For several days Ames reflected, and waited. Judging by the data which he was able to secure, the Express was eating up money at a fearful pace. To continue at that rate meant certain financial disaster in the near future. And yet the publishers of the rejuvenated sheet seemed never to count the cost of their experiment. Already they had begun the introduction of innovations that were startling and even mirth-provoking to staid, conservative publishers in the journalistic field. To survive the long period necessary for the education of the public taste to such things as the Express stood for demanded a source of income no less permanent than La Libertad itself. But at this thought Ames chuckled aloud.

Then an idea occurred to him. The Beaubien, of course, in 107 her crippled financial condition was affording the Express no monetary assistance. Carmen had nothing. Haynerd’s few thousands were long since dissipated. Hitt’s income was measured. But––ah, Miss Wall! And her estate was handled by Ames and Company! And handled, we may add, in such a manner that Miss Wall knew naught regarding it, except that she might draw upon it as one dips water from a hillside spring.

Thus Ames reflected. And as he meditated upon the new paper and its promoters, there gradually formed within him a consuming desire to see again the fair young girl who had drawn him so strongly, despite his mountainous wrath and his flaming desire to crush her when she boldly faced him in his own house on the night of his grand reception. Why had he let her escape him then? He had been a fool! True, women had meant little to him, at least in the last few years. But this girl had seemed to stir within him new emotions, or those long slumbering. He knew not, coarsely materialistic as was his current thought, that in him, as in all who came within the radius of her pure affection, she had swept chords whose music he had never heard before.

Days passed, while Ames still mused. And then one morning he took down the receiver and called up the office of the Express.

No, Mr. Hitt was not there––but this was his assistant. And:

“You didn’t want to see Mr. Hitt, did you? You wanted to see me. Well, you may come over.”

Ames nearly dropped the receiver in his astonishment. In the first place, the girl had read his thought; and in the second, he was not accustomed to being told that he might go to see people––they came cringing to him.

“You may come at twelve-fifteen,” continued the clear, firm voice. “And remain a half hour; I’m very busy.”

Ames put down the instrument and looked about, thankful that no one was there to comment on his embarrassment. Then he leaned back in his chair and went slowly over in thought the experiences of that eventful night in his house. Why, this slip of a girl––a half-breed Indian at best––this mere baby––! But he glanced up at the great electric wall clock, and wished it were then twelve-fifteen.

---

At noon Ames, jauntily swinging his light walking stick, strolled casually into the office of the Express. His air was one of supreme confidence in his own powers. He was superhuman, and he knew it. And the knowledge rendered him 108 unafraid of God, man, or beast. He had met and conquered everything mundane, excepting this young girl. But that thought was now delightful to him. In her he had unearthed a real novelty, a ceaseless interest. She reminded him of a beautiful kitten. She scratched and nettled him; but she was as nothing in his grasp.

The first thing that impressed him on entering the office was the air of prosperity which hung over the place. The environment, he mentally commented, was somewhat unusual for a newspaper plant. Order, quiet, and cleanliness were dominant notes in the prevailing harmony. He first walked back into the pressroom to see if the same conditions prevailed there. Then he retraced his steps, and at length came to a halt before a door bearing the inscription, “Miss Ariza,” on the glass. Turning the knob, he peered curiously in.

The room was small, but light and airy. Its furnishings were new, and its walls had been freshly tinted. A few pictures of good quality hung about them. A handsome rug lay upon the floor. At the desk, bending over a new typewriter, sat Carmen.

“I beg pardon,” said Ames, hesitating in the doorway.

The girl glanced up quickly. “Oh, come in,” she said. “I was expecting you.”

He entered and took the chair indicated. “You don’t mind if I finish this article, do you?” she said, bending again to her work. “It’s got to go to the compositors right away.”

“Certainly––don’t stop,” replied Ames easily. “When we talk I want your undivided attention.”

