Stella Cole loitered, fascinated by the glisten of the new Judson kitchen. She addressed the cook, with that shade of superiority family servants invariably feel to newcomers.

"Could you ask Miss' Mary to step heah a secon', Mahaly?"

The girl departed, sniffing superciliously at the old mountain woman who still had the monopoly of the Judson laundry.

The gaunt-cheeked negress faced her mistress with an elemental dignity. "Miss' Mary, kin you ask Mr. Judson a favor fo' me?"

"Surely, Stella. What is it?"

She traced the linoleum pattern slowly with the frowsy toe of a black slipper. "Hit's dis way, Miss' Mary. Ah'se movin'."

"Moving! From the mountain?"

"Yassum."

"It isn't——" she hesitated a moment. "It isn't—the strike?"

Mary Judson shivered as she spoke the word. The overtones to that word jangled horribly, summoning with their ghastly discord troops of disordered pictures, fragments of sorrows, jagged moments of agony. Around that word she grouped mentally Pelham's distressing breach with his father, the son's growth away from her, the dead-fingered protest of Duckworth's suicide, glimpses of red death staining the kindly mountain, the wilful burning of the house that had stored memories which, next to the Jackson childhood, were the most poignantly joyful life had given her. That word summoned the defacing of the mountain's beauty and harmony, and her present exile from it; as well as a spiritual exile, the cold-visioned knowledge of the chasm between her and Paul that had widened irrevocably in the hushed storms that were their quarrels born out of the strike.

The keen black eyes took in something of this, as it shadowed momentarily the lined, tortured face of the wife of Paul Judson. Mary Judson had grown old, older than the soft gray of her hair and the gray prints around her mouth indicated: old with the timeless age of torn illusions and murdered dreams: old with the age that the same three years had brought to Stella Cole.

"No'm, Miss' Mary.... Yassum, dat is.... Ah'se movin'."

A spasm of pity smoothed the mistress' drawn cheeks, as she felt gripped by the roughened brownish face, gnarled by its helpless acceptance of the death of hope. "Do you.... Have you found a house, Stella? Do you know where you're going?"

"Yessum. Ah knows whar Ah'se gwine."

"And you're going——"

"Home, Miss' Mary."

"Home?"

"Yessum...." Feeling that more was required, her face wrinkled with an old shy eagerness. "To Macon, Miss' Mary; Macon, Georgy. Whar me 'n' Tom comed f'um, afore we done moved to Atlanta.... Afore we done come here."

"We'll hate to lose you from the mountain, Stella."

"Yessum." She recrossed her hands uneasily, and straightened up from the table against which her hip had swayed for its solid rest.

Mary Judson studied the face of the mother before her with a hidden hunger, trying to read in its blackened lineaments the elusive recipe that had brought that flicker of happiness at the mention of home.

"Your boys.... You have Ed still, haven't you?"

"No'm." The rich tones grew gossipy, in a detached way. "Ah ain't got none of 'em. Jim he die fu'st, Miss' Mary; he die w'en de mine oxploded. De Lawd tuk him fu'st; he wuz a good chile. Den Babe. He wuz mah baby; dey shot him. Dat wuz two. Den Will an' Diana dey die, w'en de house burn down. Dey shoot dem too. Dey wuz good chillun too, Miss' Mary. Ah ain't ben 'specially a sinful 'ooman; Ah s'pose dey desu'ved it somehow, Ah caint figger out.... Dat makes ... yessum, dat makes fo'. Tom he die; he wuz ole, it wuz his time. Dat lef' Ed. De las' time dey bruk up dem strikers, dey shoot Ed." She gulped, closed her eyes a minute.

"I—I hadn't heard."

"No'm. Ed wuz diff'runt. Ed he kill a man. A white man. But de jedge tu'n him loose. Dey wuzn't nothin' wrong dar, de jedge he say. Dey made Ed a depity. Den dey kill him....

"Ah tole dem boys, Miss' Mary, Ah tole 'em a powerful time ago, hit wuzn't no nigger's business ter meddle in white folkses' fusses. Dey seed diff'runt. De Lawd done tuk 'em all, 'cep' me. Ah ain't got no business here, Miss' Mary. Ain't got no folkses here. Ah got two brudders in Macon, Georgy. So Ah'se movin'."

