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 After a moment of restrained and restraining silence, therefore, he continued in a much more professional tone.

"These wander-lust obsessions tell the story, Mr. Judson. In effect they are dreams—day-dreams, indeed, but nevertheless the porthole gleamings out of the subconscious. They reveal the whole tragic story, and they tell us exactly what to apprehend."

"Tragic? Apprehend?" George's voice was startled.

But the doctor skilfully avoided a direct answer now by saying: "First, if you please, Mr. Judson, let us consider your wife's character and temperament. She is, I gather, a soft, warm little woman—imaginative, romantic, wilful but essentially loving, fond of caresses, fond of attention, pleased with compliments, very proud of her possessions, whether material or personal. Her child is the most wonderful child. Her husband is the most wonderful hushandhusband [sic]—or was."

"Was?"

Again that startled query, and again the doctor holding his answer in abeyance while George Judson's expression slowly lost every trace of its ingrained habit of self-assurance.

"Her inheritance of character is strong, but her environing has weakened and subordinated it. She is strong-impulsed but not strong-willed.

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 She never had that kind of seasoning. A pout, a tear, or a plea has all her life got her everything she wanted. Isn't that so?"

"It is!"

"And, with it all, one of the dearest, one of the sweetest and most companionable little women in the world."

"Every bit of that and more," declared George. "And whatever is the—"

"Then we must not demand the impossible of this little woman, must we?" the doctor cut in skilfully.

"God knows I never have demanded it!" exclaimed George, conscious of a virtue.

"Then don't demand it now, after what I am to tell you, but first sit humbly at the feet of this distracted wife of yours and learn a lesson in devotion to ideals and to duty that will melt your heart. If it does not also provoke you to reverence and awe, I shall be much surprised."

"Why, what do you mean, Doctor?" inquired George, further disconcerted by such a manner.

"I mean to prepare you for the discovery that you have never properly appreciated your wife."

"Appreciated her? Why, Doctor, I—"

"Listen!" commanded the doctor, and he was now in his tone of most professional exposition: "These wander-lust dreams have one thing common to them all. You, her husband, are in them every one, and they take you away always to

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 some far corner of the world where your business concerns cannot claim you—can scarcely reach you. Do you get the significance of that, Mr. Judson? These dreams reveal a devotion to you that is pathetic, a fear of the motor works as a rival for your affections that is tragic. She wanted to get you away from it. That deep want—"

"But that is where she was so unreasonable," broke in George, a trifle irritated at all this bearing down upon a demand for the impossible.

"Unreasonable, but not incomprehensible," declared the doctor, with significant emphasis. "There's the pity of it. She knew it was unreasonable and conceded it, yet her wish-nature would not be denied, and it devised all these fantastic projects one after another, that had as their primary impulse, though she never realized it herself, this passionate desire to have you secure for herself for all her life. Every dream, every absurd proposal to travel—every burst of tears or outbreak of hysteria—or long period of depression following one of your refusals—whether harsh or gentle—was either an expression of her love or a bitter mourning for its fancied loss."

A sad, worshipful light began to burn in the husband's eyes, and a slow conviction of guilt to dawn in his mind, the awful guilt of blindness. "Is that what it meant?" he murmured in an

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 awed whisper. "And I thought she was just selfish and whimsical."

"And I presume she thought she was, too," conceded the doctor. "But that is what the wander-lust meant. At least that is what a part of it meant."

"Did it mean something else?" asked George, hanging now upon the doctor's words.

"Yes. There is a second detail common to all these dreams. Each involved an expedition which required distinguished and able leadership and contemplated achievements calculated to shed luster on its directing mind—its hero. You were to be that leader always—that hero. She thirsted continually to see her husband glorified, exalted, made a hero of."

"Gosh!" sighed George, impressed and yet out of patience with the fantastic conception. "Why, why, should she want to pin such crazy exploits on me?"

The doctor regarded the young man in silence for a moment, as if waiting to see if another idea would not now associate itself. When there was no indication that it would, the psychoanalyst went on impressively: "That is where the touch of deeper pathos comes in. There has been in your city, going in and out of your home, a world-traveler of appealing social and personal graces who has visited obscure corners of the globe and done one or two things which, in the

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 eyes of an imaginative and romantic young woman, might attach a certain glamour that would outshine the most brilliant achievements of a mere domestic variety of business man."

"That's Hook, of course," said George, recognizing the picture; "but why on earth would Fay want to see me doing the kind of things that nervy young Englishman does?"

"Because admiration is a great quickener of woman's love, and her love for you was being threatened."

"But Doctor," the husband reminded, "we—we still love each other. We're just not—not happy." And then the hint in the specialist's words caught him. "Threatened?" he suddenly demanded.

"By her admiration for Sir Brian Hook."

George Judson's face turned livid. "Go on! Go on!" he said helplessly. "What are you going to tell me next?"

The doctor had remained perfectly calm, unresentful, pitying. "Simply that this four-year struggle which you narrated to me is a struggle between two loves. One love was being starved, deprived of some of the things that love feeds on. The other was being nurtured by a full diet of those very qualities as displayed in Sir Brian Hook."

"Hook!" bellowed George, angrily disre-

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 spectful. "I tell you there's nothing between them!"

"Except love—I am sure of that," said the doctor with niceness of distinction, and refusing to be insulted by the man he was compelled to hurt in order that perhaps he might help him. "The pathos of the struggle, the thing that should make you in this moment extend to your wife the supremest consideration, is that for the last few months, perhaps a year, there has been but one love."

George's hands gripped the chair arms tightly; he was making the supremest effort to control himself. "Go on! Go on with your damnable deductions," he challenged. "I can answer them every one. She lovesme. My wife loves me!"

"But one love," iterated the doctor, with painstaking firmness, still unresentful and pitying, compassionate because of the pain his verbal exploratory slashings caused. "Of late it has been a fierce struggle between love of one man and loyalty to another. She has tried to be your faithful wife; she has tried by a thousand arts and inventions and games she played with herself to keep her love for you alive, to resurrect it when it was dead, to—"

"Doctor!" groaned George, appealingly, as conviction was breaking surely in. "Doctor—don't say that it's dead."

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 "I wish I didn't have to," responded the doctor kindly, and laid a soothing hand on the shoulder of the distressed husband, "but I must tell you what I see from the full narrative of her behavior which you have given and the unusually informing glimpses of her own mental state which she afforded me last night. To resume: she had remained loyal, never allowing you to suspect the truth, herself perhaps so unwilling to believe it that she is hardly aware of itnow. Lacking that steadfastness of will of which we spoke, she has lacked steadfastness to make the deliberate plunge out of your life which her love impels."

"Doctor! You are wrong—all wrong!" George insisted. "If any other person than yourself had intimated what you have this morning, I should be twisting his head off now."

He stood stupefied, one hand tearing at his hair, the fingers of the other working nervously, while the full extent of what the doctor had so delicately but clearly intimated went crashing through his consciousness.

"Fool! Fool! Fool!" he accused himself. "Poor, doting, trusting fool!" And then, oddly enough, he thought of his wife sympathetically. "Poor, poor little Fay! So white—so clean—so pure! Oh, this is horrible! Horrible!" But a sense of his own wrongs came back to him.

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 "This is my reward," he reproached, "for being a generous, trustful husband."

But the doctor felt that he could not permit this man who touched his sympathies to do himself the injury of self-pity when self-pity was neither justified nor commendable. "On the contrary, it is your punishment for assuming that the marriage ceremony and a few casual kindnesses that are after all selfish in their origin and selfish in their aim, give a man a strangle-hold on a woman's heart. It is your nature, I judge, Mr. Judson, to assume too much. It is an American trait. You mean well. There is an old saying that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. You are what I should call a hell-paver. The hell-paver is such a sanguine optimist that he doesn't put all his cards on the table—even to himself. The country is full of them—hell-paving businessmen, hell-paving statesmen, hell-paving editors, preachers, doctors, and soon. You area hell-paving husband. You meant well, but—"

"I'll kill that Englishman," George cried, with a roar of rage, and started for the door, "I'll kill him!"

The doctor did not even reach out a hand to restrain this potential homicide on his way to do the deed. Instead he remarked thoughtfully, "Perhaps that is the first thing to do," and he said it speculatively, eyes on distance as if, once

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 his mind were convinced, he might actually participate in this solemn act of retributive justice.

Such a manner was more arresting to George Judson than hands laid on him could have been. He halted and turned upon the doctor strangely.

"But let's be sure it is before we do it," qualified the psychoanalyst, and centered his glance upon George calmly as though he addressed a reasoning being.

"I must have been blind. I must have been blind," George now reiterated.

"Blind! You were worse than blind," declared the doctor bluntly. "You were stupid!"

"But the question is now—what to do?"

"If you're a big man—big enough—" calculated the doctor, as weighing his man estimatingly, "you might win her back."

"Win her back?" George cried hoarsely.

"Yes. Although the bits of dreams she told me last night revealed clearly that the issue had been settled in her heart, she has hesitated so long in her mind that she might hesitate longer still, and so I say that you might—win her back."

"In God's name, how?" the husband appealed.

