“Wait, my little princess, wait,” the Beaubien had said, when Carmen, her eyes flowing and her lips quivering, had again thrown herself into that strange woman’s arms and poured out her heart’s surcease. “It will not be long now. I think I see the clouds forming.”

“I want to go back to SimitÍ, to Padre JosÈ, to my home,” wailed the girl. “I don’t understand the ways and the thoughts of these people. They don’t know God––they don’t know what love is––they don’t know anything but money, and clothes, and sin, and death. When I am with them I gasp, I choke––”

“Yes, dearest, I understand,” murmured the woman softly, as she stroked the brown head nestling upon her shoulder. “It is social asphyxia. And many even of the ‘four hundred’ are suffering from the same disease; but they would die rather than admit it. Poor, blind fools!”

To no one could the attraction which had drawn Carmen and the Beaubien together seem stranger, more inexplicable, than to that lone woman herself. Yet it existed, irresistible. And both acknowledged it, nor would have had it otherwise. To Carmen, the Beaubien was a sympathetic confidante and a wise counselor. The girl knew nothing of the woman’s past or present life. She tried to see in her only the reality which she sought in every individual––the reality which she felt that Jesus must have seen clearly back of every frail mortal concept of humanity. And in doing this, who knows?––she may have transformed the sordid, soiled woman of the world into 130 something more than a broken semblance of the image of God. To the Beaubien, this rare child, the symbol of love, of purity, had become a divine talisman, touching a dead soul into a sense of life before unknown. If Carmen leaned upon her, she, on the other hand, bent daily closer to the beautiful girl; opened her slowly warming heart daily wider to her; twined her lonely arms daily closer about the radiant creature who had come so unexpectedly into her empty, sinful life.

“But, mother dear”––the Beaubien had long since begged Carmen always to address her thus when they were sharing alone these hours of confidence––“they will not listen to my message! They laugh and jest about real things!”

“True, dearie. And yet you tell me that the Bible says wise men laughed at the great teacher, Jesus.”

“Oh, yes! And his message––oh, mother dearest, his message would have helped them so, if they had only accepted it! It would have changed their lives, healed their diseases, and saved them from death. And my message”––her lip quivered––“my message is only his––it is the message of love. But they won’t let me tell it.”

“Then, sweet, live it. They can not prevent that, can they?”

“I do live it. But––I am so out of place among them. They scoff at real things. They mock all that is noble. Their talk is so coarse, so low and degraded. They have no culture. They worship money. They don’t know what miserable failures they all are. And Mrs. Hawley-Crowles––”

The Beaubien’s jaw set. “The social cormorant!” she muttered.

“––she will not let me speak of God in her house. She told me to keep my views to myself and never voice them to her friends. And she says I must marry either a millionaire or a foreign noble.”

“Humph! And become a snobbish expatriate! Marry a decadent count, and then shake the dust of this democratic country from your feet forever! Go to London or Paris or Vienna, and wear tiaras and coronets, and speak of disgraceful, boorish America in hushed whispers! The empty-headed fool! She forgets that the tarnished name she bears was dragged up out of the ruck of the impecunious by me when I received Jim Crowles into my house! And that I gave him what little gloss he was able to take on!”

“Mother dear––I would leave them––only, they need love, oh, so much!”

The Beaubien strained her to her bosom. “They need you, dearie; they little realize how they need you! I, myself, did not know until you came to me. There, I didn’t mean to let 131 those tears get away from me.” She laughed softly as Carmen looked up anxiously into her face. “Now come,” she went on brightly, “we must plan for the Charity Ball.”

A look of pain swept over the girl’s face. The Beaubien bent and kissed her. “Wait, dearie,” she repeated. “You will not leave society voluntarily. Keep your light burning. They can not extinguish it. They will light their own lamps at yours––or they will thrust you from their doors. And then,” she muttered, as her teeth snapped together, “you will come to me.”