Mary bit her lips, to steady her words, to force back the tears that insistently crept down her own cheeks. "Anything that Mr. Judson can do for you, Stella——"

The negress dug around in the littered bulge of the handbag the mistress had given her, and brought up a greasy leather-covered book. "Dis here's Diana's bank book, what she save f'um her wu'k. Ah thought maybe Mr. Judson could git me de money. Dar's thuhty fo' dollars, she tole me. An' Ah got Tom's benefit money f'um de Galileum Fishermens, it comed in a letter." She discovered the creased check, and handed it over. "Den Ah'll have some money over w'en Ah gits to Macon; dey'll be gladder to see me; you know how it is, Miss' Mary. An' if Peter could drive me 'n' mah stuff to de depot, if he wuzn't too busy——"

"Of course I'll see that you have Peter. What day are you leaving?"

"Sad'day. De train goes at two erclock."

"I'll see that he gets there in plenty of time."

Stella's eyes roamed unconcernedly around the shining rows of aluminum pans; she sighed with satisfaction. "How's Miss Susie an' Miss Nell?"

"Both doing finely. Susie's living in Detroit, you know; and Nell is studying art in her neighborhood."

The old mammy leaned forward. "Ah seed Mistuh Hollis w'en he wuz heah las' monf. He do make a fine sojer, Miss' Mary."

"We are both proud of him. And now with Ned visiting in Jackson, there are only two of us here."

"Mistuh Pelham ain't come roun' much, is he? He doan't git along wid his paw, do he?... Dat's what mah boys dey say, in dat union...."

Mary breathed out heavily. "They do not agree on everything, Stella."

Stella's eyes rounded with satisfaction; with the intimate impertinence native to negroes who have grown old in confidential employ, she nodded her head proudly. "Mah boys dey got along finely wid deir paw, Miss' Mary. Thank you kin'ly, ma'am, fuh speakin' to Mr. Judson."

Finally the trunks and boxes were packed, with the help of neighbors from Lilydale. Brother Adams' boys got most of her sons' clothes, except the newest suits; these she folded into the bottom of the biggest trunk for future emergencies. Peter was on hand, at Mr. Judson's orders, to crate such of the furniture as she wished to take; although many of the extra things went to this friend and that.... There did not seem much use in taking everything.

Babe's cap with the new mining lamp, Diana's school books and framed diploma, the old family Bible, Ed's re-shined deputy's badge, were wrapped carefully together.

At length the last package was hoisted onto the wagon, and after laying the shoebox of lunch on the seat Peter was to occupy, and taking a final drink of spring water, she clambered carefully up to the driver's bench. Peter hopped up with gray-haired, cricket-like agility, clucked sharply, and the horses jogged off.

They drove behind the crest, on the circling road above Lilydale. Peter chuckled to himself.

"What you laughin' at?"

"Ah'se thinkin', sistuh Stella, dat you sho' buried a passel er people in dis place."

She nodded in complacency. "Six of 'em, Peter, six of 'em."

He chuckled on. "Dey gwineter plant you nex', sistuh Stella."

"Dey gotter kill me fu'st."

She looked back, as the road turned into the viaduct for Adamsville, and sighed heavily. She remembered the arrival in the city ... the wait in the office of the Galilean Fishermen, while the children ate up all the cold fish sandwiches and speckled bananas Tom had gotten for their lunch. All gone. All gone. Unbidden, fragmentary pictures of the romping, frolicking boys, sober Diana, came.... Jim crying, when the hatchet chopped his foot.... Babe's round face.... Ed's face, and the others, in their pine-wood coffins.... Tom's kindly smile. All gone. A weak tear welled from under each old eyelid.

She looked around cautiously to see if Peter was noticing. No, he was drowsing forward, letting the horses choose their own way.

She undid quietly the end of the box of lunch, and took out a sandwich. Real chicken breast! The sisters of the Zion Church certainly did do things up in style.

XXX

The visit of the president of the National Steel Company was the floodtide of the year to Adamsville. On Paul Judson, both as President of the Commercial Club and through his connection with the mining companies, fell the largest share of the reflected glamor from the guest's powerful personality.