"By doing what she, wants. Humor her. Indulge her. Shame her. Drop everything and go with her—go hunt the Garden of Eden! That was pitiful! She has lost her Eden all right—poor little girl. Go look for it with her. Buy a yacht and cruise round the world—anything

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 like that and—buck up, Judson! You're not the man to quit when you've got a fighting chance. Drop everything and go."

But George stood motionless—petrified. "Drop everything? Sell out? I couldn't do it." A look of awful pain was in his eyes.

The doctor for the first time grew impatient. "But isn't the love of your wife worth more than your factory? That's where you've been weak, Judson—all along."

"But you don't understand, Doctor," he argued dismally. "I'm nailed to the spot. The very existence of the Judson-Morris Motor Works as financed now is based on an operation programmed through a number of years yet, and it's like the two spans of a bridge building out toward each other. Once they're joined, it will have the strength of Gibraltar—but that will take three years yet. In the meantime I'm the Atlas that's planted like a false pier in the stream. Holding both ends."

"More hell-paving!" scorned the doctor. "Let it crash!" He said this quite unfeelingly.

"But it isn't myself alone that would crash," explained George miserably. "A lot of people, widows and wage-earners and small investors generally, have put money in our company. Our stock and our bonds have been peddled through the banks to the little people who can't afford to Jose and who have trusted their pitiful all in the

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 name and business ability of George Judson. I can't go back on them. My life is not my own exactly. I can't leave, don't you see—in honor, in justice, I can't. Fay knows that—if she hasn't forgotten. I've explained it to her times enough."

"I see you can't," admitted the doctor quickly—"Not the kind of man you are." He had liked George Judson from the first, and pitied him; now he began to have a large respect for him.

"What shall I do, then?" the man appealed.

"Let her go!" answered the doctor incisively.

"Let her go?" George sprang up in protest.

"Yes. She has contemplated going. Her dream showed that."

"Not in a million years!"

"You don't want to condemn a woman to wifehood after she has ceased to love you, do you? Go and tell her she is free. Acknowledge your failure. Since you have lost her love, give up trying to hold her body with a bond that is legal and conventional, but hellish for all that and that she can snap at any time."

George Judson backed away, a horror in his eye and shaking his head stubbornly.

"Sit down. Think!" commanded the doctor, asserting autocratically the moral dominance he had gained, and Judson obeyed as a patient should obey his physician. "Be fair to her! She

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 loved you—she bore your child—she has fought out this moral battle till it is making a wreck of her physically and mentally. There can be but two alternatives left. One is to permit her to go of her own act to a life that, with her sensitive nature and inheritance of the puritan conscience, can never be anything else than prolonged torture. The other is for you to be big enough to go to her and tell her she is free. Tell her you have failed, and to seek her happiness where she thinks it lies."

Every atom of George's combative disposition was roused; every element of his moral nature—or was it his mere male instinct for possession?—rejected as horrible such a cold cutting away of a relation to him that, however unhappy, was sacred and still had in it the element of hope. But he was willing to contemplate the suggestion merely to scorn it.

"And then what?" he demanded with quivering nostrils.

"Women are contrary creatures," asserted the doctor. "Freedom offered by you may be all that is necessary to cause her to change. You may shock her out of her present mood by the very unexpectedness of such an act on your part. Her condition is psychological as well as pathological. The mere fact that you, at obvious pain to yourself, take the big, the noble course, may challenge her admiration and send her flying

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 into your arms, as you say she used to come at the end of your minor quarrels."

This was like a sudden letting in of light of reasonable hope upon a chaos of utter darkness: "Oh, God! If she only would!" George Judson was reflecting fervently, when another ghastly perception stabbed him, and he burst out with, "But if she does not, I will be turning her out to go with—with—" Speech halted in his constricted throat. He could not utter the name that had become a symbol of horror.

"She might not go with him," meditated the doctor.

"Might not!"

"From the glimpses of her nature I have had, and from the long resistance she has put up, I do not think she would go with him at first. She would be more likely to go away from both of you—far away. One of these mad trips most likely. Well? If she does that, you have an even break—more than an even break—for distance lends enchantment, and besides you are the father of her boy."

"Junior!" George remembered poignantly. "Why, that's another reason why she couldn't leave me—Junior. He is ours. She might be mad enough to wish to undo her marriage, but she couldn't wish to undo Junior. Not possibly."

"But she might decide that an unhappy home

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 was the worst place in the world for a child to grow up. Besides, my friend," and the doctor's voice took on a note of warning that was austere, "this is no time for debate over theories. A condition confronts you. As we physicians say, haste is indicated. Again reverting to that dream your wife told me last night, things are at a crisis. If you do not act immediately, you may find it too late to act at all. The best advice I can give you is to go to your wife immediately."

George Judson sprang up. "You may be right," he said. "I will go to her at once, and I should like permission to come back to you at three o'clock this afternoon. Perhaps I may bring my wife back with me." There was the leap of a new encouragement in his voice.

"By all means do," said the doctor heartily. "I will hold the time for you."

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UT when George Judson did come back to the suite in the Pontchartrain, he came alone. He was white and more shaken than when he departed; his eyes appeared sunken.

"She is gone!" he said.

"Already? Hmn!Hmm! [sic] Where to?"

"Europe!"

The doctor was himself rather startled by this complete confirmation of his fears. "And taken the child?"

George Judson nodded sickly. "Her mother, too. The whole family!"

"Then she didn't go with Sir Brian?"

"Sir Brian is gone, though. I tried to find him at the club. Lucky for him I didn't, I guess," and the distracted man dropped his eyes for a minute. "I had one of those crazy spells."

"Lucky for you also, I guess!" observed the doctor pithily.

Judson's slightly shamefaced manner confessed that he thought so, too. He was all over his killing rage and appreciating more poignantly every second the magnitude of the blow which had fallen upon him. He sank dejectedly into a chair, and gazed at the wall with vacant,

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 unseeing eyes. His mind busy with terrible regrets, he had forgotten his hatreds.

"I didn't even get a chance to tell her what a blind fool I'd been—that I was mostly to blame for the whole horrid mess and that—" With a weary shake of his head he left the sentence unfinished.

In the breathing silence there came up to the window a vast, faint shouting from the streets below. The doctor stepped to the casement and looked down into the Circle. Crowds were knotted on the corners, with newsboys weaving in and out among them and selling papers so rapidly that rather than any necessities of salesmanship, it must have been the urge of some profound excitement which kept their voices barking in such hoarse, persistent chorus.

"What's it all about, I wonder!" commented the doctor, thinking to divert George for a minute from his misery.

"Oh!" recalled the half-stupefied man, rousing. "You know what the headlines say? War!" His pronunciation of the word was almost incredulous. "Germany has invaded Belgium on the way to France. Russia is attacking Germany."

"My God!" breathed the doctor slowly, his eyes fixed on his informant, while one by one the wide horizons of his mind lighted up with the possibilities of such a conflagration among the

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 nations. "England will come in. There'll be the devil to pay. All Europe will be torn to pieces like a rag baby by a pack of wolves," he declared.

Abruptly George Judson stood up. "And my wife and child are sailing into that tomorrow!"

The two men exchanged glances, gravely impressed.

"However, she'll read the papers and—she won't go," reasoned George hopefully.

But the doctor shook his head decisively. "I think she will," he asserted. "Anything as big as a trip to Europe was not decided upon hastily. The fact of war is likely to make her more determined. Indeed, I suspect anything like a war between nations will seem so mild compared to the strife that has gone on in her heart that she will fly to it with a kind of rapture. She craves adventure. She will get it. She pines for action—she will see it. She is in search of romance—she will find it, the grisly, horrible romance of sudden death. She will see men adventuring all round her—women outraged, children trampled, famine stalking! She might get so well fed up on adventure that a home with a butler and a chef in it, in far-off Detroit, and a husband that sticks to his desk like glue all day and comes home nights and pesters her with his selfish caresses, might be the most fascinating idea in the world to her."

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 "You think so, Doctor?" George Judson in this hour was clutching at straws if ever man did. "If only I had seen them go—if only I could have kissed her and assured her that I would love her to the end of my life if I lived to be as old as Methuselah! If only Junior had held my finger again!"

"Better they didn't," opined the doctor, looking always at the practical values. "That was her consideration for you—and for herself, Did she leave you any message?"

"This!" George took from his inside coat pocket an oblong of lavender notepaper. The communication was without salutation and without signature. It was very brief and read:

"I am going, George, on the far, far journey. (You won't miss the farewell. I couldn't stand it.) I am going to search for the Garden of Eden. To search for it without you! That sounds topsy-turvy, doesn't it? But I've taken our small edition of you along, precious, precious Junior!"

That was all.

"That doesn't sound as if she went away with Sir Brian," declared the doctor, weighing the note in his hand.

"But—she's left me!" despaired George, unable to see hope anywhere in the sky. "I've lost her! Say!" and he sat up with a sudden fierceness of self-accusation. "What's the matter with

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 me? I work like the devil, and I don't get anything out of it. I win a wife, and I can't keep her. I have a son, and he's taken away from me. I've made a lot of money, but I can't ever get my hands on any of it to spend. I've built a great business, and so help me God, I'm tortured half the time for fear they're going to take it away from me! What's the matter with me anyway?"

"You're a hell-paver!" diagnosed the doctor again.

