The next day Judith returned to the city. Winter had arrived in earnest and there were other reasons why Braeburn had become impossible. She drove to the station in a storm of blinding sleet, while the wind, howling through trees suddenly become gaunt, seemed to shriek and gibber with derision at her going.

But the city house had its memories, too. Recollections clustered everywhere, mocking her. She made up her mind impulsively that she would go to Florida. It was out of season of course, but it would be the more restful for that. She felt very tired. She even consulted time tables.

But one afternoon, when she was in her motor, she saw Imrie. She followed him with her eyes until he disappeared. She had not seen him for months, though she knew in a vague sort of way, what he was doing. He was perfectly justified, of course, in neglecting her. She had surely done nothing to encourage his attentions. In fact she had done not a little to discourage them completely. Nevertheless his indifference piqued her. She decided not to go to Florida,—at least not until January.

The real reason for the postponement, she managed to convince herself, was her talk with Mrs. Dodson.

It occurred at a little dinner party given by Mrs. Weidely, a lady of the most unimpeachable conventionality, who satisfied an unsuspected craving of her nature by gathering about her the most thoroughly unconventional people she could find. Had her husband, now deceased, not been the upright president of a very large bank, and were her house not, in consequence, situated in a location of indisputable respectability, these dynamic assemblies would have been held with the attentive co-operation of the police, a condition with which some of her guests as a matter of fact were not at all unfamiliar.

Mrs. Dodson, who went out very little, was present chiefly because Mrs. Weidely was a friend of long standing, whose almost tearful assurance that her absence would ruin the evening, had been too touching for resistance. Mrs. Dodson was a kind-hearted, if not particularly credulous, woman.

When Judith arrived, having been invited, she suspected, chiefly to give "balance" to the affair, a young man with a narrow, equine face and a great deal of coarse black hair, who she afterwards learned was named Klemm, was standing in front of the fireplace, his legs wide apart, and talking very rapidly, in a high, thin voice, punctuating his sentences with rapier-like movements of his long, sharp fingers.

He was a poet, whose ready flow of language, with its glowing flights of hyperbole, had once reacted unfavourably upon a too literal-minded policeman, with a consequent very actual fortnight in jail. It had been a distinctly unpleasant experience, but one which he would not have escaped for worlds. Its immediate effect was a volume of lurid verse, which had a very wide sale. And ever afterward he was able to denounce things as they were, with the assurance of one who knew whereof he spoke. He was young in years, but—he had lived—he had suffered....

"Charity—pah!" he declared with finality. "It is futile, childish, debasing—both to them that give and them that receive. It is abomination—the more organised, the worse it becomes. It is like all—reform." The fine scorn with which he spoke would have made the word shrivel up and disappear, had it been a material organism.

"And for reform you would substitute—revolution?" Judith was conscious of Mrs. Dodson's firm, level voice, contrasting rather unexpectedly with the uncertain falsetto of Mr. Klemm.

"Revolution—yes!" The accompanying gesture was splendidly dramatic. "A man's word," he added, sternly, but unfortunately in a tone which was somewhat feminine.

"So far as I know," said Mrs. Dodson, quietly, without any dramatic effect, but in a way which carried conviction, "the real progress of the world has been by evolution. Revolution has usually been followed by reaction, the net advantage being no greater than is secured day after day, year after year, by the despised reformers. Most of the revolutionists I know—talk. The world needs—work!"

It was a stinging rebuke. Mr. Klemm, not easily silenced, had no more to say. He seemed relieved when dinner was announced.

Judith, herself, felt vaguely shamed. The past year, begun with such hopes, such fine purpose—what had it all amounted to—but talk? What had she done? What was she but Good's cheque-book? What would she do were he removed? What was she—herself—alone—?