Close on the heels of the opera season followed the Charity Ball, the Horse Show, and the Fashion Show in rapid succession, with numberless receptions, formal parties, and nondescript social junketings interspersed. During these fleeting hours of splash and glitter Mrs. Hawley-Crowles trod the air with the sang-froid and exhilaration of an expert aviator. Backed by the Beaubien millions, and with the wonderful South American girl always at her right hand, the worldly ambitious woman swept everything before her, cut a social swath far wider than the glowering Mrs. Ames had ever attempted, and marched straight to the goal of social leadership, almost without interference. She had apparently achieved other successes, too, of the first importance. She had secured the assistance of Ames himself in matters pertaining to her finances; and the Beaubien was actively coÖperating with her in the social advancement of Carmen. It is true, she gasped whenever her thought wandered to her notes which the Beaubien held, notes which demanded every penny of her principal as collateral. And she often meditated very soberly over the large sums which she had put into the purchase of SimitÍ stock, at the whispered suggestions of Ames, and under the irresistibly pious and persuasive eloquence of Philip O. Ketchim, now president of that flourishing but as yet non-productive company. But then, one day, an idea occurred to her, and she forthwith summoned Carmen into the library.

“You see, my dear,” she said, after expounding to the girl certain of her thoughts anent the famous mine, “I do not want Mr. Ketchim to have any claim upon you for the expense which he incurred on account of your six months in the Elwin school. That thought, as well as others relating to your complete protection, makes it seem advisable that you transfer to me your share in the mine, or in the SimitÍ company. See, I give you a receipt for the same, showing that you have done this as part payment for the great expense to which I have been put in introducing you to society and in providing for your wants here. It is merely formal, of course. And it keeps your share 132 still in our family, of which you are and always will be a member; but yet removes all liability from you. Of course, you know nothing about business matters, and so you must trust me implicitly. Which I am sure you do, in view of what I have done for you, don’t you, dear?”

Of course Carmen did; and of course she unhesitatingly transferred her claim on La Libertad to the worthy Mrs. Hawley-Crowles. Whereupon the good woman tenderly kissed the innocent child, and clasped a string of rich pearls about the slender, white neck. And Carmen later told the Beaubien, who said nothing, but frowned darkly as she repeated the tidings over her private wire to J. Wilton Ames. But that priest of finance only chuckled and exclaimed: “Excellent, my dear! Couldn’t be better! By the way, I had a cable from Lafelle this morning, from Cartagena. Oh, yes, everything’s all right. Good-bye.” But the Beaubien hung up the receiver with a presentiment that everything was far from right, despite his bland assurance. And she regretted bitterly now that she had not warned Carmen against this very thing.

The Charity Ball that season was doubtless the most brilliant function of its kind ever held among a people who deny the impossible. The newspapers had long vied with one another in their advertisements and predictions; they afterward strove mightily to outdo themselves in their vivid descriptions of the gorgeous fÊte. The decorative effects far excelled anything ever attempted in the name of “practical” charity. The display of gowns had never before been even closely approximated. The scintillations from jewels whose value mounted into millions was like the continuous flash of the electric spark. And the huge assemblage embraced the very cream of the nobility, the aristocracy, the rich and exclusive caste of a great people whose Constitution is founded on the equality of men, and who are wont to gather thus annually for a few hours to parade their material vestments and divert their dispirited mentalities under the guise of benefaction to a class for whom they rarely hold a loving thought.

Again the subtle Mrs. Hawley-Crowles had planned and executed a coup. Mrs. Ames had subscribed the munificent sum of twenty-five thousand dollars to charity a week before the ball. Mrs. Hawley-Crowles had waited for this. Then she gloated as she telephoned to the various newspaper offices that her subscription would be fifty thousand. Did she give a new note to the Beaubien for this amount? That she did––and she obtained the money on the condition that the little Inca princess should lead the grand march. Of course, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles knew that she must gracefully yield first place 133 to the South American girl; and yet she contrived to score a triumph in apparent defeat. For, stung beyond endurance, Mrs. Ames and her daughter Kathleen at the last moment refused to attend the function, alleging fatigue from a season unusually exacting. The wily Mrs. Hawley-Crowles had previously secured the languid young Duke of Altern as a partner for Carmen––and then was most agreeably thwarted by Ames himself, who, learning that his wife and daughter would not attend, abruptly announced that he himself would lead the march with Carmen.