"But I'm not one of these sapheads that just dream of doing things," resented George. "I do 'em, I'm a performer."

"And a lot of hell-pavers are performers. That's how they fool themselves. Your scheme of life looks to you like a masterpiece. It would to a lot of people. They wouldn't see where the hell-paving comes in."

"You'll have to show me," challenged the man stubbornly.

"And I will show you," rejoined the doctor resolutely. "There are two kinds of hell-pavers, the weak and the strong; the little and the big. The weak intend and stop there. The strong perform all right, but they leave fatal gaps in their biggest performances that rob them of the fruits of their efforts just as you see that you yourself have been robbed. Recall your simile of the unfinished bridge a while ago—you've

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 left more open gaps in your life structure than you've got hands and arms to hold the bridges up with."

George winced, but the doctor never faltered.

"And you've also hell-paved at home. You were hell-paving when you did not tell your wife frankly the facts about your business. You should have had her sympathy when you got only her scorn. You hell-paved when you checked your beautiful wife with another man upon the golf-links as you might have checked a wet umbrella at a stand."

"Doctor!" roared the husband in pain. "I never did that. You know I never did it."

"You did something strangely like it," rebuked the specialist with a relentless driving home of his assertion by an unshaken glance of his level, blue eyes.

"No—no," protested George, sick to death with his distress and sick with any attempt at speculating upon the mistakes that had led to them, although it was himself that had asked it. "I'm wrong, but you're not right. Let's end this moralizing, and help me, Doctor, if you can. I just haven't learned the secret of holding a woman's love. What is that secret, Doctor?"

"If I knew, I could make a million dollars a day selling it in New York City alone," smiled the doctor. "If I knew, I could brighten the homes and lighten the hearts of half the men

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 and women in the world. Each man must find it out for himself. You haven't—yet."

"But, so help me God, I will!" declared George with rising emphasis, and, suddenly indomitable again, he started up and seemed about to take himself away.

"Where are you going?" asked the doctor, apprehensively.

"To New York to bring her back."

"Don't!" said the doctor impressively. "I advise against it. It will lose you your chance. Be patient. Be self-contained. Be resigned. If you have lost her, she is gone from you beyond your power to bring her back. If you have not, there is still hope that your absence, not your presence, may rekindle her love for you. You have always been devoted to her—in your blind, self-engrossed fashion. Leave that to fight for you—that and the boy! Go back to all that's left you—your job—and do it! Try to bear yourself in such a big way that it will challenge her admiration once more, that it will make her turn to you like the magnet to the pole."

George appeared to listen with the humble faith of a child. "But how is she going to know what I do now?" he objected.

"I fancy she will know—that she will find a way, or has arranged a way, to keep herself informed of all your goings on." The doctor came near with lowered voice and a hand sym-

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 pathetically on George Judson's shoulder. "You have one resource left to try now, my boy, the power of constancy, of a faithful and steadfast love—the power of the knowledge that a home is open and a husband waits for her here. That, without one act of violence, one bitter word of recrimination, he confesses at least his own faults and he—waits!"

"Waits? My God! That is an awful sentence, Doctor, to a man like me. I'm a go-getter. I never wait for plums to fall into my lap. I shake the tree."

"This may be the very discipline your character requires. Patience, Mr. Judson, is as great a virtue as your particular god, perseverance, and a rarer one—a more difficult one. Wait."

"Wait!" The great specialist had advised with an impressiveness so great that it had all the authority of a supreme moral imperative. And it was a tribute to the fibre of George Judson that he was able to do this—wait. There was no direct communication, but he knew that Fay had landed in England. And of course she must remain in England, for there was no travel now except backward to America, and she did not travel backward. But England! That was Sir Brian Hook's country.

Then from her mother vague news began to come to his mother. Miraculously she had gained the Continent as if some high influence

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 had opened secret doors for her. She was in Paris. She was in Rome. She was—of all places—Salonica. How did she accomplish it? He could only surmise, and the only surmise that occurred to him was an unpleasant one. But there she was—in the thick of it. Drinking her fill of excitement—feeding the passion of her eternal restlessness; getting, George hoped, her fill of adventure.

And his boy! Where was he?

Safe in England! So Mrs. Gilman's letter had assured Mary Judson, and besides the heartache of loss and loneliness George's proud spirit chafed especially at this. His boy—his son—why should he be in England, a foreign country and war-encompassed? why dependent upon the care of hired strangers? Why, some of these air raids or something—but there he was, and his mother was still away upon her quest of the Garden of Eden, while the covenant George Judson had made with himself forbade him to interfere, forbade him to do anything but wait.

He kept the covenant. He remained in America. He never closed the Indian Village home. Out of it he came and went to his daily work. The servants stayed on. The cream-and-blue room was as it had always been. Mrs. George Judson was merely away. She might return at any time.

Lonely but proud, suffering but self-contained,

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 George Judson gave himself up to longer hours of unremitting toil than he had known since boyhood. He punished himself with work. His dissipation was work. His life became one long debauch of work, work, work! Work that prospered now as no work of his had ever prospered before. But there were also times when hope and faith strove against sickly, withering jealousy and both were blighted by it, times when he left everything for a day and rushed down to New York to counsel with the specialist who had been definitely established as physician to, not his body, but his heart.

"What is she doing round all these places? How does she get there?" These were stock queries of George's always.

"Nursing, maybe," soothed the doctor.

"Nursing? Fay! She doesn't know how to nurse. She's not—steady enough to nurse."

"Scrubbing, maybe. Roustabout work in hospitals."

George Judson smiled, a superior, half-ironic smile. His wife wouldn't nurse, she couldn't scrub, she couldn't do anything but play.

But the wise doctor smiled also, and not ironically, but hopefully. "It might be," he suggested, "that this play-girl is learning to work—is learning to organize her energies about something else than whims—that her will-life is conquering her impulse-life—that over yonder is

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 growing, my man, a woman so big that you'll have to be a bigger man than you have ever been to aspire to her. Remember you thought you had to be rich to win her at first. But she didn't put so much value on your riches. Mere dollars couldn't hold her. It may be that you'll have to become a great deal more of a man to be the kind of mate she can admire as she once admired you and as we want her to admire you again."

"But how—?" George would begin always to protest, and.

"Wait! Be steadfast! Stick!" That was always what the advice of the Doctor simmered down to.

And meanwhile, business—and such business! How easy it was to make money now! He could discharge his salesforce, he could cancel his advertising contracts, he could turn every energy and every resource to production. With a kind of black exultation he saw the dividends grow larger and surer—the ends of the two spans of the bridge growing nearer and nearer together until at last they joined. The operation was complete. The empty chambers of hope on which the foundations of the Judson-Morris Motor Works had been laid were filled now by the solid gold of earned assets. The institution was sound. With a sigh of relief President Judson ceased to be Atlas holding up the world of his creation.

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 He leaned back to breathe. In business, at any rate, he was no longer a hell-paver—except—unless—

He had drawn no more than one breath of this blessed relief, however, before his mind had fastened on the single ground for business apprehension which remained—the fifteen per cent—the fifteen thousand shares he had been forced to part with, thereby jeopardizing his control. He had money enough now to buy it, but Templeton would not sell. George went into the market to buy a different fifteen thousand shares or any part of them, but Judson-Morris stock was all at once strangely retiring. It had practically disappeared. This meant that somebody was buying it. For what?

There could be but one reason. George was sick as he thought what this reason was. It would be terrible if they took the plant away from him now—now, just as he had made it into the great, solid structure that it was. It was all he had left—except a hope that turned toward Europe. This hope and that fear seemed all that remained to him, and it was while he shifted his eyes dizzily from one to the other and back again, that the United States rushed suddenly headlong into the world war. Instantly George Judson roused to a new possibility.

The Judson-Morris Motor Works no longer required his presence, It would run now of its

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 own momentum, and he decided to abandon its direction entirely to Chilton. He left an order with his brokers to buy all or any part of fifteen thousand shares of Judson-Morris common when and wherever opportunity should arise, and himself went immediately to enlist. He wanted to fight, a rifle in his hand, against civilization's enemies.

He might die! Well, why not? But they wouldn't give him a gun.

"Just the man we need to go to France and organize our motor transport service," suggested a dollar-a-year friend of George's in affiliation with the War Department, and into motor transport he was sent—by way of Liverpool and London.

London? His boy was there, but in London he learned that Junior was tucked away in a corner of Wales far from the path of air raids. "Safest place in the kingdom," they told him, but when the eager father wanted to set off hot-foot to Wales, he could not go because of military orders.

But there was one satisfaction in passing through London. He saw Mrs. Gilman there, her hands full of war work on some committee or other of American women, and she gave him a more detailed account of Fay's activities. They had been quite worthy ones. She had found herself in the war. Its opportunities

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 called down to earth her restless, romantic spirit. She had learned to be of yse in the world.

But she was still restless, nomadic of disposition. She had established a home for orphaned Belgian children, but had left it for others to manage. She had taken a course and done nursing in the great Red Cross Hospital at Neuilly, near Paris, and then, craving more adventure, had gone to driving ambulance for a British Hospital unit.

George was permitted to see a snapshot of her in uniform, the same trim, graceful figure, but with a rare steadiness in the eyes, a new strength in the pose—or was it the uniform that imparted this? Why not an American uniform? But the Americans had only men driving ambulances.