She was silent at dinner, dimly conscious that the man beside her was talking very earnestly about a certain philosophy of painting. She knew only that what he said was of no interest to her. Somehow, in her awakening conception of the bigness and yet the simplicity of life, and of the part she wanted to play in it, the Æsthetic arts seemed irrelevant. She had always been ignorant of painting and music, caring for them only as pretty pictures or melodious diversion. Now, she no longer cared even to pretend that she was not indifferent. Hitherto she had lumped such culture with dress and servants and fine houses—only one among the many "little things." Art had been in no way vital to her: she knew no one, not even the "collectors," to whom it was. Art, to them, as well as to her, was merely one, and a comparatively unimportant one, of the conventions which went to make up the life of the "upper classes." Though she herself owned some of the finest paintings in America, she frankly admitted that they really meant no more to her than the silver plate from which she dined. She smiled as portions of the argot the painter beside her was using, filtered into her consciousness. The poor creature doubtless thought he was flattering her. She wanted to tell him candidly how little his silly chatter interested her. Why did he not tell her something of real value, something which would help her find herself, something which would make her matter in the real world of real things, so that when she was gone there would be a vacancy to fill? Art! She turned away in disgust she could not conceal.

Mrs. Weidely's was a large house, with countless little nooks and crannies where one desirous of solitude might steal away and find it. Mrs. Dodson, Judith suspected, was as bored as she. It was a simple matter to suggest an escape with her into one of these refuges. The older woman was frankly grateful for the idea. When they were seated, with the chatter of the company drifting faintly to them like the far-off rattle of musketry, Judith voiced her problem. Mrs. Dodson heard her to the end in silence, with a faint suggestion of a smile on her finely-cut lips.

"You are just where I was," she said when Judith had finished the recital, "many years ago. Only I was not so conscious of things as you are—and I had not done what you have done."

"You mean—The Dispatch?"

"Yes. That is doing a splendid work—it is waking people up."

"But I haven't done it. It's no credit to me, really."

"I know. But you made it possible. Perhaps you haven't done as much for it as it has done for you. But in either case, much has been accomplished."

"Oh, Mrs. Dodson—if I could only do what you have done—be what you are...." There was no pretence in Judith's admiration as she looked up into the quiet, kindly face of one of the most misunderstood women of her community. It was not a beautiful face. Nature had not been kind to it. But it was a face which, once looked upon, could never afterward be forgotten. It had the beauty which comes of strength and courage and travail, the beauty with which one is never born, but which must be made. It was the face of one who has grasped life firmly with both hands, and through pain and discouragement, has hewn something which must endure always.

Mrs. Dodson was silent at Judith's honest, if girlish, outburst. She smiled sadly, and her eyes clouded.

"I have done little," she said softly. "And I am—little. I saw my road, long ago. I see it more clearly every day. But I'm not big enough to follow it—very far. I'm too timid. To go on that road, where I know I should go—where I know better and better as the years come—I should have had to leave everything behind. I wasn't equal to that. Those little things—they didn't mean much—they don't now ... but I can't shake them off—quite. I can't follow the road and take them too. And I can't rest with them and forget the road. So I've—tried to do both. I can't, of course—but I try. I try very hard. It makes me enemies. It makes me unhappy. Even my children—I've stayed partly for them—the road led to such a wild and desolate country—even they don't understand. Perhaps that's why I was so cruel to that young man to-night. He said things that I wanted to say—and couldn't."

Mrs. Dodson, suddenly looking very old and tired and weak, faded away, and in her place Judith saw Good. "If we were angels," he was saying. "If ... but we're not. We're only humans...."

Then Good vanished, and Mrs. Dodson, again her quiet, efficient self, reappeared. Her voice had changed, too. It was the calm, business-like tone which the world knew.

"You have wealth, my dear. The pleasures of society no longer appeal. You have made a start. I see no reason for discouragement."

"But I want to start," cried Judith. "I want to feel my hands on something."

"There are a number of committees and boards on which you might serve—"

"Oh, but that's the ordinary thing. I've done that."

"Not exactly." Mrs. Dodson's voice was a trifle grim. "You were a sociological dilettante. You were an amateur, so to speak."