“Oh, you’re sure to get it,” she returned, laughing. And Ames wondered just what she meant.

He sat back in his chair and watched her closely. How wondrous fair she was! Yet, there was just a slight tint in her skin, he thought. Perhaps the report that she was a mulatto was not wholly unfounded, although the strain must have been greatly mixed. How simply she was dressed. He remembered her in her beautiful ball gown. He thought he preferred this. How rapidly her fingers sped over the keys. And what fingers! What a hand! He wanted to bend over and take it in his own. Then he suddenly remembered what the Beaubien had once told him––that she always seemed to be a better woman in this girl’s presence. But––what changes had come since then! Could he go on persecuting the harassed woman? But he wouldn’t, if––

“There!” said the girl, with what seemed to be a little sigh of relief. She pressed a button, and handed the typewritten sheets to the boy who responded. Then, turning to Ames:

“You’ve come to apologize, haven’t you? But you needn’t. I’m not a bit offended. I couldn’t be, you know.”

Apologize! Well, he certainly had not had any such intention when he came in. In fact, he knew not just why he was there.

“You see, Congressman Wales didn’t vote for the unaltered schedule. And so everything’s all right, isn’t it?” she went on lightly.

Ames’s face darkened. “No vote has been taken,” he said, a dull anger rising within him.

“Oh, you are mistaken,” replied the girl. “The bill was voted out of committee an hour ago. That’s what I was writing up. Here’s the wire, showing the alterations made. Mr. Wales voted for them.”

Ames read the message, and handed it back. Beyond the clouding of his features he gave no indication of his feelings.

“So, you see,” continued the girl, “that incident is closed––for all time, isn’t it?”

He did not reply for some moments. Then:

“Rather odd, isn’t it?” he commented, turning quite away from that subject, and glancing about, “that one with the high ideals you profess should be doing newspaper work.”

“Just the contrary,” she quickly returned. “There is nothing so practical as the ideal, for the ideal is the only reality.”

“Well, just what, may I ask, are you trying to do here?” he continued.

“Run a newspaper on a basis of practical Christianity,” she answered, her eyes dancing. “Just as all business will have to be conducted some day.”

He leaned back and laughed.

“It is funny, isn’t it?” she said, “to the carnal mind.”

The laughter abruptly ceased, and he looked keenly at her. But there was no trace of malice in her fair face as she steadily returned the look.

“Has it paid yet?” he asked in a bantering tone.

“Splendidly!” she exclaimed.

“H’m! Well, I’ll wager you won’t get a dollar back on your investment for years.”

“A dollar! No, nor perhaps a penny! We are not measuring our profits in money!”

“And your investment––let’s see,” he mused, trying to draw her out. “You’ve put into this thing a couple of hundred thousand, eh?”

She smiled. “I’ll tell you,” she said, “because money is the only measure you have for estimating the worth of our project. Mr. Hitt has put more than that amount already into the Express.”

“Well! well! Quite a little for you people to lose, eh?”

“You will have to change your tone if you remain here, Mr. Ames,” she answered quietly. “We talk only prosperity in this office.”

“Prosperity! In the face of overwhelming debts! That’s good!” he laughed.

She looked at him closely for a moment. “Debts?” she said in a low voice. “You speak of debts? You who owe your fellow-men what you can never, never repay? Why, Mr. Ames, there is no man in this whole wide world, I think, who is so terribly, hopelessly in debt as you!”

“I? My dear girl! Why, I don’t owe a dollar to any man!”

“No?” she queried, bending a little closer to him. “You do not owe Madam Beaubien the money you are daily filching from her? You do not owe poor Mr. Gannette the money and freedom of which you robbed him? You do not owe anything to the thousands of miners and mill hands who have given, and still give, their lives for you? You do not owe for the life which you took from Mrs. Hawley-Crowles? You do not owe for the souls which you have debauched in your black career? For the human wreckage which lies strewn in your wake? You do not owe Mr. Haynerd for the Social Era which you stole from him?”