Nothing was said about Sir Brian; nothing was asked about him. George feared the question—feared a reply that might destroy hope.

He went on to France, a land groaning with war and teeming with the movement of war, yet to his fascinated imagination, it seemed only some small, magic maze in the labyrinths of which he must presently encounter his wife. In this state of mind he indulged day-dreams the absurdity of which made those by which his wife had once been charmed seem like polished diamonds of Aristotelian wisdom.

For instance, he dreamed ridiculously of being

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 sent on some errand to the British sector, of there blundering into front-line danger, where he would fall wounded or gassed or something, lying all night upon the field; but with morning light the stretcher-bearers would take him back, back to where an ambulance waited. Its driver, a graceful girl, especially fetching in her jaunty cap and Sam Browne belt, would be standing by while the stretcher-men lifted their burden into her car.

But that was a dream—an absurd, ridiculous imagining. He never saw the British sector. He never got within one hundred miles of the American front. He was never even ditched in one of his own trucks. He spent most of his time working twenty hours a day. He got rid of the two bars of a captain and finally wore the eagle of a colonel on his collar, but he had the authority of a three-star general in his organization, and he did his part to keep the army fed and clothed, working with unbounded enthusiasm until the armistice. But in a few short November days all the glamour and fascination faded out of war. A military organization became dreary and desultory and inefficient.

He longed to get away from it and had prestige enough now to secure immediate leave. He searched the hospitals of Paris; he appealed to the records of the British Ambulance Units; he

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 turned at length to London. Even Mrs. Gilman had gone, leaving no address.

Discouraged, hope almost gone, he went back to Paris. When he reached the Hotel Continental, lo, there was a letter with the address almost obliterated by postmarks—a letter that had followed him for months through the eccentric channels of army mail, and at last had overtaken him here. But the address was still distinguishable, and it was in her handwriting.

He thrilled at the sight of that beloved, bold, and angular but distinguished hand. Not in four years had his eye seen anything that so gladdened him, and with heart beating wildly under his breast of whipcord khaki, he sought the privacy of his room. Once there he tore it open almost violently, yet with a genuine reverence in the touch of his impatient fingers.

Harbord—where had she heard that? It was only six months ago? The letter was five months old. She must have been very close to him to have heard of that within a month in war areas, It gave him an uncanny, superstitious feeling, but it made his heart leap as at the discovery that she had been watching him nearer than he

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 thought—and why was she watching if she did not still love him?

Sometime—somewhere—a woman! The inference inevitable from the form of this allusion was chilling. He shuddered as if a polar blast had struck him but—he read on:

"Some things I thought were vices in you, George, have come to look like virtues since I've seen so much of other men. But I think for one item, that as a lover, George, you put too much trust in material things. You wanted to give your wife a mountain of concrete and steel when she would rather have had arose. You ordered wagon-loads of flowers sent to me in those five years, George, but I never appreciated all of them as much as if you had stopped your car by the roadside and gathered a handful of daisies and brought them to me. But you never did that.

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 If you had thought of gathering them, you would not have had time to bring them. You would have sent them back by Blakeley!"

"God!" George Judson cried out sharply, under his breath, and bit his lip.

"A woman isn't just an acquisition, you know," the letter went on. "It isn't all when you've captured her. You can't just drag her home through the jungle to your lair and expect her to stay there like a dove with clipped wings and be content. The wooing has just begun then. I told you once it was the duty of a husband to make his business romantic—that was silly, no doubt—but it is the duty of a husband to remain always a wooer and a lover.

"In those days, George, you didn't want a wife; you wanted a pet sheep that would come when you called her and stay away when you didn't. You wanted a plaything, and I couldn't be merely that—though that was all I knew how to be. Being a husband is not an executive posttion; it's only one side of a partnership, and not merely a partnership in business, but in life.

"But enough of ragging! I had these things to say that would hurt you, but might do you good. I have now something to add that will comfort you and certainly do you good also. You are a great builder, George—a creator. Oh, I get so sick of destruction and destroyers!

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 I never saw so plainly as now how important are the constructive forces in the world's history. The greatest men are not the destroyers; they are the constructors. You are a constructor.

"Oh, George! I had such a thrill one day. They gave me a new ambulance to drive, and it was one of yours. I nearly screamed for joy. When no one could see, I bent and kissed the name upon the radiator. Until that moment I had not known how great and really worthy was the thing you were doing. I thought that it would be a kind of sad comfort for you to know that I had caught your vision at last, as it is now for me to recognize it.

"Speaking for myself—for my selfish own concerns—I have not entered into Eden yet, but I think I know where it is. I think it is very near me now—I think I can smell its fragrance—I think I can reach out and touch the secret spring that will open its gates to me. But I have not reached out my hand yet. And before I did, it seemed comradely to write these lines to a fellow-fighter in this war against one of civilization's enemies.

"FAY."

So the letter ended. Cryptic—maddening—inflaming. It was dated Warsaw. Warsaw! She had got out of British service—that was why

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 he could not find her—she was with Hoover perhaps. She had not told him. She did not want him to find her. But—it was not yet too late! and he would find her. He would!

But his leave of absence was expiring. He was still a cog in the military machine and must go back to Tours and take up his duty, the dull, drudging duty of putting up the shutters on a war. But at last his part in it would be done, and when it was, and not until then—he would ask for his discharge—on French soil.

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HE day after his discharge Colonel George Judson was in Paris seeking a nae in the records of the Polish Relief Committee. It was not there, but he was told more complete records would be found in the London office. He rushed to London. At the Hotel Savoy a cablegram from John Williams overtook him. It read:

"Templeton presents stock certificates bearing your endorsement for transfer on books amount fifteen thousand shares. Is this all right?"

George had received this cablegram in his room. He read it and wavered in his tracks as he stood staring at its words a second time. It meant that Templeton was breaking away. He had caved—he had sold—he—No; it was not all right!

"The traitor!" Judson raved. "After I've made him more than a million dollars in dividends, besides giving him the stock!"

But rage gave way to sickness at heart and bitter self-reproaches. At last that of which he had been so long apprehensive had come to pass. Templeton had yielded inevitably to the great temptation. The mysterious group whom

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 George had suspected of working insidiously to buy control of Judson-Morris had broken the veteran banker down.

Still, there was a chance that they had not actually got his stock yet—a chance that Templeton was only getting in position to trade if he decided to do so. If George were there and on the ground, he would rally his every source and fight as he had never fought before.

But suddenly he was listless and lackadaisical. What was the use of fighting for that when the thing he most wanted in the world—? He drew from his wallet a letter broken at the creases and almost worn out with handling. He pondered this letter. After all, did it alter matters? Its author had in no wise committed herself. She had then and since studiously concealed herself from him. There was no hope in the letter. There was, rather, a clear intimation that she was about to find her Eden without him.

With whom? He speculated bitterly. For Eden was not a lonely place. God had seen that it was not good to be alone in Eden. There were two in Eden always.

The man sat with his head in his hands, weighing, weighing. He was a man of action. This fight that might be made for the Templeton stock—it was a concrete thing to do. Judson-Morris was his creation. It was all that was left to him of what he had aimed his life at.

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 Besides: "Do the immediate duty. Stick to your job! The only job you've got left." And this was his job now—to be resolute—to be a man—to go back and save the Judson-Morris Motor Works to that great program of democratization which he had planned for it.

He rose up and took command of himself and entered upon the action. June 30th was the annual election, the earliest date at which control could be wrested from his hands and this was—this was—what day was this anyway? He had lost count of the days, but a newspaper on the table beside his bed proclaimed that this was the 12th of June.

Twelfth of June! Anniversary of his wedding. Pitiful reminder! With the ache of that thought in his heart he studied steamship sailing and learned that the Lapland would leave Liverpool on the 16th, but that she would go by way of Brest. She was his only chance.

All the way over radiograms gave the anxious passengers news flashes of what was going on. A thing called Diamond Motors, a thing with no existence except upon paper, was opening its bill like a huge cormorant and engorging one automobile factory after another and the copy of the paper, which George bought eagerly as the boat was warping to her pier, reported that at tomorrow's annual meeting Diamond Motors

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 would swallow the Judson-Morris Motor Works.

"I'll be damned if they will," declared George, biting savagely through his cigar as a taxicab whirled him across town to the Grand Central station, and his mind was busy with planning for tomorrow's sharp and decisive action. He did not know yet what he would do, but he was determined to do something and do it vigorously. His staff knew that he was coming, and they would have been doing their utmost already.

At nine o'clock next morning George Judson was in his own office in Detroit. Chilton, John Williams, and Percy Mock all greeted him in succession, wringing his hand, telling him he looked like a two-year-old and all that sort of blarney; but immediately dropped their voices into graveyard whispers to confer upon the momentous issue which they faced in the stockholders' meeting set for 10:30 o'clock.

"It's Diamond Motors without a doubt, that's after us," declared John Williams, confirming the newspapers.

"It doesn't help us much to know who it is, when this is all we've been able to rally," said George disappointedly, as he contemplated the few hundred shares that, after all his standing orders and all his recent frantic cabling, were the sum total of what his brokers had been able

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 to gather—and added to them in his mind the one thousand and odd hundreds which the faithful Chilton, Williams, and Mock had been able to rally in proxies and otherwise.