Why not? Was it not quite proper that the city’s leading man of finance should, in the absence of his wife and daughter, and with their full and gratuitous permission––nay, at their urgent request, so it was told––lead with this fair young damsel, this tropical flower, who, as rumor had it, was doubtless a descendant of the royal dwellers in ancient Cuzco?

“Quite proper, O tempora, O mores!” murmured one Amos A. Hitt, erstwhile Presbyterian divine, explorer, and gentleman of leisure, as he settled back in his armchair in the fashionable Weltmore apartments and exhaled a long stream of tobacco smoke through his wide nostrils. “And, if I can procure a ticket, I shall give myself the pleasure of witnessing this sacred spectacle, produced under the deceptive mask of charity,” he added.

In vain the Beaubien labored with Ames when she learned of his intention––though she said nothing to Carmen. Ames had yielded to her previously expressed wish that he refrain from calling at the Hawley-Crowles mansion, or attempting to force his attentions upon the young girl. But in this matter he remained characteristically obdurate. And thereby a little rift was started. For the angry Beaubien, striving to shield the innocent girl, had vented her abundant wrath upon the affable Ames, and had concluded her denunciation with a hint of possible exposure of certain dark facts of which she was sole custodian. Ames smiled, bowed, and courteously kissed her hand, as he left her stormy presence; but he did not yield. And Carmen went to the Ball.

Through the perfumed air and the garish light tore the crashing notes of the great band. The loud hum of voices ceased, and all eyes turned to the leaders of the grand march, as they stepped forth at one end of the great auditorium. Then an involuntary murmur arose from the multitude––a murmur of admiration, of astonishment, of envy. The gigantic form of Ames stood like a towering pillar, the embodiment of potential force, the epitome of human power, physical and mental. His massive shoulders were thrown back as if in haughty defiance 134 of comment, critical or commendatory. The smile which flitted about his strong, clean-shaven face bespoke the same caution as the gentle uplifting of a tiger’s paw––behind it lay all that was humanly terrible, cunning, heartless, and yet, in a sense, fascinating. His thick, brown hair, scarcely touched with gray, lay about his great head like a lion’s mane. He raised a hand and gently pushed it back over the lofty brow. Then he bent and offered an arm to the slender wisp of a girl at his side.

“Good God!” murmured a tall, angular man in the crowd. “Who is she?”

“I don’t know, Hitt,” replied the friend addressed. “But they say she belongs to the Inca race.”

The graceful girl moving by the side of her giant escort seemed like a slender ray of light, a radiant, elfish form, transparent, intangible, gliding softly along with a huge, black shadow. She was simply clad, all in white. About her neck hung a string of pearls, and at her waist she wore the rare orchids which Ames had sent her that afternoon. But no one saw her dress. No one marked the pure simplicity of her attire. The absence of sparkling jewels and resplendent raiment evoked no comment. The multitude saw but her wonderful face; her big eyes, uplifted in trustful innocence to the massive form at her side; her rich brown hair, which glittered like string-gold in the strong light that fell in torrents upon it.

“Hitt, she isn’t human! There’s a nimbus about her head!”

“I could almost believe it,” whispered that gentleman, straining his long neck as she passed before him. “God! has she fallen into Ames’s net?”

