter, then?"

"I don't get ye."

"What's the use of stalling," said Good. "I've served myself."

The man looked over his shoulder furtively. "How did ye know?" he whispered.

"It takes a long time to lose that set to your shoulders, my friend."

"Well—what ye goin' to do about it?" The question was put more with resignation than defiance.

Good raised his eyebrows. "Do about it? Why—what is there to do?"

"There's a bounty up," muttered the deserter savagely.

"Of course—but what of it?"

"Aw, cut that stuff! Call the con and cash in. Might as well be now as later." The words were uttered wearily, as if the speaker's strength were at a low ebb. "I'm sick o' chasin' round an' starvin'. At least I'll get my belly full in stir. Nothin' to this game. I been on the jump ever since I ... left. I knew one o' you dicks 'd get me some time. Go on—make the pinch."

"You think I'm a dick?"

"Well—ain't ye?"

"Hardly."

"Hell—I thought you was." There was no particular regret in the man's voice. He seemed to have lost any very keen interest in what fate might do with him further.

"Out of work?" asked Good, after a pause.

"Most o' the time. Can't stay in one place long."

"Where you bound for now?"

"Country. Got a chance on a farm."

"That's the safest place. Got any money?"

"Two bits. I'm flush to-day."

"Here's two more. Four's luck."

The man eyed his benefactor narrowly. "Say," he ventured, "you look's if you was kind o' up against it yerself."

"More or less," said Good shortly. A moment later Braeburn was reached, and he rose.

"Here's luck, bo," said the deserter. "Got a job?"

Good's only reply was a faint smile. But it was such a curious smile that the other man thought about it for a long time afterward. He concluded that its owner had no job. He almost regretted that he had accepted the quarter.

It was well on in November, though summer seemed to have returned for a fleeting visit. But in spite of the warmth Good's heart was heavy as he trudged up the winding road, where death had almost overtaken him, and where the happiest chapter of his life had begun. He almost wished he were going again to interview the rich Miss Wynrod for The Workman's World.

But although, for the most part, his gaze was introspective, he was not wholly blind to the splendour of the world about him. Beside the road the oaks and maples seemed to bow and scrape to one another, garbed, like the Assyrian, in purple and gold, with here and there a flash of poignant scarlet. The distant hills, glowing warmly in the soft haze, were great strips of Scotch tweed. Now and again, borne on the breeze, came the pungent odour of burning leaves.

He halted, more than once, to draw a long breath and marvel at the glories of the scene. It was peaceful but not quiet. The fallen leaves rustled incessantly, and the squirrels, not at all deceived by this pretence of summer, went busily on with their preparations for what was coming, chattering volubly the while. The sound of a whistle drifted faintly from the distant railroad, that man and his works should not be forgotten, even here.

Good's clouded brow cleared, and the heaviness dropped from his heart. He had come from the clamorous city, with its strife, its falsities, its bitter disappointments; and presently he would return. But now, for one brief moment, in the midst of sweet, mysterious odours, and sweeter memories, he was very happy.

He kicked the leaves around his feet exultantly, like a boy, and tried to persuade every squirrel he saw to come and taste the mythical peanut he held in his fingers. The squirrels were wary, but a little dog limped up to him wagging a fragmentary tail and whining faintly. He stopped to analyse the whine, and as a result a troublesome burr ceased longer to trouble. The animal followed him the rest of the way to the Wynrod house.

The man turned at the gate. "Good-bye, friend," he said gravely. The dog wagged his whole body and barked twice. It was indisputable that he understood.