After the luncheon at the new Steelmen's Club, the party crowded into cars, to inspect the region's mineral development.

"Eight solid miles of mountain here," Paul's inclusive gesture swept the stretch from Hazelton to far beyond North Adamsville up the valley, "five other locations within a ten mile radius ... seventeen camps in all."

"It's a big plant, Mr. Judson."

"It's the largest in the South, sir. Coal yonder," he indicated the valley beyond Shadow Mountain, "only nine miles as the crow flies. The cheapest iron and steel region in the world. They don't grow that close together in Pittsburgh, the Lakes, or anywhere."

"A wonderful opportunity.... We're prepared to talk business."

"So are we." Both smiled the comprehending smile of men of achievement.

Sam Ross and urbane Judge Florence took the visitor for a round of the patent tipples. "We're just getting over a little strike in these mines," the Judge expanded.

"I've followed it. Came out all right, didn't it?"

"Oh, yes. But do you know, those fellows hung out for over a year! And they were beaten from the start."

"I know. In the Colorado trouble——" Reminiscences came in opulent detail.

Governor Tennant, a member of the receiving party, stayed behind for a word with Paul. "Did Jerry Florence speak to you for me?"

"Not yet...."

"He will, when he has the chance. My second term's up next year, Paul. The state wants a business governor. Adamsville hasn't had her chance for five terms.... Would you?..."

The owner of the mines drove his hands into his pockets, clenched to mask the sudden exhilaration. His voice remained unthrilled. "It's out of my line, Bob.... I doubt if it could go through."

"Not a doubt of it. The primary's the election, remember; we can make the papers and the politicians so insistent, that you can't refuse. You'd hardly have opposition."

"I'll see what the Judge thinks.... You'll hear from me by Friday."

"The offer stands."

The people's executive motored after the guest cars.

Paul Judson stood alone on the old cottage crest, surveying the overnight growth of the city toward his mountain. The houses on East Highlands had lapped closer and closer, until they broke in a spray over the foothills of the ore-rich summit.

Managing vice-president of the biggest mining business in the state, third largest land-owner in Bragg County, governor after next January! Well, he had gotten where he had planned, sixteen uneven years ago.

He recalled vaguely the vision that he had had, when he had sat on the same crest beside Nathaniel Guild, and decided to purchase. He would bring the city, and the state, to the feet of the mountain.... He had done it.

The jutting enginehouse smokestacks, the ramp offices to the right, the snarl and screech of the loaded cars on the narrow-gauge lines, forced themselves into his attention. Not a scene of beauty; and there was a charred desolation where Hillcrest Cottage had once spread its graceful lines.

It was not the dream he had had. A man dreamed blindly; life brought to pass a substitute instead of the sought goal. It was a necessary process; since dreams must conflict, and the restless shift of things constantly opened new possibilities, closed old ones. No, it was not what he had pictured.... There was no son beside him now, to take up the work in turn and pass it on to endless Judsons. Pelham.... Hollis in service, too pleased with the work to give it up.... Ned already determined to be a surgeon....

But it was a magnificent achievement.

Musing, he walked over the grayed site of the old house. His toe met an obstacle jutting in the grass. He poked it up with his cane. It was the fused handle of the Bohemian glass epergne which had been grandfather Judson's. He slipped it into his pocket to show Mary.

His wife, her face lined and colorless, as if from too many hours and years spent indoors, listened with intent attention to his account of the afternoon. Two sickly spots of color glowed at what the governor had said.

"But ... it will mean a hard contest, will it not?"

"I don't think so. The primary is the only chance for a real fight; and the Tennant crowd will stop that in advance. You'll have to brighten up a bit, Mary. You ought to do more entertaining...."

"I'm not very strong, Paul."

His gruff "Nonsense!" was the prelude to the further account of the planned amalgamation with National Steel. "We're still to have control of this district; Florence and I will be elected directors. It had to come; competition is waste; coÖperation is the modern method."

His wife sat with her eyes intent upon the melted fragment of colored glass in her hand. She turned it this way and that, up before the fading light, seeking what semblance of the colorful old token of Jackson life remained in it, what part was merely a charred, dead fragment of happier beauty.