"But it's so cut-and-dried."

"You must first learn the ropes. You have to know your tools before you can use them. It will be dry and tedious, of course, and there will be no sense of accomplishment. It will be educational. The accomplishment—such as it is—will come later."

"And then—when it comes—it will be reform?" She wondered why the implication was so distasteful.

"Yes, my dear. You have too much to be a revolutionary. You remember the story of the Rich Young Man. It was always so. He was asked to give up everything. He could not. I could not. You cannot. You may give more than I—in some ways you already have. But you will not give all. You will always be a—"

"—reformer," interrupted Judith bitterly.

"Yes," continued Mrs. Dodson, gently, "only a reformer. Your influence will die with you. You will pass very little on. The radicals will hate and ridicule you. Even those you help will distrust you. And what is worse—you will some day come to distrust them."

"Then why go forward?" cried Judith. "Why not stay where I am and be comfortable?"

Mrs. Dodson smiled wisely. "Because you can't. I remember hearing a gushing young thing ask a great novelist if he didn't just love to write. His reply was, 'I loathe it.' When she looked her amazement—as we all did—he added, 'I'm miserable when I write, but I'm more miserable when I don't.' We thought he was just posing, but I know now what he meant. I understand perfectly. I loathe the wretched futility of the work I do, with its everlasting cowardice and compromise. I wish I could go back to the life for which I was born and bred, which even those dearest to me, lead now. But I can't do that. Life as it is, is unsatisfying. But any other would be worse."

"Why, I always thought you so happy—one of the happiest women I knew," cried Judith in amazement.

"Oh, well—" Mrs. Dodson's sigh defied analysis. "Such things are relative." She was silent for a moment. Then her voice reverted to its tone of business. "But come—that's enough philosophy. If you talk too much it interferes with doing. Now, if you care to come, I'll have you to lunch with me to-morrow. I'll have some work waiting for you. And when that is finished, there will be more to follow. Will you come?"

Judith looked into the kindly grey eyes, so plainly studying her, and was ashamed of the reluctance and disappointment she felt. She nodded her head affirmatively. Was life always a compromise like this? Must noble aspirations forever fade away in the cold light of fact? The older woman seemed to sense her thought, for she smiled and patted her shoulder gently.

"My dear little girl—I understand. And so will you—when you find yourself. The world's made up of doers and dreamers. The doers dream a little and the dreamers do a little—it is not given to many to be both. Dream a little, always, my dear, for the good of your soul. And listen always to the dreamers, even when their dreams seem nonsense. But you mustn't be sad because you are only an agent. We are not less human because we are not gods. We have our place in the scheme of things: we must fill it—awkwardly, incompletely, stupidly—still, as best we may."

They parted then, and as soon as she decently could, Judith assured Mrs. Weidely of the "perfectly delightful" evening she had had, and went home. It was a long time before she could sleep.

She spent the morning wandering restlessly through the house. Was she always, she asked herself again and again, to be subject to the influence of others? Was she never to act for herself? Of the influence of Good upon her, she was quite conscious. But that, she sensed, could never be again as it was before that afternoon at Braeburn. When the snow began to fall, it had ended his call, the call of the dreamer. He had given her all he had. It was not enough. Now came the call of the doer. Would that end in time, as the other had ended, and would she then go ahead for herself, not the puppet of Brent Good nor the aid of Mrs. Dodson, but Judith Wynrod, free agent? She wondered, and wondered. There was no answer.

At length, when she could endure the house no longer, she went out for a walk in the frosty air. She had an hour or two before going to Mrs. Dodson's.

The sun was shining brightly, but it was cold, and she had to walk rapidly. Before she knew it, she was well into the Park, and a little tired. A bench, in the sun and sheltered from the wind, attracted her, and still in a reverie, she sat down.

Presently she became conscious that she was being addressed. A young man had seated himself beside her.

"Arnold," she cried. "Why—I'd never know you...."