"Looks tough!" admitted Chilton with a solemn shake of his head.

"It looks worse than tough," mumbled George. "Our only hope is that we're going to have some friends in that meeting that we don't know about."

An hour passed. George did some frenzied telephoning. He sent Chilton, Williams, and Mock out to make short personal appeals where it was thought that personal appeals for stock or proxies might yet be effective, but each came back empty-handed.

"Let them show us what they've got," George Judson proclaimed stoutly, "and then we'll show 'em what we've got."

This was a bold speech, but empty. His associates knew it was empty, but they admired him for making it—and they did not know that his knees trembled as he arose at last and led the way into the directors' room.

The long, polished mahogany table would seat ten persons. Chairs around the room and massed beyond it would seat twenty-five more. Not all the chairs were taken. Stockholders' meetings are not usually largely attended. There was a woman or two. The men ranged from the

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 country merchant and the small businessman class, through a sprinkling of professional men, to one particular person who looked like "big business." He was carefully groomed, from the Panama hat which reposed before him upon the table, at the far end of which he had presumed to take a seat, to the expensive tan oxfords upon his feet and the figured silk socks which they encased. This man was tall and spare and sandy, with a hawk-like nose, a spike-like chin, a cold, blue eye, and a shrewd and self-composed air.

The president sat down in the president's chair at the opposite end of the table from this stranger whose features had such an unmistakably wolfish aspect.

"That's the guy," said John Williams, nudging George. "That's Jason Weems, Trustee. He is Diamond Motors and a hard-boiled bird if ever I saw one."

As the roll-call proceeded, George was surprised to notice what changes had taken place in the holdings. The name of S. R. Peattie had gone, the Pence Estate was gone; the name of Morris was gone; it gave George a feeling of shivery loneliness. As the answers came back with holdings of shares or proxies, President Judson noted these figures upon his desk blotter with a small gold pencil and kept a running total in his mind, but the totals were small. Aside from his own 36,000 shares and those

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 which his brokers and associates had turned up for him—2215 altogether—there was nothing but driblets represented—fifty shares here, thirty-two there, two hundred yonder, until eventually was called the name of Jason Weems, Trustee.

Jason Weems smiled casually and reported that he held as owner 29,000 shares of the common stock of the Judson-Morris Motor Works, and as proxy 14,625 more, a total of 43,625.

George dropped his little gold pencil.

The roll-call came to an end.

President Judson appointed the usual committee to examine proxies—which would include, of course, the proxies of Jason Weems, Trustee. Percy Mock was on the committee, and he would look for technical errors in the proxies of this Weems person, yet George Judson had never a doubt but that they of all the proxies would be found most entirely correct in form. Jason Weems did not look like a person who would take anything for granted. There was, to the most penetrating eye, nothing of the hell-paver about him.

"Seventeen thousand four hundred and twelve shares not answering," reported Williams to the meeting, and George Judson started.

Seventeen thousand! Control was in them—if they could be produced; but without them

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 control was under the thumb of Jason Weems at the other end of the table.

George bent low and held a whispered consultation with John Williams on his right, but John dashed his hopes. "Mainly it's the 15,000 Templeton transferred on the books to Ellery Anderson, Trustee. The dope I get is that Ellery Anderson, Trustee, is a little brother to Jason Weems, Trustee. Ellery is Jason's ace in the hole. Ellery lays off, and Jason votes a majority of the shares represented without entirely tipping his hand."

George saw in this but another manifestation of that inclination to trickery, to dark and evil and mysterious methods by which he had been beaten. It confirmed his fears. "Well, he doesn't need to tip it," he said hollowly. "I guess we're done."

"It looks that way," admitted John.

The committee on proxies was performing its duties. It would report presently.

Then the annual report would be read. Then the chair would announce, "Nominations are in order for the election of officers of the Judson-Morris Motor Company for the ensuing year."

Then this tall person, with a reddish cast of countenance and a face like a cross between a fox and a wolf, would slip a list of names to John Williams. That would be the names of the new board of directors, an entirely new

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 board, and Jason Weems would announce that he voted for the election of these names 43,625 shares. The rest was mere form. George Judson's automobile works would be gone.

"You take the chair, Chilton!" said President Judson, and arose and went out, not into his executive office, but into the private office.

The formal examination of proxies would take a few minutes longer; the reading of the annual report would take half an hour. For that few minutes and that half-hour George would still be president, and he wanted to be alone to reflect.

His private office was in the corner of the administration ell, and its windows afforded a sweeping view of the main plant. He was surprisingly calm. He stood biting his lip and gazing out the window upon the whole wide area of the shops, then slanting his eyes down to the busy come and go of traffic through the gates quite as he had seven years ago when the works had stopped so suddenly and the men had come streaming out with wonder or despair or sullen hate written on their features.

He had been sick with disappointment with himself then. Today his reflections were far more bitter. Then the business was in danger. Now it was himself. True, he was a rich man. There were somewhere between twelve and twenty millions of value in this property today,

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 with all its ramifications and its good-will, and one-third of it all was his beyond anybody's power to take away. But what were millions, what was the machine, if he lost his power to drive it?

"The business is sound, but I am unsound," he accused himself hollowly, with a feeling of awful chagrin, then gazed again at that stretching canopy of steel and concrete with a wide and wistful eye.

He thought of his dream of making this a vast industrial brotherhood, a workman-owned plant, a happy shop, the happiest and most efficient shop in America, and reproached himself bitterly for having loosely lost the oppor tunity to serve his workmen as he had meant to serve them. He called himself their betrayer. He called himself a blindly optimistic, weakwilled fool.

But there came just now a tapping at the door followed by the entry of Blakeley, faithful and watchful to the last.

"Mr. Mumford to see you, sir," he said.

Mumford! George started angrily at the name. It was bland old Mumford who had advised him to put his faith in Templeton & Co., instead of in Blodgett, Tompkins, and Haley. But could the three have thrown him down any more completely than Simon? George doubted it. Why, they might even have

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 had gratitude enough, on account of the money he would have made them, to stand by him now against the overshadowing figure of the trust.

But there was Mumford entering—an old man, much older than he had looked seven years ago, and he was sixty then—and George could not but be polite to an old man. He arose and turned to greet him, though he could not help shooting a hard look, a look that was almost accusation.

But Mumford's contenance, pink under white hair, bore no trace of guilt upon it. In fact, he smiled and seemed rather pleased with himself, whereat George, inevitably yielding to that amiable, self-satisfied radiance, hailed him by name and extended a cordial hand. But what Mr. Mumford proffered was not a hand to be shaken; it was a hand that submitted to the gaze of George Judson an oblong piece of paper with both printing and writing upon it. George inclined his head forward slightly and let his glance rest upon it with that indifference with which any man who had just lost a vast pile of concrete and steel, filled with throbbing machinery and potential with a mighty manufacturing volume, might be expected to look upon a mere slip of paper.

But suddenly his listless glance lighted; he snatched at the slip and read it. "Mumford!" he exclaimed with a startled, questioning eye.

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 The slip of paper was a proxy for 15,000 shares of the common stock of the Judson-Morris Motor Company. It was made out to George Judson, and it was signed Ellery Anderson, Trustee.

Simon Mumford's answer to that frantically shouted query was a reassuring nod and a most beatific smile.

"Control!" George shouted in a voice that was breaking with excitement. "Control!"

He seized the frail Simon by the shoulder and shook him with fierce gratitude, then put him aside like something inanimate, and with the light of savage exultation on his face started toward the conference room, but halted and stared again at the slip of paper which quivered in his unsteady hand while he manipulated it between his fingers to make sure it was real and not an hallucination created by his own gloomy imaginings. To make sure also that his eyes had not deceived him, word by word, and almost painfully, with twisting, constricted lips, he read it through aloud to the signature, Ellery Anderson, Trustee.

"Trustee for whom?" he suddenly boomed so forcefully that old Simon Mumford, waiting for this query, was struck momentarily speechless. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out of it.

"Trustee for whom?" roared George Judson

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 of my brain, a province of my proper being, had thrown off allegiance and set up for itself, or perhaps for the somebody else who did the paddling. I had dwindled into quite a little thing in a corner of myself. I was isolated in my own skull. Thoughts presented themselves unbidden; they were not my thoughts, they were plainly someone else's; and I considered them like a part of the landscape. I take it, in short, that I was about as near Nirvana as would be convenient in practical life; and if this be so, I make the Buddhists my sincere compliments; 'tis an agreeable state, not very consistent with mental brilliancy, not exactly profitable in a money point of view, but very calm, golden and incurious, and one that sets a man superior to alarms. It may be best figured by supposing yourself to get dead drunk, and yet keep sober to enjoy it. I have a notion that open air labourers must spend a


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 again, relentlessly, suspiciously, as fearing some ghastly trick.

Simon found his tongue. "For Mrs. George Judson."

Mr. George Judson turned deathly white, and for one staring moment his mouth was wide and motionless. "My wife?" he whispered, faint with emotion.