"So I thought," he continued, unaware of her absorption, "that we could entertain the visiting gentlemen and their wives at dinner to-morrow evening."

A pinched expression of pain crossed her face. "You have not realized, Paul, that I am frailer this spring than any time since Ned was born...."

"I mean at the Steelmen's Club, not here. It won't be any trouble...."

"I can make the effort."

"You must see Dr. Giles. I had a talk with him about you; he says it's only nerves. If you'd quit thinking about that old fool that shot himself in my office, and those niggers that fooled around the place until they got shot.... There's nothing really wrong with you. Nell must give up the art school; you need someone to look after you."

"She doesn't want to come; she's happier there."

"You ask Dr. Giles." He went on with elaborate suggestions about the dinner; Mary Judson laid down the blackened, fused handle of glass; then held it again against the darkened light without. Hardly a glint of color remained.... That night she laid it away upon a closet shelf in one of the unused rooms of the great house.

By Friday, after a long talk with Judge Florence, Paul had made up his mind. He had his secretary wire the governor to run back to Adamsville for a consultation; he sent word to Robert Kane, who had left the directorate to succeed Pelham as state mining inspector, to meet him half an hour before the governor was due. No chance that either would fail the engagement; one crook of his little finger, and the state came at his bidding. The iron mountain had given that power to its iron master—a magnetism repellent but irresistible.

When the two builders of the mining strength rose to meet the governor, there was a subdued glitter of expectation in the eye of the younger man. He took the governor's hand with a new assurance.

Bob Tennant—"Whiskey-barrel Tennant"—had sought his accustomed solace on the ride up from Jackson; his face was flushed brick-red, although his tones were still straight.

"Well, Paul—am I in the presence of the next governor?" He essayed a satisfactory bow with oldtime courtliness.

"... Yes," Paul answered slowly.

"That's great, old man!"

"Shake hands with him, Bob—Mr. Robert Kane, your mining inspector."

Tennant's self-possession bridged the surprise. "So he's your trump-card!"

"Can you put it over?"

"Whatever you say goes with me, Paul; whatever I say, goes with the state. You won't mind frankness, Mr. Kane; we're practical men. You didn't want to run yourself, Paul?"

The magnate walked the length of the office, smoothing a cigar between his fingers. He tore off the silver wrapper, rolled it into a ball, and flung it deftly into an open basket. "There's a lot of soreness about that strike still, Bob; it's hardly worth the trouble. Jerry Florence agrees with my idea. Kane'll make a good man; his gift union card is worth a few votes. You have something else we need."

"Speak it out," Tennant nodded with vigorous affability. "Anything in heaven or hell for a friend—ain't that what they all say about Bob Tennant, old man?"

"Yes.... Todd Johnson's an old man, Bob; ready to retire. You can keep me in mind for the next senatorial vacancy; say within two years."

"Why didn't I think of that! Well, gentlemen, we'll regard that as settled. Let's go by the club, and do a little celebrating."

"We'll join you there in an hour," the astute iron man, half-pitying the other's craving, assured him. "Wait for us."

When Tennant had gone, the master walked throughout the office, rolling the unlighted cigar with satisfaction around the rim of his teeth. "He'll do as he says, Kane; we furnish the funds.... You'll have a job, the next four years."

"Matters in general? The war?"

Judson regarded him thoughtfully. "It won't last four years. There's certain victory, now that our country's in. I'm thinking about conditions to follow. You see what's happening in Russia——"

Kane laughed self-consciously. "We wouldn't be safe there. In some mining corner, where the radicals control, they jailed all the mine-owners; even shot one, for being a monarchist. But here, in this country——"

"That's the idea. We've got to convince the American workingman that he is never to turn on the creator of his prosperity. We'll have sporadic unrest; and that spineless bunch at Washington add to it, by kowtowing to the railroad brotherhoods, and even allowing unions among government employees. We can stiffen up their back-bones."

"Why, our workingman is not only the best paid in the world, he's getting a larger share all the time—even in some lines in Adamsville."