"Yes," he said placidly. "I have changed, haven't I?"

As he spoke she realised that he no longer wore the clerical collar, and that he was garbed in a grey suit of distinctly fashionable cut and colour, instead of the sombre black she had always seen him in before. Also, to her amazement, she noted that he wore a red tie. Perhaps it was merely the change of costume, but he seemed years younger than he had ever seemed before. His face was ruddier, his eyes had more sparkle, his smile was easier.

"But why—what is the cause—what's happened—what's the meaning of all this?" she stammered.

"I've moved fast since we last met. As a matter of fact, Judith, you're looking on a perfect stranger!"

"That's obvious—but why—what—I don't understand."

"In the first place I'm not a clergyman any more—for which there is no rejoicing: but in the second, I'm not a prig any more—for which there is...."

"Arnold—you've really left the Church?"

"Or it's left me—the result's the same," he said quite cheerfully.

"But what caused it? I heard you had resigned—everybody talked about it—but why?"

"I don't suppose you ever saw a 'slide' at Panama?"

She shook her head, wondering.

"Well, first a piece of rock, perhaps no bigger than your fist, slips out of place. That moves another and another and another, until before you can whistle twice, a pile of earth that has seemed as fixed as time is as flat as the back of your hand.

"That's the way it was with me. A few months ago I thought my convictions were as fixed as the everlasting hills. I looked solid—but I wasn't. Really, I was made up of very small pieces. Then, when you poked fun at me, you jarred one of those pieces out of place. That moved another—and another—and another ... until with a rush, the whole thing came tumbling about my ears. When the noise was over and the dust settled, it was up to me to set about putting the pieces together again as best I could. I don't know what kind of a mess I'd have made of it if I hadn't had the luck to fall in with Dr. Weis—perhaps you've heard of him?"

"Only vaguely," admitted Judith.

"Well, he's a Jew and a free thinker and an anarchist and a human fire-brand—and the most all around fine character I've ever known! Anyway, he took an interest in me as I floundered about—he seems to think he can make something out of me." His mingled pride and humility was indescribably boyish and lovable to Judith. He sounded a new note, quite free from the cant with which, in her mind, he had never been quite disassociated.

"And are you happier now?" she asked when he paused.

"Much," he said thoughtfully. "I was successful at St. Viateur's and I was popular, and I thought I was doing good work. But I'm happier now—really I am—consciously happy, I mean. In a way I'm a failure, of course, and I've lost most of my old friends, but the newer ones seem truer—and what I've lost in the respect of others, I've gained in the respect of myself. Yes, I'm happier now."

"But what are you doing?"

"Well, we've established a sort of peoples' church, with meetings in one of the downtown theatres. It's for those who haven't any creed, or even much faith. We seem to have some kind of a hold. There's rarely an empty seat."

"Do you preach?"

"Once in a while. But I wouldn't call it preaching. I've come to dislike that word. This is something different. You can't preach, you know, to our kind of people. That's what made lots of them leave their churches. Jesus never preached. But oh, Judith—" His eyes flashed and she thought his enthusiasm in keeping with his red tie. He had always been so reserved, hitherto. "I've never experienced anything like talking to those people. When I was in the pulpit at St. Viateur's, with all you comfortable, smug, well-fed, contented people before me, talking to you seemed only a form, and what I said, merely a formula. You didn't care what I said, and I didn't—it was how I said it. But now—I tell you there's an intoxication in talking to people who've come because they get something, not because they ought to, or because it's the thing. It's no wonder that the biggest men in the land are glad to appear on our stage."

"Do you do any welfare work?" Judith found his enthusiasm infectious.

"In a way—mostly getting people jobs and things like that. We're not very well organised yet, but we're working all the time."

"I suppose—you lack money?"

"Of course. That handicaps us tremendously. But...."

"Would a cheque—be of use?"

He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, as if not quite sure of her meaning. Then he smiled and shook his head.