Ames remained rigid and quiet while the girl spoke. And when she had finished, and they sat looking squarely into each other’s eyes, the silence was like that which comes between the sharp click of lightning and the crash of thunder which follows. If it had been a man who thus addressed him, Ames would have hurled him to the floor and trampled him. As it was, he rose slowly, like a black storm-cloud mounting above the horizon, and stood over the girl.

She looked up into his face dauntlessly and smiled. “Sit down,” she quietly said. “I’ve only begun. Don’t threaten, please,” she continued. “It wouldn’t do any good, for I am not a bit afraid of you. Sit down.”

A faint smile began to play about Ames’s mouth. Then he twitched his shoulders slightly. “I––I got up,” he said, with an assumption of nonchalance, “to––to read that––ah, that motto over there on the wall.” He went slowly to it and, stooping, read aloud:

“Lift up the weak, and cheer the strong, Defend the truth, combat the wrong! You’ll find no scepter like the pen To hold and sway the hearts of men.”

“That was written by your Eugene Field,” offered the girl. “Now read the one on the opposite side. It is your Tekel Upharsin.”

He went to the one she indicated, and read the spiritual admonition from Bryant:

“Leave the vain, low strife That makes men mad––the tug for wealth and power–– The passions and the cares that wither life, And waste its little hour.”

“Now,” continued the girl, “that is only a suggestion to you of the real handwriting on the wall. I put it there purposely, knowing that some day you would come in here and read it.”

Ames turned and looked at her in dumb wonder, as if she were some uncanny creature, possessed of occult powers. Then the significance of her words trickled through the portals of his thought.

“You mean, I suppose,” he said, “that if I am not persuaded by the second motto I shall feel the force of the first, as it sways you, eh?”

“I mean, Mr. Ames,” she replied steadily, “that the world is entering upon a new era of thought, and that your carnal views and methods belong to a day that is past. This century has no place for them; it wearies of the things you represent; you are the epitome of that evil which must have its little hour of night before the reality dawns.”

He regarded her intently for some moments. “Am I to understand,” he asked, “that the Express, under its new management, is about to turn muck-raker, and shovel mud at us men of wealth?”

“We are not considering the Express now, Mr. Ames,” she replied. “It is I alone who am warning you.”

“Do Hitt and Haynerd bring against me the charges which you voiced a moment ago? And do you intend to make the columns of your paper spicy with your comments on my character and methods? I verily believe you are declaring war!”

“We are in the business of declaring truth, Mr. Ames,” she said gently. “The Express serves all people. It will not shield you when you are the willing tool of evil, nor will it condone your methods at any price.”

“War, eh? Very well,” he replied with a bantering smile. “I came over here this noon to get the policy of your paper. I accept your challenge.”

“Our challenge, Mr. Ames,” she returned, “is the challenge which evil always finds in good. It is perpetual.”

“Fine!” he exclaimed. “I like a good enemy, and an honest one. All right, marshal your forces. Who’s your general, Hitt or Haynerd?”

“God,” she answered simply.

For an instant the man was taken back. Then he recovered himself, and laughed.

“Do you know,” he said, bending close to her, “I admire you very much. You are a splendid little fighter. Now let’s see if we can’t get together on terms of peace. The world hasn’t used you right, and I don’t blame you for being at odds with it. I’ve wanted to talk with you about this for some time. The pin-headed society hens got jealous and tried to kill you. But, if you’ll just say the word, I’ll set you right up on the very pinnacle of social prestige here. I’ll take you by the hand and lead you down through the whole crowd of ’em, and knock ’em over right and left! I’ll make you the leading woman of the city; I’ll back the Express; we’ll make it the biggest newspaper in the country; I’ll make you and your friends rich and powerful; I’ll put you in the place that is rightfully yours, eh? Will you let me?”