Good found Judith waiting for him in the library. As they shook hands he thought that he had never seen so lovely a creature. She was dressed in a riding costume of hunter green, which toned perfectly with the autumnal warmth of her skin. There was a wine-like sparkle in her eyes and her teeth gleamed in an unaffected smile as she greeted him. Apparently his presence was pleasing to her. But as he caught a glimpse of their reflections in the mirror over the fireplace, he wondered, a little dismally, how that were possible. She was so fresh and sound and glowing, and yet, withal, so dainty, so delicate, so thoroughly feminine: while he ... never, he thought, had he realised quite how awkward and grotesque a thing he was. The mirror was brutally candid. Beside her face, with its colouring of frost-ripened apple, his own stared back, telling its sordid tale of stuffy rooms and gas-light and greasy food and lack of exercise. With its seams and wrinkles it looked like a coat of white paint, yellowed and broken by over-long exposure to the elements. He was suddenly conscious that his suit was very old and ill-fitting, and that his hair needed cutting badly. For the first time in his life he suffered a pang of regret that the configuration of his neck prevented his wearing a collar which fit him.

As he looked down at her hand in his, smooth, well-formed, the fingers tapering delicately, yet with a flow of muscle under the integument revealing bridle-strength—for horse or man—he sighed. His own seemed so huge and formless, with its mountainous purple veins, its coarse black hair, like forests, and the spatulate nails—clumsy, broken, yellow where hers were pink ... hastily his hand sought his pocket.

"Well," she said, when the silence threatened to become embarrassing, "what's the news from the scene of action?"

He drew a bulky envelope from his coat, and tried to forget her physical presence. But to the familiar smell of burning leaves clung a faint scent of jaqueminot. His hand trembled a little as he turned the pages of the documents.

"You'll be disappointed," he whispered huskily.

"Why?"

"It's a poor showing."

"Wasn't that to be expected?"

"In a way, yes, but...."

"Is it as bad as it might be?"

"Well, no, but...."

"Tell me about it, then." She had seated herself and was busy with the tea things which a maid had brought in. Good found it necessary to read words several times before he caught their meaning. It was difficult to keep his eyes upon the paper.

"Shall I give the inventory first?" he asked.

"Oh, don't bother with the details. I can read all that later. Just give a summary—and tell me what it all means."

He cleared his throat. "Well—advertising fell off fast at first. Then some of it came back. Mostly small stuff, though. The big stores have never come back. And all the heavy advertisers, like the telephone and the electric light companies, seem gone for good. Advertising revenue has been cut in half—maybe a little more."

"But you expected that."

"Oh, yes. It's quite natural. We've hammered the telephone company pretty hard on its purchase of the independents. And of course you know what we did to the department stores. Oh, I knew we'd lose advertising. But the circulation—that's been more disappointing."

"Has it fallen off?"

"Pretty badly. I knew we'd lose at first. But I thought we'd gain later. We haven't, though—not as we should. People don't seem to want the truth—unless it's sensational. They want excitement and partisanship. Sometimes I think they'd rather be lied to than not. And they don't like to hear so much about misery and evil. We expose too much. We're unpleasant. They'd rather ignore unpleasant things. Of course I knew your class would hate us and fight us—and they have. But the ordinary people—I felt sure—I thought—they'd support us. But they haven't—not as they should. It hurts ... I can't tell you how much!" His voice broke, and he looked pathetically old and worn. The tears came into Judith's eyes as she recalled the enthusiasm with which he had first broached the plan of purchasing The Dispatch.

"I'm disappointed, too," she said slowly, after a pause. He recoiled as if she had struck him.

"Not in the paper—in you," she added hastily, seeing the pain in his eyes. "I thought your faith was stronger. Have you forgotten what you said to me—'serve, not for them, for yourself'? Is it popularity you're after? Has truth ever been popular?"

"A newspaper, to succeed, must be popular," he murmured.

"Did you persuade me to buy The Dispatch in order to be successful? Come, Mr. Good, this is unlike you. Didn't you warn me I would lose friends as well as money? Well—I have. Didn't you show me quite candidly that whatever success might come would be very small? You hated charity because it was only temporary and expedient. But charity is popular, and the results show. Truly I am surprised at you." She paused, waiting, but Good only sighed.