Immediately behind Carmen and Ames strode the enraptured Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, who saw not, neither heard, and who longed for no further taste of heaven than this stupendous triumph which she had won for herself and the girl. Her heavy, unshapely form was squeezed into a marvelous costume of gold brocade. A double ballet ruffle of stiff white tulle encircled it about the hips as a drapery. The bodice was of heavy gold net. A pleated band of pale moire, in a delicate shade of pink, crossed the left shoulder and was caught at the waist in a large rose bow, ambassadorial style. A double necklace of diamonds, one bearing a great pendant of emeralds, and the other an alternation of emeralds and diamonds, encircled her short, thick neck. A diamond coronet fitted well around her wonderful amber-colored wig––for, true to her determination, she had anticipated the now passÉe Mrs. Ames and had boldly launched the innovation of colored wigs among the smart set. An ivory, hand-painted fan, of great value, dangled from her thick wrist. And, as she lifted her skirts to an unnecessary 135 height, the gaping people caught the glitter of a row of diamonds in each high, gilded heel.

At her side the young Duke of Altern shuffled, his long, thin body curved like a kangaroo, and his monocle bent superciliously upon the mass of common clay about him. “Aw, beastly crush, ye know,” he murmured from time to time to the unhearing dame at his right. And then, as she replied not, he fell to wondering if she fully realized who he was.

Around and across the great hall the gorgeous pageant swept. The big-mouthed horns bellowed forth their noisy harmony. In the distant corridors great illuminated fountains softly plashed. At the tables beyond, sedulous, touting waiters were hurriedly extracting corks from frosted bottle necks. The rare porcelain and cut glass shone and glittered in rainbow tints. The revelers waxed increasingly merry and care-free as they lightly discussed poverty over rich viands and sparkling Burgundy. Still further beyond, the massive oak doors, with their leaded-glass panes, shut out the dark night and the bitter blasts of winter. And they shut out, too, another, but none the less unreal, externalization of the mortal thought which has found expression in a social system “too wicked for a smile.”

“God, no––I’d get arrested! I can’t!”

The frail, hungry woman who stood before the great doors clutched her wretched shawl closer about her thin shoulders. Her teeth chattered as she stood shivering in the chill wind. Then she hurried away.

At the corner of the building the cold blast almost swept her off her feet. A man, dirty and unkempt, who had been waiting in an alley, ran out and seized her.

“I say, Jude, ain’t ye goin’ in? Git arrested––ye’d spend the night in a warm cell, an’ that’s better’n our bunk, ain’t it?”

“I’m goin’ to French Lucy’s,” the woman whispered hoarsely. “I’m dead beat!”

“Huh! Ye’ve lost yer looks, Jude, an’ ol’ Lucy ain’t a-goin’ to take ye in. We gotta snipe somepin quick––or starve! Look, we’ll go down to Mike’s place, an’ then come back here when it’s out, and ye kin pinch a string, or somepin, eh? Gawd, it’s cold!”

The woman glanced back at the lights. For a moment she stood listening to the music from within. A sob shook her, and she began to cough violently. The man took her arm, not unkindly; and together they moved away into the night.

“Well, little girl, at last we are alone. Now we can exchange confidences.” It was Ames talking. He had, late in 136 the evening, secured seats well hidden behind a mass of palms, and thither had led Carmen. “What do you think of it all? Quite a show, eh? Ever see anything like this in SimitÍ?”

Carmen looked up at him. She thought him wonderfully handsome. She was glad to get away for a moment from the crowd, from the confusion, and from the unwelcome attentions of the now thoroughly smitten young Duke of Altern.

“No,” she finally made answer, “I didn’t know there were such things in the world.”

Ames laughed pleasantly. How refreshing was this ingenuous girl! And what a discovery for him! A new toy––one that would last a long time. But he must be careful of her.

“Yes,” he went on genially, “I’ll wager there’s millions of dollars’ worth of jewelry here to-night.”

“Oh!” gasped Carmen. “And are the people going to sell it and give the money to the poor?”

“Sell it! Ha! ha! Well, I should say not!”

“But––this is a––a charity––”

“Oh, I see. Quite so. No, it’s the money derived from the sale of tickets that goes to the poor.”