He was bending ever nearer, and his hand closed over hers when he concluded. His eyes were looking eagerly into her face, and a smile, winning, enticing, full of meaning, played about his lips. His voice had dropped to a whisper.

Carmen returned his smile, but withdrew her hand. “I’ll join you,” she said, “on one condition.”

“Name it!” he eagerly cried.

“That you obey me.”

“Well––and what does that mean?”

“Go; sell that thou hast; and give to the poor. Then come, take up the cross, and follow––my leader.”

He straightened up, and a sneer curled his lips. “I suppose,” he coarsely insinuated, “that you think you now have material for an illuminating essay on my conversation.”

“No,” she said gently. “It is too dark to be illuminating.”

The man’s facial muscles twitched slightly under the sting, but he retained his outward composure. “My dear girl,” he said, “it probably has not occurred to you that the world regards the Express as utterly without excuse for existence. It says, and truly, that a wishy-washy sheet such as it, with its devitalized, strained, and bolted reports of the world’s vivid happenings, deserves to go under from sheer lack of interest. The experiment has been tried before, and has signally failed. Money alone can keep your paper alive. But, say the word, and––”

“And your money, as well as your business ideals, will be ours?” she concluded for him.

He smiled and nodded.

“Mr. Ames,” she said, “you have no ideals. No man who amasses millions by taking advantage of the world’s inhuman 113 and pernicious social system can have ideals worthy of the name. To apply your methods, your thought, to the Express would result in sinking its moral tone into the dust. As for your money––”

“Commit suicide, then!” cried the man, yielding to his rising anger. “Let the Express go down, carrying you and your spineless associates with it! But, remember, you will be the sole cause of its ruin, and theirs!”

Carmen rose quietly and opened the office door. “Your half hour is up, Mr. Ames,” she said, glancing at the little clock on her desk; “and I must return to my work.”

For a moment the huge man stood looking down darkling upon the girl. He would have given his soul if he could have clasped that slender form in his arms! A sudden impulse assailed him, and bade him fall upon his knees before her, and ask her forgiveness and guidance. She stood waiting––perhaps just for that, and always with that same smile into which no one had ever yet read aught but limitless love.

The telephone bell rang sharply. Carmen hastened to answer the call.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Hitt. Yes––yes––the cotton schedule was reported out quite changed––yes, an hour ago!”

When she looked up, she was alone.

---

“Dearie,” said the Beaubien at evening, as Carmen seated herself in that woman’s lap and wound her arms about her neck, “I am afraid for you.”

“Well, mother dearest,” replied the girl, giving her a tighter squeeze, “that is a sheer waste of time. If you haven’t anything more to occupy you than fear, you’d better come down to the office, and I’ll set you to work.”

“But––you have defied him––as he says, declared war––”

“No, dearest, not that. It is the carnal mind, using him as a channel, that has declared war against good. But evil is not power; nor has it been given power by God. My one thought is this: Am I doing that which will result in the greatest good to the greatest number? Am I loving my neighbor as myself? Serving as I would be served? Not as evil would want to be served, but as good. If my mental attitude is right, then God’s law becomes operative in all that I do, and I am protected. Don’t you see?”

“I know, dearie, but––there’s the telephone! Oh, I do hope they don’t want you!”

Carmen answered the call, and returned with the announcement that Haynerd was in distress. “Sidney Ames is––not there,” she said. “He was to report a meeting. Mr. Haynerd wanted Lewis. Now don’t worry, dearest; I––I won’t go alone.”

The girl had taken her coat and hat. A moment later she gave the Beaubien a kiss, and hurried out into the night. In half an hour she stood at Haynerd’s desk.

“What are we going to do?” moaned that perturbed individual. “Here I am, tied down, depending on Sid, and he’s drunk!”

“Well, I’m here. What’s the assignment?”