"Come, if you were in my place—if you owned The Dispatch—would you be down like this?"

She was surprised and taken aback a little at his reply. "Yes," he said heavily, "I would." She was not to understand his meaning for a long time.

She laughed, not because she was amused, but because she could think of nothing to say. The sound seemed to brighten him a little.

"Of course you understand," he said, "that when I speak of the failure of The Dispatch I mean comparative failure. It's losing now ... but not so much as it lost at first. Next year it should do better. I don't mean that it will be profitable. I doubt if you'll ever take out much more than you put in. Still...."

"Mr. Good," she interrupted severely, "you annoy me. Here you are talking about profit. Did you ever talk profit before? Did I go into it for profit? Has any of the money I've given to the church ever paid any dividends? Is charity profitable? You're utterly absurd. Let's have no more of this sorry pessimism. Profit! Really, you amaze me."

"You amaze me more," said Good with a quizzical smile. Suddenly his voice changed and his eyes closed. "The whole problem of life," he murmured dreamily, "is to reconcile the soul and the body. Part of us is kin to the angels. We get very near to heaven, sometimes. We all have our moments of strength. We leave the clay—but we fall back. Hell is only the burden of flesh. Ah well—I've had my moment. Some day I may have another. Perhaps here. Perhaps not. Perhaps what I have seen of heaven will come to someone else. Maybe that's the true reincarnation. We die and our light goes out. Perhaps we weaken and put it out ourselves. But maybe it does not really go out at all. Who knows? It may have been taken from us and placed in fresh hands—and so, on and on, through struggle and failure, and success and treachery and cowardice and courage ... until the great purpose of it all is realised. We're only woodpeckers on a tree. And Igdrasil is mighty. Some peck more, some peck less—none does much. But perhaps it's only how we peck that counts. Maybe so—maybe so...."

His voice died away and he covered his face with his hands. It seemed to Judith that a veil had been momentarily raised, permitting a glimpse into a heart which was bruised and weary, but in which courage—the courage which has known defeat, the noblest of all—still reigned. The walls of the familiar room faded into illimitable distance, the breeze rustling the leaves outside sank suddenly, and out of the silence came a sweet, mysterious song filling her heart with exaltation, a sense of grace which hurt.

Then the light declined quickly, and there was a crimson glow in the west, gradually purpling.

"I must go," he said abruptly. "It's late."

"Oh—won't you stay to dinner?"

"No."

His negative was too final for her to press that topic further. She chose another.

"Let's see the sunset first. We may have no more days like this."

"I am quite sure of that." The words were murmured under his breath. They seemed to Judith, still under the mysterious spell which had been cast about her, to be fraught with solemn significance. Suddenly she realised that it was cold. She shivered even when she had donned her coat.

Quite silently they walked into the garden, and without either speaking, went straight to the spot where their lines of life had first crossed. He looked about him, a twisted little smile on his lips.

"Here is where Roger wanted to have me thrown out," he said thoughtfully. "Shouldn't wonder if he regretted now that he didn't."

"Roger cares for you more than any other man in the world," she cried. There was a catch in her voice, why, she did not know. "You've done wonders—you've made that boy a man. You're his mainstay. I can't ever...." She attributed the lump which persisted in rising in her throat to her affection for her brother. That is, she tried to attribute it to that.

"I'm his mainstay no longer," he corrected her gravely. "I did what I could for him. Now it's up to Molly. But her task is easy. The boy's under his own steam now."

"You think so?" The pride and joy in her eyes were unmistakable. But there was something else there which one less obtuse than Good would have seen even more clearly.

"No question about it. He took hold from the start. He's proved his ability. He's the actual business head of the organisation now—truly he is. When Jenkins left, Roger stepped right into his place and the ranks never wavered. The lad's been slow in finding himself—no doubt of that. But that's all over. His girl's wise—she knows. The world will know it soon, too. Why, if I wasn't there to prevent it, he'd make The Dispatch into a money-maker in no time!" The last words were said with a twinkle in his eyes, but it seemed to Judith that a certain sadness lay behind the jest.