“And how much is that?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“But––aren’t you interested in the poor?”

“Of course, of course,” he hastened to assure her, in his easy casual tone.

For a long time the girl sat reflecting, while he studied her, speculating eagerly on her next remark. Then it came abruptly:

“Mr. Ames, I have thought a great deal about it, and I think you people by your charity, such as this, only make more charity necessary. Why don’t you do away with poverty altogether?”

“Do away with it? Well, that’s quite impossible, you know. ‘The poor ye have always with you’, eh? You see, I know my Bible.”

She threw him a glance of astonishment. He was mocking her! She was deeply serious, for charity to her meant love, and love was all in all.

“No,” she finally replied, shaking her head, “you do not know your Bible. It is the poor thought that you have always with you, the thought of separation from good. And that thought becomes manifested outwardly in what is called poverty.”

He regarded her quizzically, while a smile played about his mouth.

“Why don’t you get at the very root of the trouble, and destroy 137 the poverty-thought, the thought that there can be any separation from God, who is infinite good?” she continued earnestly.

“Well, my dear girl, as for me, I don’t know anything about God. As for you, well, you are very innocent in worldly matters. Poverty, like death, is inevitable, you know.”

“You are mistaken,” she said simply. “Neither is inevitable.”

“Well, well,” he returned brightly, “that’s good news! Then there is no such thing as ‘the survival of the fittest,’ and the weak needn’t necessarily sink, eh?”

She looked him squarely in the eyes. “Do you consider, Mr. Ames, that you have survived as one of the fittest?”

“H’m! Well, now––what would you say about that?”

“I should say decidedly no,” was the blunt reply.

A dark shade crossed his face, and he bit his lip. People did not generally talk thus to him. And yet––this wisp of a girl! Pshaw! She was very amusing. And, heavens above! how beautiful, as she sat there beside him, her head erect, and her face delicately flushed. He reached over and took her hand. Instantly she drew it away.

“You are the kind,” she went on, “who give money to the poor, and then take it away from them again. All the money which these rich people here to-night are giving to charity has been wrested from the poor. And you give only a part of it back to them, at that. This Ball is just a show, a show of dress and jewels. Why, it only sets an example which makes others unhappy, envious, and discontented. Don’t you see that? You ought to.”

“My dear little girl,” he said in a patronizing tone, “don’t you think you are assuming a great deal? I’m sure I’m not half so bad as you paint me.”

Carmen smiled. “Well, the money you give away has got to come from some source, hasn’t it? And you manipulate the stock market and put through wheat corners and all that, and catch the poor people and take their money from them! Charity is love. But your idea of charity makes me pity you. Up here I find a man can pile up hundreds of millions by stifling competition, by debauching legislatures, by piracy and legalized theft, and then give a tenth of it to found a university, and so atone for his crimes. That is called charity. Oh, I know a lot about such things! I’ve been studying and thinking a great deal since I came to the United States.”

“Have you come with a mission?” he bantered. And there was a touch of aspersion in his voice.

“I’ve come with a message,” she replied eagerly.

“Well,” he said sharply, “let me warn and advise you: don’t join the ranks of the muck-rakers, as most ambitious reformers with messages do. We’ve plenty of ’em now. I can tear down as easily as you or anybody else. But to build something better is entirely another matter.”

“But, Mr. Ames, I’ve got something better!”

“Yes?” His tone spoke incredulous irony. “Well, what is it, if I may ask?”

“Love.”

“Love, eh? Well, perhaps that’s so,” he said, bending toward her and again attempting to take her hand.

“I guess,” she said, drawing back quickly, “you don’t know what love is, do you?”

“No,” he whispered softly. “I don’t really believe I do. Will you teach me?”

“Of course I will,” she said brightly. “But you’ll have to live it. And you’ll have to do just as I tell you,” holding up an admonitory finger.

“I’m yours to command, little woman,” he returned in mock seriousness.