Haynerd looked up at her, and hesitated. “Mass meeting, over on the East Side. Here’s the address,” taking up a slip of paper. “Open meeting, I’m told; but I suspect it’s an I. W. W. affair. Hello!” he said, replying to a telephone call. “What’s that? The Ames mills at Avon closed down this afternoon? What’s reason? Oh, all right. Call me in an hour.”

He hung up the receiver and turned to Carmen. “That’s what this meeting is about,” he said significantly. “Four thousand hands suddenly thrown out at the Avon mills. Dead of winter, too!”

Sidney Ames slouched into the editor’s office and sank heavily into a chair. Haynerd gave a despairing gesture. “Look here,” he said, in sudden desperation, “that fellow’s got to be sobered up, now! Or else––”

Another call came, this time from the Beaubien. Father Waite had just come in. Could he take the assignment? Haynerd eagerly gave the address over the ’phone, and bade him start at once.

“Now,” he said, nodding at Carmen, and jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the intoxicated reporter, “it’s up to you.”

Carmen rose at once and went to the lad. “Come, Sidney,” she said, taking his hand.

The boy roused dully, and shuffled stupidly after the girl into her own little office.

Carmen switched on the lights and closed the door. Then she went to the limp, emaciated form crumpled up in a chair, and sat down beside it.

“Sidney,” she said, taking his hand, “there is but one habit––the habit of righteousness. That is the habit that you are going to wear now.”

Outside, the typewriters clicked, the telephones tinkled, and the linotypes snapped. There were quick orders; men came and went hurriedly; but there was no noise, no confusion. Haynerd toiled like a beaver; but his whole heart was in his work. He had found his niche. Carmen’s little room voiced the sole discordant note that night. And as the girl sat there, holding the damp hand of the poor victim, she thanked her 115 God that the lad’s true individuality was His pure thought of him.

---

At dawn Sidney Ames awoke. A rosy-tinted glow lay over the little room, and the quiet form at his side seemed an ethereal presence. A gentle pressure from the hand that still clasped his brought a return of his earthly sense, and he roused up.

“Miss Carmen! You––?”

“Yes, Sidney.” The gentle voice sounded to him like distant music.

“I––you––you brought me in here last night––but––” His hands closed about the little one that lay in his grasp. “You––haven’t sat here––with me––all night?”

“Yes, Sidney, all night.”

With a low moan the boy buried his face in her arms, and burst into a flood of bitter tears.

“It isn’t real, Sidney,” she whispered, twining an arm about his neck. “It isn’t real.”

For some moments the lad sobbed out his shame and misery. Carmen stroked his fair hair, and drew him closer to her, while tears of love and pity coursed down her own cheeks.

Then, suddenly, the boy started up. “Don’t touch me!” he cried, struggling to his feet, while his eyes shone with a wild light.

He started for the door, but Carmen darted past him and stood with her back against it, facing him. “Stop, Sidney!” she cried, holding her hands against him. “It can’t drive you! It is powerless! God reigns here!”

She turned the lock as he hesitated; then took his arm and led him, trembling and shivering, back to his chair.

“We are going to meet this, Sidney, you and I,” she whispered, bending over the shaking form.

The suffering lad shook his head and buried his face in his hands. “You can’t,” he moaned; “you can’t––I’m gone!” His voice died into a tremble of hopeless despair, of utter surrender.

Carmen bit her lip. She had faced many trying situations in her brief life-experience; but, though she met it with dauntless courage and knew its source, the insidious suggestion now persisted that the eyes of her people were upon her, and that by this would stand or fall their faith. Aye, the world was watching her now, keen-eyed and critical. Would she give it cause to say she could not prove her faith by her works?

And then came the divine message that bade her “Know that I am God!”––that bade her know that responsibility lay not upon her shoulders, but upon the Christ for whom she was 116 now called to witness. To see, or permit the world to see, this mountainous error, this heaped-up evil, as real and having power, meant a denial of the Christ and utter defeat. It meant a weary retracing of her own steps, and a long night of spiritual darkness to those whose eyes had been upon her.