"I'm so glad," she cried. "He's meant so much to me."

"Doesn't he now?" he smiled.

"Of course. But I don't see much of him now. He's at the Wolcotts' constantly. He's almost as fond of the Judge, you know, as he is of Molly."

"So I've heard," said Good with a curious little laugh which she did not understand.

"He has good stuff in him—and bad. I never knew which would triumph."

"And you never will," he said simply. "He's human, you know. But the odds are on your side now."

"I'm so glad—so glad—and so grateful...."

They were silent again. Suddenly the darkness fell, blotting out everything around them. Lights began to twinkle through the trees. A dog barked mournfully. It was much colder. As the daylight passed, the world passed with it. They were isolated, Judith's beauty and her home and the polish of her finger-nails as buried in oblivion as the gaunt ugliness of the man beside her. All the horde of little things, which in the day mattered so much, now seemed to matter not at all. They stood, naked of all trappings, soul to soul.

"I've got to go," muttered Good in a constrained, choked voice. "It's late." But he made no move. They continued to stare at each other.

"It's turning cold," she said—because she had to say something.

The man sighed heavily. "There will be no more days like this," he said, more to himself than to her.

"What do you mean?" She was conscious of a look in his eyes and a sound in his voice which she had never experienced before.

"You know well what I mean!" Without warning his lean hand shot out and seized hers with a grasp which almost made her wince. "You know well that I love you, Judith Wynrod." The words rushed through his clenched teeth and struck her ears like bullets. "You know it well," he added fiercely. She stood very still, looking into eyes which smouldered before her like banked fires.

"You're hurting my hand," she whispered. Instantly she wished she had not said that.

His voice changed. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I wasn't thinking—of your hand." Slowly she withdrew her fingers from his. He made no move to retake them. For a little while he was silent. When he spoke again his tone was different. The fierceness had departed. Instead, it was wistful, and it struck her that he was repeating something which he had memorised a long time ago. She had a curious feeling that he would be saying it even if she were not there to listen. The words came slowly, as if each one had been weighed and tested.

"I've always been a lonely chap. I never had any friends—except dogs and drunks and beggars and bad boys. Women always laughed at me. I was too sentimental. Men shouldn't be that, you know. After Zbysko went out there wasn't anybody. About all I had—more than other men—was imagination. When I went down, that made me go further than most. There were times ... I'm not ashamed nor sorry ... they just happened—like starvation. Some men are decent because they have to get on. I couldn't seem to get on. For a while I gave up trying. Imagination and an empty stomach and no one to care ... well, life never had much in it for me—until I knew you. You were the first good woman who had ever remembered me from one day to another. I fancied ... I mattered to you. I liked to think that I was a part of your life—even such a small part. It was gratitude at first. Then it grew and grew until—you see what a curse imagination can be! If I'd been an ordinary, sensible person, I'd never have let myself go. But I dallied with the idea. I gave myself up to it. And then it got too strong for me. I don't know why I burst out like this to-day. I should have kept it to myself. There was no need for you to know. I was a fool ... oh, a dreadful fool!" He sighed heavily and was silent.

"I never dreamed...." she breathed.

"That's not true," he said gravely. "You thought of it often. You're too wise not to. I could see it in your eyes. You didn't want to—you had to. You're a woman."

"Mr. Good, I can't tell you how much this means to me. I do care for you ... very much—more—more—" She hesitated and stopped. The inadequacy and stiffness of her words were distressingly evident. Even in the dusk she could see the dull pain in his eyes. They had the expression of some wounded, helpless animal.