“Well,” she began very softly, “you must first learn that love is just as much a principle as the Binomial Theorem in algebra. Do you know what that is? And you must apply it just as you would apply any principle, to everything. And, oh, it is important!”

“You sweet little thing,” he murmured absently, gazing down into her glowing face. “Who taught you such stuff? Where did you learn it? I wonder––I wonder if you really are a daughter of the Incas.”

She leaned back and laughed heartily. “Yes,” she said, “I am a princess. Of course! Don’t I look like one?”

“You look like––I wonder––pshaw!” he passed his hand across his eyes. “Yes, you certainly are a princess. And––do you know?––I wish I might be your prince.”

“Oh, you couldn’t! Padre JosÈ has that honor.” But then her bright smile faded, and she looked off wistfully down the long corridor.

“Who is he?” demanded Ames savagely. “I’ll send him a challenge to-night!”

“No,” she murmured gently, “you can’t. He’s way down in SimitÍ. And, oh, he was so good to me! He made me leave that country on account of the war.”

The man started slightly. This innocent girl little knew that one of the instigators of that bloody revolution sat there beside her. Then a new thought flashed into his brain. “What is the full name of this priest?” he suddenly asked.

“JosÈ––JosÈ de RincÓn,” she whispered reverently.

JosÈ de RincÓn––of SimitÍ––whom Wenceslas had made the scapegoat of the revolution! Why, yes, that was the man! And who, according to a recent report from Wenceslas, had been arrested and––

“A––a––where did you say this––this JosÈ was, little girl?” he asked gently.

“In SimitÍ,” she replied. “He is working out his problem.”

His eyes shifted quickly from hers. But he could not hold them away.

“His problem?”

“Yes. You know, he never was a priest at heart. But, though he saw the truth, in part, he was not able to prove it enough to set himself free; and so when I came away he stayed behind to work out his problem. And he will work it all out,” she mused abstractedly, looking off into the distance; “he will work it all out and come––to me. I am––I am working with him, now––and for him. And––” her voice dropped to a whisper, “I love him, oh, so much!”

Ames’s steely eyes narrowed. His mouth opened; then shut again with a sharp snap. That beautiful creature now belonged to him, and to none other! Were there other claimants, he would crush them without mercy! As for this apostate priest, JosÈ––humph! if he still lived he should rot the rest of his days in the reeking dungeons of San Fernando!

Carmen looked up. “When he comes to me,” she said softly, “we are going to give ourselves to the whole world.”

Ames appeared not to hear.

“And––perhaps––perhaps, by that time, you will be––be––”

“Well?” snapped the man, irritated by the return of her thought to himself.

“Different,” finished the girl gently.

“Humph! Different, eh?”

“Yes. Perhaps by that time you will––you will love everybody,” she murmured. “Perhaps you won’t go on piling up big mountains of money that you can’t use, and that you won’t let anybody else use.”

Ames frowned upon her. “Yes?” he said ironically.

“You will know then that Jesus founded his great empire on love. Your empire, you know, is human business. But you will find that such empires crumble and fall. And yours will, like all the rest.”

“Say,” he exclaimed, turning full upon her and seeming to bear her down by his tremendous personality, “you young and inexperienced reformers might learn a few things, too, if your prejudices could be surmounted. Has it ever occurred to you 140 that we men of business think not so much about accumulating money as about achieving success? Do you suppose you could understand that money-making is but a side issue with us?”

“Achieving success!” she echoed, looking wonderingly at him. “Well––are you––a success?”

He started to reply. Then he checked himself. A flush stole across his face. Then his eyes narrowed.

“Yes,” the girl went on, as if in quiet soliloquy, “I suppose you are––a tremendous worldly success. And this Ball––it is a splendid success, too. Thousands of dollars will be raised for the poor. And then, next year, the same thing will have to be done again. Your charities cost you hundreds of millions every year up here. And, meantime, you rich men will go right on making more money at the expense of your fellow-men––and you will give a little of it to the poor when the next Charity Ball comes around. It’s like a circle, isn’t it?” she said, smiling queerly up at him. “It has no end, you know.”