Simon put a steadying hand upon his shoulder. "It's genuine, George," he said, "and your wife owns that stock. She always has owned it since you gave itup. It was she who took your three million dollars' worth of bonds and saved you from those . Templeton, another old friend of her father like myself, consented to act, merely as a dummy. Ellery Anderson was a legal fiction invented to relieve Templeton of the importunities of this Diamond Motors crowd."

George had weakly gripped the old man's arm for support, and for a time was silent, struggling with a new and violent current in his emotions.

"And she—it was she who saved the works for me that time," he remarked at last in low, breathless tones full of a gratitude that was almost worship.

"Yes," smiled Simon.

"Even while she hated them, she saved them for me," he murmured as if talking to himself;

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 and then he suddenly turned an accusing glance upon the old man. "And why was I not permitted to know?" he reproached.

"Because you had shown that knowingly you would not allow it," replied the old financier. "It was your wife's aspiration to be at least as noble and generous as you were."

"Noble! Me? Pah!" said George Judson, with a gesture of bitterness. He leaned now against the desk, and his external eye was gazing at the proxy, but his mind was busy with a sequence of awful regrets.

"Damned bombastic pride again!" he was saying to himself. "I wouldn't tell them frankly, and I wouldn't let them know. Therefore they couldn't tell me—and therefore all these needless, agonizing fears of loss of factory control—and why, we might have understood each other all along if—"

This was the train of his thought, and he was so absorbed by it that he did not notice that the door opened softly and that a very small person in the uniform of an American soldier had entered it—an unusually smart uniform, topped off with the overseas cap and finished by a swagger stick. This trim, smart figure in the exquisitely tailored uniform clicked heels and saluted—a diminutive figure for a uniformwearer, say about the figure of a boy of eight years. The rose of health was upon his cheeks,

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 his features were regular, and the blue eyes, filled at first with a curious kind of concern at that absorbed, bowed figure of a man leaning against the desk, sparkled with joy at his first glance of recognition.

"Junior!" George Judson shouted. "Junior! My boy, my boy!" and flung out his arms.

"Dad-dee!" the small soldier cried and leaped into his father's embrace, "Dad-dee-e-e!"

"Where on earth did you come from?" George asked when he could get his breath.

"Home!" and the youngster, now in his father's lap, kicked his heels and smiled with an amazing air of satisfaction.

"What home?" demanded George Judson frantically.

"Our home—that we always lived in till we went away."

"But how did you get there?"

"Mother brought me."

"Your mother? She is there?"

Junior hesitated a moment. "Yes, Daddy. She sent me to fetch you."

The child was talking with an English accent; but George Judson could not resent that now. It sounded utterly charming.

"To bring me?" he almost screamed. "Let's go!"

He sprang for his hat and offered a hand to the boy. With a shout of glee Junior fastened

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 upon that forefinger which he had been used to hold in infancy, and shouting with boyish delight, he clung on and flew, with his feet scarcely touching the floor, as his father dashed out of the door. Along the corridor and round the turns they ran, and, not waiting for the elevator, plunged downward floor by floor and out upon the curb in front where the president's car and his chauffeur were once more in waiting as they had been accustomed to be before the war took him away.

"Home—quick!" he panted.

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T was a wild ride that George Judson took, homebound from the motor works, and at the end of it he found his wife waiting for him; but not at the door; not in library or hall, but standing in the center of her own cream-and-blue room, wearing a simple housedress of pink and white stripes in some soft material—an old dress it was, that he had loved her in in the old days. She was wearing her hair in a way that he had liked it, the fine, dark locks waved about the brow and temples, and the lustrous coils doubled low upon the neck. She was the same Fay and yet a different one.

Her beauty was more striking, more ravishing than ever. The rich color contrasts of her symmetrical face were all heightened. But besides this there was upon the features a new kind of glow as from fires deep in the soul fed by some rare, spiritual experience, and even in her pose there was a new dignity as hinting some marked exaltation of character, some fresh access of purposefulness in life.

She did not advance, but smiled, and it was the old smile with a new glory added. She

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 spoke, and it was the old tone, but with a richer, mellower trill than he had ever heard before. She was there; and she was more exquisite than ever and—he loved her more devotedly, more passionately, than he had ever loved her.

"You have come home," he cried with a choke in his voice, with eagerness consuming him, but still holding off, for his soul had learned its discipline.

"To you," she said simply, and opened her arms.

The long wait was over!

With a sigh of ecstasy that was pain, he folded her to his breast for the longest, the tenderest, the slowest embrace that he had ever given, each moment of which was rapture beyond rapture.

George Junior gazed at his father and mother strangely for an interval, and then, as if awed by some emotion beyond his power to comprehend, he backed out of the room and sought the absorbing concerns of childhood elsewhere.

As for the reunited lovers, nothing and nobody existed but themselves, and in the minds of each a thousand thoughts, reflections, queries, explanations, impulses, and resolutions were forming and demanding expression. Each knew instinctively that this embrace marked the end of wanderings, of discontents, of misunderstandings and separations; that at last two lives were fused, and each wanted to give the other bonds to that

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 effect—bonds of gratitude, bonds of affection, bonds of eternal assurance. Both were highly emotional, close to laughter and to tears.

"You—you saved the works for me!" blurted George with shining eyes.

"You—you kept the home open for me," she countered, and kissed him with impulsive tenderness. Then a mood of self-reproach overtook her. "Oh, I was hard, hard, when I went away," she said. "It took a long time to break me, but at last I am broken, George, broken by a world and its woe, and made whole again by the gospel of work and service."

"It was all my fault, though," insisted the husband with a manner that demanded generously the right to monopolize all self-reproaches for himself. "I am just a plain hell-paver!"

"A hell-paver?" Fay looked at him wonderingly.

"Yes," said George, and expounded to her Doctor Mellus's definition of the word with some of his own connotations added. "That's all I've been, just a plain hell-paver," he concluded remorsefully.

But a soft, appealing hand was laid upon his arm, and Fay's face, full of a look of deep contrition was brought near to his. "I've been a hell-paver, too," she said humbly. "I meant well, but I didn't do well. I was just a silly, wilful, spoiled child of luxury. Environment

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 had nearly ruined me. But I am cured, I think; at least I am improved. I have learned to work, George. Feel my hands!"

He took them reverently in his. The palms were hard, the fingers roughened; he lifted them to his lips and kissed them. She went on:

"In the midst of all that woe and distress over there I found the impulse to work; I discovered the thrilling, absorbing pleasure that there is in work. But I was so ignorant I didn't know how to work at first. With all my supposed accomplishments I was unfit for anything useful in a world where suddenly nothing but useful things were needed. But I think I may tell you that I have learned. King Albert was good enough to say that I had been rather useful, and he gave me a bit of ribbon to remember his words by. There is also a trinket in my trunk that the French pinned on my breast. And I hear one is coming from the British. I am not so ashamed of that as of some things."

George leaned back and resurveyed his wife with a kind of awe. No wonder he had discerned in her something that was new and more superior even than those old superiorities which had so impressed and fascinated him in times past. But she was feeling a little exalted and inspired.

"You were right, George, to work," she told him. "The world is falling to pieces. It needs

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 work. Empires are rotting from the hinges of history. Civilizations are crumbling. Men and women go workless and go hungry. Behind us, over there, is a world to be reconstructed—nations, families, individuals to be rebuilt. And it isn't just in Europe and Asia where reconstruction is going on. It's here." She was speaking with quivering enthusiasm now, the beautiful eyes ablaze with a kind of earnestness her husband had never seen in them before.

"Let's do our part to make that re-building a fact, husband mine," she pleaded, and drew affectionately close once more. "The world is down. It has to be helped up. And your first step toward that is that mutual ownership program you had in mind once. You haven't abandoned that, have your I want you to get it going, and I want to stand right beside you and help you operate it as the chief part of your job."

But George Judson had suddenly a very peculiar expression on his face, and his eyes were lowered to a crumpled slip of paper in his hand. "I—I haven't got any job," he recalled confusedly. "They just elected a new board of directors over my head."

"Over your head?" inquired his wife in surprise. "But didn't Simon—?"

"Yes, Simon did. But," and George stared sheepishly at that wrinkled slip of paper in his

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 hand, "but—Junior came in, and—and I forgot everything and rushed to you."

"You old dear!" she cried enthusiastically and threw her arms about him. "That shows I was right to come home. You do love me more than your old factory, don't you?"

"Don't I? I always did," insisted George.

"But what can you do then—about the factory plane" Fay inquired, perplexed and feeling that a very real calamity had happened.

"More hell-paving!" ejaculated George with a rueful smile. "By now I'm ousted, and although we still hold the majority stock, we couldn't vote it till the next annual meeting. Tell you," he said. "You were always wanting me to take a vacation. I'll take a vacation for a year, and we'll get acquainted all over again."

"Won't that be thrilling!" cried Fay, "but—" eagerly—"We won't idle, George, on our vacation. We'll go to Europe and work for Mr. Hoover's commission, or we'll settle right down here in Detroit and do something that ought to be done and never has been done before—or—Just a minute, dear! There's the telephone."

She stepped to the extension instrument with an expression of annoyance clouding her features, for this was no time for talk with any outsider, but as she held the receiver to her ear, her face gradually underwent a radiant change.

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 "What?" she insisted eagerly. "Say that again, Mr. Williams. I want to get it perfectly straight."