"You don't understand. One of the principles of our plan is to be beholden to no one. We can't accept gifts. You see—we want no vestries." There was a note of bitterness in his voice.

"But I—surely—" He sensed that she was a little hurt.

"We take up a collection. You might drop in some night, and then—if you cared to...."

"Yes," she said thoughtfully, "I'll come."

They were silent for a little while, but it was a silence in which there was no consciousness of the flight of time.

"Who are your speakers?" asked Judith finally, already feeling that she had a personal share in the enterprise. "Clergymen?"

"Sometimes. But that's not essential. It's the man we seek—not the creed. We want anyone with a message. We've had all kinds. You see, we're not engaged in propaganda—rather we're spreading the truth—as all kinds of men see it. We're committed to nothing. It's a good deal like The Dispatch—no policy but the truth. By the way, how's that going?"

"As well as could be expected, I suppose," said Judith with an apathy which did not escape him. "I really have very little to do with it."

"That's natural."

"I suppose so. Anyway, Mr. Good and Roger need no assistance from me."

"Is Roger really active?"

"Indeed he is. He used to be rather submissive to me, but now he acts as if I really knew very little about it. I'm glad he does, too. It shows he's grown up. The best thing about The Dispatch is what it's done for Roger."

"No, it isn't," said Imrie soberly. "That's a good thing, of course. I'm delighted. But it's not the best thing—not by a long way. Frankly I was sceptical about The Dispatch at first. I thought your friend Good was just a crank. But the paper's gone ahead so splendidly. It's done such a really wonderful work—and then, you see, when I waked up, I saw things differently. The people I've been in contact with lately have made me understand Good. I used rather to dislike him. I honestly admire him now."

"Yes," said Judith quietly, "he is rather admirable." Something in her voice made Imrie study her narrowly. A wistful look crept into his eyes, and he was silent. Judith, subconsciously, realised the change in him and she hastened to shift the topic.

"But this work doesn't take all your time, does it? What else are you doing?" She rather expected a denial, and his reply surprised her.

"No, it doesn't," he said, with something of his former enthusiasm gone. "Or rather I haven't told you all of our work. You see Weis has gone into politics rather more or less in his own city, and we're drifting that way, too. They want me to run for alderman. I live downtown now, you see. It's a bad ward. The decent people have never had a chance in it. Of course it sounds silly—but really—I think seriously of it."

"I don't think it sounds silly at all," she cried. "I think it's splendid. You can count on The Dispatch."

"But The Dispatch isn't partisan," he said with a smile. "It never takes sides."

"Well, it will this time," she declared truculently.

He laughed. "You're still a woman, Judith." Then his expression changed, and his voice was tender. "I guess that's all you ever will be—to me."

The wind had shifted, making their refuge no longer comfortable, and Judith suddenly became conscious of the hour.

"Goodness—I've only ten minutes to get to Mrs. Dodson's. Coming that way?"

He nodded, and fell in beside her. They walked all the way in silence. When they reached the magnificent building in which Mrs. Dodson slept, but which seldom saw her when awake, Judith held out her hand.

"You haven't been near me for ages. Won't you come—occasionally—as you used to?"

"Do you really want me to?" His eyes seemed extraordinarily bright as he put the question.

"Of course."

"Then I will." He kept his gaze on her for a moment. With a wave of his hand he turned sharply on his heel, and was on his way as if time were precious.

Never, she thought, as she went into the house, had Imrie looked quite so handsome, quite so virile. And never, certainly had she extended an invitation to him which was more sincere, nor with the prospect of its acceptance more wholly appealing. Yet she could not rid herself of an inexplicable sadness.

It was some time, as she tried to listen attentively to Mrs. Dodson's level voice, before the picture of a pair of glistening blue eyes and a head of close-cropped, curly, blonde hair, and ruddy cheeks, and a set of firm white teeth, parted in a smile, half wistful, half enthusiastic, ceased dancing before her.

She was, she concluded, only a woman.