“Sidney,” she said, turning to the sunken boy at her side, “you are right, the old man is gone. And now we are going to create ‘new heavens and a new earth, and the former shall not be remembered nor come into mind’––as thought. Underneath are the everlasting arms, and you have sunk down, down, down, until at last you rest upon them, and you find that you haven’t sunk at all, and that you couldn’t possibly get away from that infinite Love that is always drawing you to itself!”

She put her arm again about the lad, and drew him toward her. “Listen, Sidney dear, I am standing with you––and with me is omnipotent God! His arm is not shortened, that it can not save you from the pit of spiritual oblivion into which human thought would seem to make you think you had fallen, engulfed by the senses.”

The boy raised his head and looked at her through his bloodshot eyes. “You don’t know!” he whispered hoarsely; “you don’t understand––”

“It is just because I do understand, Sidney, that I am able to help you,” she interrupted quickly. “I understand it all.”

“It––it isn’t only whiskey––it’s––” his head sank again––“it’s––morphine! And––God! it’s got me!”

“It’s got the false thought that seems to call itself ‘you,’” she said. “Well, let it have it! They belong together. Let them go. We’ll cling to them no longer, but shake them off for good. For good, I said, Sidney––and that means, for God!”

“God?” he echoed. “I know no God! If there were a God, I shouldn’t be where I am now.”

“Then I will know it for you,” she softly answered. “And you are now right where you belong, in Him. And His love is about you.”

“Love!” He laughed bitterly. “Love! I never knew what it meant. My parents didn’t teach it to their children. And when I tried to learn, my father kicked me into the street!”

“Then, Sidney, I’ll teach you. For I am in the world just to show what love will do.”

“My father––it’s his fault––all his fault!” cried the boy, flaring up and struggling to rise. “God! I hate him––hate him! It’s his fault that I’m a sot and a drug fiend!”

“It is hate, Sidney, that manifests in slavery, in sodden brains, and shaking nerves. You don’t hate your father; the hate is against your thought of him; and that thought is all wrong. We’re going to correct it.”

“I used to drink––some, when I lived at home,” the boy went on, still dwelling on the thoughts that held him chained. “But he could have saved me. And then I fell in love––I thought it was love, but it wasn’t. The woman was––she was years older than I. When she left the city, I followed her. And when I found out what she was, and came back home, my father threw me out––cut me off––God!”

“Never mind, Sidney,” the girl whispered. “It isn’t true anyway.” But she realized that the boy must voice the thoughts that were tearing his very soul, and she suffered him, for it uncovered to her the hidden sources of his awful malady.

“And then I drank, drank, drank!” he moaned. “And I lay in the gutters, and in brothels, and––then, one day, Carlson told me to come and work for him. He thought I could straighten up. And so I went to a doctor, and he––God curse him!––he injected morphine into my arm to sober me. And that taught me that I could drink all I wanted to, and sober up on morphine. But then I learned––I found––”

He stopped, and began to fumble in his pockets. His eyes became wilder as he searched.

“Where is it?” he cried, turning fiercely upon the girl. “Did you take it from me? Give it to me––quick!” He caught her wrist and twisted it painfully. His voice became a scream.

“God is everywhere!” flashed through the girl’s thought. “I am not afraid to see evil seem to have power!” Then aloud: “I know what you are searching for, Sidney. Yes, I have it. Listen, and I will give it to you. You are searching for help. No, it isn’t in morphine tablets. It is in love––right here––the Christ-principle, that is bigger far than the demons that seem to tear you! I have all power from God, and you, evil, can not touch me!”

The boy started at the ringing voice, and loosened his grasp. Then he sank back into his chair, shaking as with palsy.