"Yes.... That's what we must stop. We did it, to the miners. What we've done here, we can do elsewhere. Patriotism, prosperity—these answer any discontent. Elections or strikes, we can't lose, with these as achieved slogans. Now that we're in National Steel, we have their backing as well. The mines are safe; we've got to keep them so. If once we give way an inch, they'll demand two more. I know you'll hold fast."

"Yes.... As governor, I'll hold fast."

"Now to find Bob Tennant, and keep him alive until he has you elected."

They left the watchman to darken the office, and departed for the Steelmen's Club.

The weeks that followed that last strike meeting pushed Pelham into deepening despondency. The Charities work was over; at the end he noticed a growing aloofness in the philanthropy offices. His father and the iron men contributed heavily; why should the son be welcomed?

Louise was gone; he had made no effort to fill her place, although Dorothy Meade had stopped him on the street one morning, and looked searchingly into his face—less as friend of Jane, than as if to appraise the changes in him, and measure him for a vacancy in her days.... She need not look there; he felt that that yesterday was not worth reviving. Jane's absence removed a substantial joy from his life; the mere bodily gap was not insistent enough to warrant casual or commercial filling.

A burst of energy sent him after permanent employment. The doors were shut kindly in his face; the mines would have none of him; and he found that the corporations' fingers were upon the whole city.

"Of course, I can find something for you," Lane Cullom consoled, "but—mere office work; not what you're fitted for, my boy."

Adamsville was locked to him. The moribund socialist movement would use his voluntary services; but he needed a livelihood. Serrano, Jensen, Mrs. Spigner, on a hurried visit, had called by; the comrades were reacting to him, though the unions held off. But Adamsville would need a scorifying industrial schooling before solidarity could come. He had lost his craving for the rÔle of teacher ... even if he had been acceptable.

He must leave Adamsville. He confided this to Jensen, and the Hernandezes. "I might organize for the National Socialist Office, or do something for the New York Philanthropy Bureau."

"That's bourgeois, comrade," objected Mrs. Hernandez.

"I must make a living."

The morning's mail, a few days later, contained a curt note from Jane; his fingers tore it open with awkward haste.

"I hear that you are planning to leave Adamsville," it ran. "Even if we can't live together, I can not see you waste your possibilities, here or elsewhere. Come by and see me, before doing anything definite. I am your friend, as long as you will have me."

He hurried to the phone, pausing a moment, with hand over the transmitter, to steady his voice.

She told him he could come at once.

There was no buoyancy in his greeting. "I've made a mess of things, Jane."

"It was disgraceful," she sympathized vigorously, "raking up that old story. Pig-headed fools always turn on you."

"They were sick of the whole thing; they couldn't see that the strike had brought them closer to victory."

She leaned forward, lips parted in the old bewitching way, her brown eyes radiant. "Did your father arrange that?"

"He's strong on family."

"It was a shame."

"I meant more than that.... My savage report as mining inspector.... Then—with you."

Her head remained averted.

"Maybe you'd rather I wouldn't mention that——"

Gradually she faced him. "I think I understand that ... too. You're not worse than most husbands.... Only, I wish you'd finished sowing your wild oats before your marriage."

"I felt——"

"You see how it is, Pelham," she explained as gravely as to a little child. "You had to choose between me, and other women. You made your choice."

"Was it ... necessarily ... final, Jane?"

Her frank eyes searched his face. "Sometimes I tell myself it ought to be. It's hard.... You see, I love you, Pelham."

"Suppose I came to you, on your terms...."

"I should reserve the right to act as you did, if I ever wished to."

He nodded, trying to make out what was going on within her mind.

"I would tell you, though," she went on. "With that understanding ... yes."

He did not touch her, sensing the physical revulsion she must still feel. His voice trembled in joyful disbelief. "You'll really——"

"I am your wife. And I love you."

Her fingers brushed his hand; he shivered in passionate repression.

"Jane——" A troubled crease roughened his forehead, "I'll try——"

"That's all I can ask."

They sat in dynamic silence, intent on their diverse thoughts. He relaxed into restful satisfaction, havened again; her doubtful fancies strove to shape of crumbling material some firm future for them both.

Her words came with difficulty. "What you ought to do, Pell, is to get work with the Federal Mining Commission. Washington outlooks are broader than Adamsville; particularly in war-time. That's your chance."