George crowded close to her. "What is it?" he demanded. "What does John Williams want?"

Fay hushed him with her eyes. Then she turned abruptly toward him and laughed the happy laugh of a girl, while the telephone instrument sagged unnoticed in her hands.

"George," she exulted. "You've been reelected president. Weems wanted you. The Diamond people wanted you. All the old officers are reelected—only Weems is chairman of the Board. They want you to carry on."

George stared.

"Then I've got my job back again?" he said rather unnecessarily.

"And I've got my husband back," laughed Fay.

"Fay, dear?" he asked as they sat down together, awed and subdued by the violence of their own happiness, "just what was it made you go away?"

His wife flushed and hung her head, toying with a tassel on the corner of the davenport.

"What made me go away," she announced very deliberately, "was just supreme discontent with—with myself, with my husband, with . . . the whole darned world."

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 "And what brought you back?" he asked shyly.

"You!" she answered mischievously, and leaned close with her breath against his cheek. "You and the gradual dawn of good sense. I saw all kinds of men over there—men with titles and men without, men with great rank and men with decorations for valor upon their breasts. They seemed to vie for the privilege of paying me attention. But they were not all nice men. I met nobles who were not noble.

"I was always comparing you with them, and George—now don't get vain—generally to your advantage. You had your faults but they were superficial faults—theirs went deep—to their very hearts. Blue blood, I found, is sometimes mostly black."

George nodded, deeply satisfied of course; but there was another ghost that required to be laid before his mind could be entirely at rest.

"By the way, Fay?" he asked, as casually as possible, "did you ever see or hear anything of Sir Brian over there? He completely fell out of things round here after the beginning of the war.war." [sic]

"Why,—why didn't you know?" his wife inquired, with shocked eyes and a quick little gasp of pain. "He was here for years on a secret mission for his government. When hostilities broke out he insisted on active duty in the air

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 service. Poor gallant fellow! On his very first combat flight he went roaring down to a hero's death in a chariot of flames." A tear quivered on one of her long lashes and, unashamed, she let it fall. "He was a very great help to me—eventually—Sir Brian Hook! He showed me how very much I loved my husband."

There was some mystery in this allusion but George did not try to comprehend it—did not wish to try. He merely bowed his head in silent emotion over a brave man's death.

Fay was silent also, her mind skirting wide horizons but finally coming back with a sense of supreme contentment—supreme attainment too. Fondly she crept close into George's arms.

"And the sweetest thought to me, George," she said, "is that at last I have found the Garden of Eden, and not away off yonder in a Persian valley, but here in our own quiet home."

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text: Man's Country

title: Man's Country


text: Man's Country/Chapter 1

title: Man's Country/Chapter 1


text: Man's Country/Chapter 2

title: Man's Country/Chapter 2


text: Man's Country/Chapter 3

title: Man's Country/Chapter 3


text: Man's Country/Chapter 4

title: Man's Country/Chapter 4


text: Man's Country/Chapter 5

title: Man's Country/Chapter 5


text: Man's Country/Chapter 6

title: Man's Country/Chapter 6


text: Man's Country/Chapter 7

title: Man's Country/Chapter 7


text: Man's Country/Chapter 8

title: Man's Country/Chapter 8


text: Man's Country/Chapter 9

title: Man's Country/Chapter 9


text: Man's Country/Chapter 10

title: Man's Country/Chapter 10


text: Man's Country/Chapter 11

title: Man's Country/Chapter 11


text: Man's Country/Chapter 12

title: Man's Country/Chapter 12


text: Man's Country/Chapter 13

title: Man's Country/Chapter 13


text: Man's Country/Chapter 14

title: Man's Country/Chapter 14


text: Man's Country/Chapter 15

title: Man's Country/Chapter 15


text: Man's Country/Chapter 16

title: Man's Country/Chapter 16


text: Man's Country/Chapter 17

title: Man's Country/Chapter 17


text: Man's Country/Chapter 18

title: Man's Country/Chapter 18


text: Man's Country/Chapter 19

title: Man's Country/Chapter 19


text: Man's Country/Chapter 20

title: Man's Country/Chapter 20


text: Man's Country/Chapter 21

title: Man's Country/Chapter 21


text: Man's Country/Chapter 22

title: Man's Country/Chapter 22


text: Man's Country/Chapter 23

title: Man's Country/Chapter 23


text: Man's Country/Chapter 24

title: Man's Country/Chapter 24


text: Man's Country/Chapter 25

title: Man's Country/Chapter 25


text: Man's Country/Chapter 26

title: Man's Country/Chapter 26


text: Man's Country/Chapter 27

title: Man's Country/Chapter 27


text: Man's Country/Chapter 28

title: Man's Country/Chapter 28


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Page:Urantia Foundation v. Maaherra (D. Ariz. 1995).pdf/18

 approximate each other. See ''Russell Chem. Co. v. Wyandotte Chems. Corp.'', 337 F.2d 660, 661 (C.C.P.A.1964) (holding when marks are nearly identical, products must be substantially different for confusion to be unlikely).

The defendant admits she used “URANTIA” and describes her reproductions of the plaintiff’s symbol of three blue concentric circles as “exact replications or as near thereto us practicable.” (Def.’s Answer at 4, ¶26.) Consequently, I find that the two marks are not only similar but identical.

“Evidence that use of the two marks has already led to confusion is persuasive proof that future confusion is likely.” AMF, 599 F.2d at 352 (citing Plough, Inc. v. Kreis Laboratories, 314 F.2d 635, 639 (9th Cir.1963)). The plaintiff relies on two letters, written by consumers who had allegedly received the defendant’s product, to support its claim of actual confusion. (Third Aff. of Bondi at Ex. C.) The plaintiff, however, does not show that the computer disks to which the aforementioned letters refer originated with the defendant. I find that the existence of only two letters after allegedly five years of infringement is not sufficient proof of actual confusion to weigh this factor in favor of the plaintiff.

If convergent marketing channels are employed in the distribution of related products, an increased likelihood of confusion may result. There is scant evidence of such a situation in the instant case. “The Foundation generally offers The URANTIA Book to the general public through retail bookstores.” (Third Aff. of Bondi at 2, ¶3.) In 1994, ninety-six percent of all the English language books sold by the plaintiff were sold to bookstores for resale to the public. Id. ¶4. The plaintiff also uses other marketing channels typically associated with book distribution: advertisements, conventions, and book fairs. Id. at 3, ¶5. The defendant, however, is alleged to have distributed free of charge a limited number of computer disks to individuals who had not even solicited the product. (Second Aff. of Wharton Ex. A at 8–9, ¶22.) I find that the marketing channels do not converge and, therefore, this factor weighs in favor of the defendant.

If a purchaser has expertise in the field in which the goods fall, or if the goods are expensive or of a highly technical nature, then it is more likely that the purchaser will exercise a higher degree of care in choosing the product. Consequently, the more care one uses in selecting a product, the less likely one is to confuse it with another product. See AMF, 599 F.2d at 353. But see Omega Importing Corp. v. Petri-Kine Camera Co., 451 F.2d 1190, 1195 (2d Cir.1971) (warning against undue reliance on “supposed sophistication” of consumers). The plaintiff’s book is neither expensive nor highly technical, and its purchasers are not generally bibliophiles. These facts tend to support a finding that confusion is likely.

However, at least two facts weigh in the defendant’s favor. First, the manner in which the consumers received the defendant’s product may have prompted increased suspicion as to its origin and authenticity. Usually, a publisher does not give away its product, especially when the product is a two thousand page book. Second, the plaintiff states that a comparison of the two products revealed only “minor differences.” (Second Aff. of Wharton Ex. A at 15, ¶39.) If the differences had been substantial, they may have fostered doubt as to the product’s legitimacy, but they were simply “typographical errors, resulting in some missing punctuation and extra space, and the absence of any use of italics.” Id. at 8, ¶20.

Courts have adopted two separate approaches to evaluate the significance of the quality of a second comer’s product. A product of inferior quality is more likely to injure the trademark owner’s reputation, if confusion occurs. Conversely, a product of equal quality may be more apt to promote confusion because consumers are more inclined to assume that similar products come from the same source. Nikon Inc. v. Ikon Corp., 987 F.2d 91, 95 (2d Cir.1993) (citation omitted).


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Page:Ante-Nicene Christian Library Vol 6.djvu/22

16


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text: Ante-Nicene Christian Library/Volume VI

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 but I put 'em here to keep out the weather: they might keep my blackguard hands serious at the same time, but they don’t.' A fair lady with a past was once heard to say that she could not go to morning service at a particular church because the parson read one of the Commandments with such accusatory emphasis: whether these had been degraded to the condition of old materials and were taken down owing to kindred objections one cannot know."

The most memorable section of the reminiscential address, and the one that showed how Hardy’s intense poetic vision could be applied to the commonest and simplest of objects, was his contemning of the barbarous practice of cutting off the "cannons" of church bells wherever a bell-peal was remounted. "I was passing," he said, "through a churchyard where I saw standing on the grass a peal of bells just taken down from the adjacent tower and subjected to this treatment. A sight more piteous than that presented by these fine bells, standing disfigured in a row in the sunshine, like cropped criminals in a pillory, as it were ashamed of their degradation, I have never witnessed among inanimate things."