“Sidney!” she cried, seizing his hand. “Rise, and stand with me! We don’t have to struggle––we don’t have to fight––we only have to know. All that you are wrestling with is the world-wide belief that there is a power apart from God! There is none! Any claim that there is such a power is a lie! I have proved it! You and I will prove it again! There is no power or intelligence in whiskey or morphine! I have been sent to help you! The Christ-principle will save you! There is nothing beyond its reach, not even your problem!

“It is a problem, that’s all, Sidney,” she went on, as he became calmer. “And I have the solution. Will you put yourself in my charge, in my care, and let me meet it for you?” She bent over him and looked eagerly into his drawn face.

“We are not going to fight,” she continued. “We are not going to resist evil as the world does, and so make it real. I know, dear, just how pressing your need is. I know, and I understand. I know how awfully real it seems to you. But trust me, as I trust the Christ. For victory is inevitable!”

For a few moments they sat together, hand in hand. The boy seemed to have been stunned. Then Carmen rose. “Come,” she said. “I am going to take you home with me. I am going to keep you right with me, right under my thought. I’m going to be the mirror, constantly with you, that reflects infinite love to you every moment. Come; your problem is mine now. The burden of proof rests upon me. Don’t think of anything else now, excepting that God has your hand and is leading you.”

She took his arm and drew him, unresisting, yet uncomprehending, to the door. As she opened it, she looked up into his face and smiled. The boy choked, and turned back.

“No!” she cried, shifting her grasp to his hand. “No; you are mine now! And I shall not turn you over to yourself again until the problem is solved!”

Hitt met them as they came out of the room. “Well,” he said, “I’ve kept Madam Beaubien informed as well as I could. But she’s been worried. Where are you going?”

“Home,” she said simply. “We’ll be back at three––perhaps.”

---

But at three that afternoon the Beaubien telephoned to Hitt that Carmen would not be down.

“She will not leave the boy,” the woman said. “She holds him––I don’t know how. And I know he is trying desperately to help her. But––I never saw any one stand as she does! Lewis is here, but he doesn’t interfere. We’re going to put a bed in his room, and Sidney will sleep there. Yes, I’ll keep you informed. Tell Ned, won’t you?”

Haynerd stormed; but the tempest was all on the surface. “I know, I know,” he said, in reply to Hitt’s explanation. “That boy’s life is more to her than a million newspapers, or anything else in the universe just at present. She’ll win! The devil can’t look her in the face! I––I wish I were––What are you standing there for? Go ’long and get to work!”

In the little Beaubien cottage that afternoon the angry waves of human fear, of human craving, of hatred, wrath, and utter misery mounted heaven-high, and fell again. Upon them walked the Christ. As the night-shadows gathered, Sidney Ames, racked and exhausted, fell into a deep sleep. Then Carmen left his bedside and went into the little parlor, where sat the Beaubien and Father Waite.

“Here,” she said, handing a hypodermic needle and a vial of tablets to the latter. “He didn’t use them. And now,” she continued, “you must work with me, and stand––firm! Sidney’s enemies are those of his own mental household. It is our task to drive them out. We have got to uproot from his consciousness the thought that alcohol and drugs are a power. Hatred and self-condemnation, as well as self-love, voiced in a sense of injury, are other mental enemies that have got to be driven out, too. There is absolutely no human help! It is all mental, every bit of it! You have got to know that, and stand with me. We are going to prove the Christ-principle omnipotent with respect to these seeming things.

“But,” she added, after a moment’s pause, “you must not watch this error so closely that it can’t get away. Don’t watch it at all! For if you do, you make a reality of it––and then, well––”

“The case is in your hands, Carmen,” said Father Waite gently. “We know that Jesus would cure this boy instantly, if he were here––”

“Well––the Christ is here!” cried the girl, turning upon him. “Put away your ‘ifs’ and ‘buts.’ Stand, and know!”

The man bowed before the rebuke. “And these,” he said, holding out the needle and vial, “shall we have further use for them?”

“It will be given us what we are to do and say,” she returned. “The case rests now with God.”

---