Worn with multiplied disappointments, he was unable to follow her enthusiasm. "We couldn't——"

She filled in details. "Senator Johnson would put in a word for you. Congressman Head's practically a socialist. Why not get it?"

"If you realized how downhearted——"

"You write to-morrow." She smoothed his tousled hair with the old familiar gesture. "It's an endless fight, dear."

"I think you'd better sell the car," she told him, the morning the federal commission arrived. "You may be sent anywhere now—our bank balance is low." She stopped halfway down the stairs, to wipe off a picture dusty from its weeks of neglect.

"It's fine to be back in harness again!"

"Marital, Pell?"

His comfortable grin answered her. "Both kinds."

"You'll be sorry to leave Adamsville?"

"The iron-hearted city.... Sorry—and glad, too. It's one of the finest places in America—to leave."

Her nostrils wrinkled with the old-time intimate charm. "You have deteriorated."

"What could you expect, with myself as my only audience?"

Then he regretted leaving the way open for reference to another auditor; but, after a noncommittal scrutiny, she did not pursue that topic.

"And then," Pelham continued hurriedly, "we're not leaving it forever. We'll return for another round with the triumphant malefactors."

"You think there's a chance?" Her question was from the heart.

"The South is twoscore years behind the rest of the country. We were premature.... But the South can't lag forever. Even the dreadful war will quicken intellects everywhere; every day's headlines mention 'socialism,' where it was never heard of three years ago. If we are wise—as we weren't in '61—it may come sensibly; if not, God help my respected father, and the rest of the monied vultures, in that day!

"I remember my first view of the city—the furnaces, and the coke ovens; it looked like the pit of hell to me.... Well——"

Word came at last of his detail to duty at Washington. It was hard to end the home they had built together in the Haviland Avenue house; but the prospect ahead salved the regret.

The work, when Pelham came to it, proved congenial and illuminating. He was nearer the core of the matter now; the mining industry of a country passed before his eyes.

At the suggestion of the deputy commissioner, he accompanied that official on a special trip to New York, the port from which the manufactured steel was being hurried over to the hungry fields of France. Jane went along; the three stood together in the arc-lit glow of the vast freight station.

"I thought you wanted to see it," the friendly commissioner repeated. "Rails, guns, gun-stocks, wire, a thousand sundries—and every car your eye can see straight from the Adamsville mills. There's enough steel railing there to triple-track from the Marne to Berlin, with lots to spare!"

They drew together at the vastness of the spectacle.

"The metallic sinews of war, my boy—just as the boys of Adamsville and the country are the human sinews. I understand your feelings, Judson; but can't you see that they are spreading the same ideal of democracy that your comrades work for?"

"I hope some good will result; it's not easy to see clearly," Pelham answered slowly.

As the commissioner left, the son of Adamsville placed his arm around Jane. "And our mountain did all of this! What pawns it made of us! We flung up here, the miners scattered, endless change and turmoil.... I used to say the mountain mothered me; but it flung me out like my father too. Perhaps it embodied all of us. Perhaps"—a sudden surge of bitter memory turned the drift of his thinking—"perhaps autocracy would suit the mountain, as well as democracy."

"I think not," Jane replied slowly. "When its products are washed away by the streams, they quicken the whole soil. Humanity can afford culture now for all; all must win their chance at it."

"The war sets us back...."

"And pushes us on too. After it is over, these metallic and human sinews will rebuild a world democracy at peace. Men have failed; the women come to their tasks now."

"Yes; the aching past surely has taught us something. We must build right, now. Old standards are gone; the world furnace of war has quickened all the people...."

"We've done our small part."

"With the biggest part still to do. We are to see the beginning of the building of the New World in the hearts and souls of men.... For that is the final building."

They walked out to the jutting end of the vast pier, studying the aimless restlessness of the ocean drift sloshing against the clustered piles.

She turned to stroke a raveling from his coat. Upon the bright flush of her cheek he brushed a fleeting kiss.

A resting gull flopped heavily from a water-swung stake, skimmed low over the gray sparkle, and lessened on beating wings into the sun-glitter to the west.