Throughout the address, while viewing with dismay the necessity for the destruction or removal of old materials in the decaying sections of ancient buildings, Hardy insisted on the preservation of the original form and ornamentation of the structure; for, he remarked, "This is indeed the actual process of organic nature herself, which is one of continuous substitution. She is always discarding the matter, while retaining the form."

Nor was this particular lecture the only tribute which


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Page:Travels in West Africa, Congo Français, Corisco and Cameroons (IA travelsinwestafr00kingrich).pdf/488

 Gold Coast method, so here confine myself to the Bantu. This similarity of procedure naturally arises from the same underlying idea existing in the two races.

You call in the medicine man, the "oganga," as he is commonly called in Congo Français tribes. After a variety of ceremonies and processes, the spirit is induced to localise itself in some object subject to the will of the possessor. The things most frequently used are antelopes' horns, the large snail-shells, and large nut-shells, according to Doctor Nassau. Among the Fan I found the most frequent charm-case was in the shape of a little sausage, made very neatly of pineapple fibre, the contents being the residence of the spirit or power, and the outside coloured red to flatter and please him—for spirits always like red.

The substance put inside charms is all manner of nastiness, usually on the sea coast having a high percentage of fowl dung.

The nature of the substance depends on the spirit it is


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 Hardy paid towards the end of his life to his earliest architectural experiences. A still later memory is preserved in his famous letter of October 7, 1914, to the English press on the bombardment of the Cathedral at Rheims. After discussing the patent impossibility of an entirely adequate renewal of all the damaged portions of the edifice (inasmuch as some of them dated from the Thirteenth Century, Gothic architecture of that period being now an unpracticed art), and after deploring the losses which the window, in particular, had suffered, he went on to say:

"Moreover their antique history was a part of them, and how can that history be imparted to a renewal? When I was young, French architecture of the best period was much investigated, and selections from such traceries and mouldings as those at Rheims were delineated with the utmost accuracy, and copied by architects' pupils—myself among the rest. It seems strange, indeed, now that the curves we used to draw with such care should have been broken as ruthlessly as if they were a cast-iron railing replaceable from a mould."

Hardy did not devote all his energies to his architectural work, particularly in the early years of his indentures, attractive as he discovered his technical studies of Gothic art to be. He was already inclining towards the attractions of literature, poetry in particular. The charms of his native Dorset seemed to be intensified by


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22 forces of the enemy increased and multiplied. Not only so, but each new-born machine was of a higher and more powerful type than its progenitors, as we afterwards learnt to our cost. Not only in structural features was this the case, but in the intelligent powers, if I may so call them, there was a progressive development. Our man-made Engines had a certain power of self-preservation: they could stop themselves in the presence of danger; but the new generation of nature-made, or demon-made machines, possessed powers of attack. They could pursue their foes, and when overtaken employ all their complex rescources in conflict. Nay more, they showed themselves capable of combination—of acting in concert—which is more than can be accomplished by the humbler members of the animal world.

It was about a year after the events recorded in the last chapter that the storm burst. I was then living, a widower of eighteen months standing, alone with my daughter Aurelia, at Jefferson City, Missouri, where I had some practice as a consulting physician: though in truth I regarded the pursuit of my legitimate profession as little more than a distraction, my


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 his intimate acquaintance with its landmarks, and seemed to cry for expression in meter and rhyme.

He actually composed much verse during this period, but destroyed most of it subsequently. None of it has been offered to public inspection, and only one of these poems ever saw print. This was a set of verses called Domicilium, an expression of the powerful effect exerted by his natural environment over his childhood and early youth. It was composed and worked over between 1857 and 1860. Twenty-five copies of it were printed in the form of a seven-page booklet on April 5, 1916, by Messrs. Eyre and Spottiswoode for Clement Shorter, and were distributed privately. The piece has been guarded with intense (and somewhat ridiculous) jealousy. Some day, perhaps, it will be possible to compare it with that beautiful section of Wordsworth's Prelude which was originally entitled The Influence of Natural Objects in Calling Forth and Strengthening the Imagination in Boyhood and Early Youth.

Tentative sketches for essays and tales were also set down by the student at this time. But when news of these ventures into a precarious and questionable field came to the ears of Mr. Hicks and the elder Mr. Hardy, the youth was informed in no uncertain terms that he was to apply himself with stern exclusiveness to architecture, under pain of the instant withdrawal of his sustenance. One may be sure that his mother had little to do with this peremptory command.

Hardy was in those days, however, an obedient boy. Besides, the threat to throw him entirely upon his own resources was something of a deterrent to unremunera-


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’Neath the sun’s rays in the vale

Shimmer trembling waters clear;

Full of longing, from the brake

I look downwards to the lake,

Sitting in cool shade I hear

Calling quail.

Softly as if half asleep

Murmur all the springs and brooks;

When among the boughs the sun

Shines on waters, quick they run,

And like deer, with frightened looks,

Wildly leap.

Orioles and thrushes sing—

Who can understand them all?

Hidden in the trees each bird

Singing of the spring is heard,

Meaningful they talk and call

Twittering.

Says the cuckoo: „Have you seen

Our most lovely sister dear?

Sister of our summer dreams,

Languishing with love she seems.

Where art thou? O come, appear,

Fairy Queen!“

title: Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/10


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 tive literary endeavors. He acquiesced, abandoned literature temporarily, and applied himself with more or less strictness to his official work until the end of his indentures. The discipline did him no harm, as later events amply proved. Hardy, one suspects, was never too proud of his Domicilium.

His tastes for learning, however, began to emerge as his unsuccessful schooldays faded into the past. With some avidity he resumed the study of Latin and began to puzzle over the Greek. The influence of the ancient Hellenic language and literature was from this time on to manifest itself in overweening measure over his work. Fortunately, he soon found in one of the young pupils of Mr. Hicks another ambitious amateur classical scholar. Together the two youths pored over their texts, assisting each other with the vocabulary, constructions and renderings. These studies, started in 1857, ceased in 1860.

Hardy had now passed his twenty-first birthday, and was rapidly learning to appreciate the value of some of the permanent artistic compensations in life: classical literature, Gothic architecture, nature reflected in English poetry.

There are hints of several important friendships formed by Hardy as he approached manhood: with a London man of letters, a temporary sojourner in Dorset, who possibly instilled in the youth his first ambition to create original literature, a person perhaps reflected in the character of Henry Knight of A Pair of Blue Eyes; and with a number of young men who had designs of entering the Non-Conformist clergy, and with whom Hardy


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140 son on the same level as revelation, and then demonstrated that his faith and his reason taught identical truths. His work, the “Guide of the Perplexed”, written in Arabic in about the year 1190, based, on the one hand, on the Aristotelian system as expounded by Arabian thinkers, and, on the other hand, on a firm belief in Scripture and tradition. With a masterly hand, Maimonides summarized the teachings of Aristotle and the doctrines of Moses and the Rabbis. Between these two independent bodies of truths he found, not contradiction, but agreement, and he reconciled them in a way that satisfied so many minds that the “Guide” was translated into Hebrew twice during his life-time, and was studied by Mohammedans and by Christians such as Thomas Aquinas. With general readers, the third part was the most popular. In this part Maimonides offered rational explanations of the ceremonial and legislative details of the Bible.


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 studied the New Testament in Greek while he argued with them in behalf of the Anglican doctrines and ritual. Possible reflections of this episode might be discovered in the student Somerset’s delicious technical defence of Infant Baptism as recorded in A Laodicean, or in Jude's attempted study of H KAINH ΔIAθHKH. As biographical data, however, most of this material lies too patently in the realm of pure conjecture. For the present it must remain there, inasmuch as Hardy has evidently never seen fit to supply inquirers with a detailed and authoritative account of any such personal influences.

In 1862 Hardy was at last released from his bondage to Hicks. He left the Dorchester office and set out for London. As a nine-year-old, he had already had a few glimpses of the city in a rare visit there with his parents, but he had seen little of it since. He now carried with him an introduction to Arthur Blomfield, who held the reputation of being a "good restorer," and a master of the Revived Gothic. This Blomfield was at the time a man of thirty-two, and had just achieved the dignity of the position of President of the Architectural Association. Later he became the official architect to the Bank of England and the designer of the law courts branch in Fleet Street. He was knighted in 1889.

Hardy became Blomfield's assistant, receiving instruction from him in London and traveling all over the country to see that restoration work was carried out with as little vandalism as possible.


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Rh his native land. Judah settled in Lunel, and his skill as a physician won him such renown that his medical services were sought by knights and bishops even from across the sea. Judah Ibn Tibbon was a student of science and philosophy. He early qualified himself as a translator by careful attention to philological niceties. Under the inspiration of Meshullam, he spent the years 1161 to 1186 in making a series of translations from Arabic into Hebrew. His translations were difficult and forced in style, but he had no ready-made language at his command. He had to create a new Hebrew. Classical Hebrew was naturally destitute of the technical terms of philosophy, and Ibn Tibbon invented expressions modelled on the Greek and the Arabic. He made Hebrew once more a living language by extending its vocabulary and adapting its idioms to the requirements of medieval culture.

His son Samuel (1160-1230) and his