"Please don't," he begged. "I understand. When I hurt your hand ... that was enough. It's quite impossible, of course." Never, to the end of her days, would she forget the dreary hopelessness in his voice, the bent shoulders, the hand uplifted in deprecation. She wanted to throw her arms about him, as she would with Roger. Something held her—she could not move. The tears blinded her....

"But you didn't finish," he shot at her suddenly. "More—more—than any other man ... was that what you were going to say?"

And when she made no reply, he laughed, a little bitterly, a little tenderly—quite mirthlessly.

"I thought not. Well ... I used to hate him. I used to hate him very much—for other reasons, too. But he's not the man now that he was. He's been through the fire. He's better metal now. He's tempered. The dross is gone. He's not worthy of you ... who is?"

Suddenly Judith's tongue was loosed. "You don't understand," she cried, with an earnestness of which there could be no question. "There is no other man. I care for you ... very much. Oh, I do—I do...."

"Then ... would you marry me—will you?" There was a subtle note of irony in his voice which was not lost upon her. But she did not reply and he too was silent for a moment. When he spoke again the irony was less subtle.

"You care enough to marry me if—if ... things were different?"

"I don't understand." Her voice sounded very far away, as if it did not belong to her at all.

"Oh, yes, you do, Judith Wynrod," he said harshly, like a magistrate passing sentence. She thought she had never heard a voice so cold and terrible, so cruelly impersonal. But, without warning, it changed, and she knew that she had never heard such infinite tenderness.

"Oh, yes, you do...." It seemed to come from a great distance, like the soughing of the wind in the trees, sad, mysterious, supernatural. It was not Good's voice, but something vast, inchoate, nameless. She shivered and drew her coat more closely about her.

"But you're human," the voice went on. "You have more angel in you than most—but you're not an angel. You're wise—very wise, Judith Wynrod—too wise to be an angel. Heaven is for the fools. The wise have the earth. It's the little things—like table manners and polished shoes—that keep us out of heaven. I'm fool enough to brave these little things. But you're wise. You know that they would increase and multiply and crush us both, because they are stronger than we. If we were souls—merely souls—it would be different. But I'm a man. You're human, too. If we were souls alone—less human—less wise—the little things—would not matter. But we aren't just souls. No, we are not—we are not...."

The tender, wistful voice died away. The world seemed very distant to Judith for a moment, and only this man, who talked like a god—or an idiot—mattered. There was a tense, fleeting moment, when, had Good known it, the course of both their lives might have been changed. But he did not know it. The moment passed. The wind sighed in the trees again. The myriad noises of the night were loosed. A locomotive whistled dismally. A thousand tentacles seemed to come down on Judith and overwhelm her and bind her fast; and with the sound of the whistle she knew that the world was with her once more. She had been an angel for a moment. She was one no longer. The tears fell unchecked.

"It's funny, isn't it," Good was saying in a matter-of-fact tone, "that the trifles—things we really don't value at all—should keep people from the one thing that counts. Queer world, this. But it's one of the rules of the game. It's silly to complain. As well mock the stars." His voice broke miserably and he covered his face with his hands. As she stared miserably at the stooped, shabby figure of the truest friend she had ever known, she felt very small and mean and ineffective, wishing that she might say something which would comfort him, knowing that anything she could say would hurt him more than silence. She was shamed by her impotency. But when she thought of the bright camaraderie which had been between them, and would be no more, she was angry. Why had he spoiled it all? Why had he not let things be? She was aroused from her reverie by the sound of his desolate voice.

"Truly, it is the last day. Tears ... and then ice." He paused. "It will rain presently, I think—with snow," he added quite calmly.

Almost as he spoke the rain began. They parted hurriedly. There was a quick hand-shake, a murmured word, and she was fleeing from him with the print of his lips still hot on her fingers.

It was an utterly wretched woman who sat staring for hours afterward at the blank wall before her. And it was a hopeless, beaten man who trudged through the dripping trees toward the station. Fate had had its pleasure with both. Tired of the sport, it had crushed them like eggshells.