XXXI

Spring on the mountain. Over the eastern rim of sand hills the sturdy sun of May flared up. The neutral gray pooled in the valleys woke to a rustling flame of green; the wind whipped from the crest the last shred of clinging cloud, and dried the wet kiss of the mist upon cottage and bungalow, rumpling the summit as far as eye could cover.

The sibilant buzz of motor trucks, returning to the distant dairies beyond the second mountain, died eastward. Lawn mowers clicked rhythmically, school tardy bells rang, chatting nursemaids chose the stone benches under the deepest shade of the parked roadways. Jays flickered noisily through the ringed oaks still rising from the sparse areas of fenced outcrop.

A gray limousine disturbed the sunny height with its alien whirr—turning from Logan Avenue to reach the great flowery green on the crest left of the gap. Two men climbed out, stretching cramped limbs; the first with firm carefulness, testing each footing before he rested upon it, the second with deferential assistance.

The elder man walked over to a curved bench facing the spread of the city below. From old habit he pulled out a cigar, twisted the silver wrapper into a ball, and spun it deftly into smooth grass covering a healed scar caused by the old mining. His teeth crunched into the well-packed leaves; his tongue rolled the unlit Havana around the rim of his mouth.

The other stopped a step or two behind. "It's rough on you, Paul.... You're all alone in the new Hillcrest Cottage now, aren't you?"

"Yes, Governor...."

He pondered soberly, and spoke again with a deprecating cough. "Your wife was an exceptional woman."

"Death makes no exceptions," the other mused aloud; there was small feeling within him that this was anything else than a philosophic excuse for weakness in others. After a few minutes silence, he took up the thread again. "You know, Kane, Mary hadn't been strong for some years. Life on the mountain was hard on a woman. She took the strike very much to heart; her house was burnt then.... That was why I declined the Senatorship ... then." His squinting gaze took in the panorama before and to the rear. "It's changed.... Not a mine within ten miles now; nothing nearer than those wonderful new openings this side of Coalstock.... Houses, houses, houses...." His eyes looked from the ample homes along the crest estate, to the cheap frame houses crowding the foot of the hill, on the side toward Adamsville; and then to the negro settlement of Lilydale behind, which a pushing real estate firm had continued to the very border of the Hillcrest lands.

"It's a pity the land fringing yours hadn't your development. When the riff-raff once move into a neighborhood——"

"I know, I know. The mountain's held out, so far."

Paul achieved a moment's isolation by walking to the edge of the summit. The children would return soon to their scattered homes; he was the last Judson living in Adamsville.... He—and the mountain. He had risen to the crest of his ambition—he asked no more.

The mountain soil was still iron-stained; but much of its strength had passed to him—had given him this iron grip upon things and people. Power, iron power ... wherever men were, the iron sinews of the mountain had carried the name of Paul Judson.

"Have we time for that trip to North Adamsville?" Kane at last interrupted.

"Get in. Something's wrong out there; dissatisfaction, that should have been squelched. I'm going to make a change."

Following the northward trail of robin and flicker, the gray limousine whirred away from the smoothed crags and their reddened memories.

The children dawdled back from school. The homing older people returned from office and club, from mill and furnace and store. The artificial lights by night made golden wounds on the darkness. One by one these blended with the black, except for the street-globes reared below the damp green of the leaves.

The sprinkled glitter of city lights below cast a quiet shimmer over the drowsy hillside. Far away, in a giant semicircle, an intermittent surf of furnace glare and coke-oven glow mottled with dusky crimson the low haze of the sky.

Following the sun trail, the silver glitter of the Lyre climbed from the east, the northern cross spread its ungainly form, the soft brightness of Vega poised like a fleck of white light above the somber fringe of Shadow Mountain. The soft glamor of the May night reaffirmed its immemorial sway over the sleeping hulk of the mountain.

Two screech-owls sent their shivery call through the dark. Shreds of cloud drifted lower and lower, until they rested lightly on the foliage above the healed scars of ramp and gulley. The stars sagged westward; after them the clouds, and all the trespassers by night, were quietly driven by a faint breeze rustling its promise of dawn.

THE END.

[Transcriber's Note: Hyphen variations left as printed.]