Ames had now decided to swallow his annoyance and meet the girl with the lance of frivolity. “Yes, I guess that’s so,” he began. “But of course you will admit that the world is slowly getting better, and that world-progress must of necessity be gradual. We can’t reform all in a minute, can we?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know how fast you might reform if you really, sincerely tried. But I think it would be very fast. And if you, a great, big, powerful man, with the most wonderful opportunities in the world, should really try to be a success, why––well, I’m sure you’d make very rapid progress, and help others like you by setting such a great example. For you are a wonderful man––you really are.”

Ames looked at her long and quizzically. What did the girl mean? Then he took her hand, this time without resistance.

“Tell me, little girl––although I know there can be no doubt of it––are you a success?”

She raised her luminous eyes to his. “Yes,” she replied simply.

He let fall her hand in astonishment. “Well!” he ejaculated, “would you mind telling me just why?”

She smiled up at him, and her sweet trustfulness drew his sagging heartstrings suddenly taut.

“Because,” she said simply, “I strive every moment to ‘acquire that mind which was in Christ Jesus.’”

Silence fell upon them. From amusement to wonder, to irritation, to anger, then to astonishment, and a final approximation to something akin to reverent awe had been the swift course of the man’s emotions as he sat in this secluded nook 141 beside this strange girl. The poisoned arrows of his worldly thought had broken one by one against the shield of her protecting faith. His badinage had returned to confound himself. The desire to possess had utterly fled before the conviction that such thought was as wildly impossible as iniquitous.

Then he suddenly became conscious that the little body beside him had drawn closer––that it was pressing against him––that a little hand had stolen gently into his––and that a soft voice, soft as the summer winds that sigh among the roses, was floating to his ears.

“To be really great is to be like that wonderful man, Jesus. It is to know that through him the great Christ-principle worked and did those things which the world will not accept, because it thinks them miracles. It is to know that God is love, and to act that knowledge. It is to know that love is the Christ-principle, and that it will destroy every error, every discord, everything that is unlike itself. It is to yield your present false sense of happiness and good to the true sense of God as infinite good. It is to bring every thought into captivity to this Christ-principle, love. It is to stop looking at evil as a reality. It is to let go your hold on it, and let it fade away before the wonderful truth that God is everywhere, and that there isn’t anything apart from Him. Won’t you try it? You will have to, some day. I have tried it. I know it’s true. I’ve proved it.”

How long they sat in the quiet that followed, neither knew. Then the man suffered himself to be led silently back to the ball room again. And when he had recovered and restored his worldly self, the bright little image was no longer at his side.

“Stand here, Jude, an’ when they begins to come out to their gasoline carts grab anything ye can, an’ git. I’ll work over by the door.”

The shivering woman crept closer to the curb, and the man slouched back against the wall close to the exit from which the revelers would soon emerge. A distant clock over a jeweler’s window chimed the hour of four. A moment later the door opened, and a lackey came out and loudly called the number of the Hawley-Crowles car. That ecstatically happy woman, with Carmen and the obsequious young Duke of Altern, appeared behind him in the flood of light.

As the big car drew softly up, the wretched creature whom the man had called Jude darted from behind it and plunged full at Carmen. But the girl had seen her coming, and she met her with outstretched arm. The glare from the open door fell full upon them.

“Jude!”

“God!” cried the woman. “It’s the little kid!”

She turned to flee. Carmen held her. With a quick movement the girl tore the string of pearls from her neck and thrust it into Jude’s hand. The latter turned swiftly and darted into the blackness of the street. Then Carmen hurriedly entered the car, followed by her stupefied companions. It had all been done in a moment of time.

“Good heavens!” cried Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, when she had recovered her composure sufficiently to speak. “What does this mean? What did you do?”

But Carmen replied not. And the Duke of Altern rubbed his weak eyes and tried hard to think.