widow. Neither one had a pure, reticent taste. Both were of the modern barbarian type that admires hungrily, and ravishes greedily from the treasure house of the Old World what it can get, what is left to get, piling the spoil helter-skelter into an up-to-date American house. Mediæval, Renaissance, Italian, French, Flemish, - it was all one! They would turn Forest Manor into one of those bizarre, corrupt, baroque museums that our lavish plunderers love, electric-lighted, telephoned, with gilded marble fireplaces, massive bronze candelabra, Persian rugs, Gothic choir stalls, French bronzes, a house of barbarian spoil! A servant brought in a tray of liquors and cigarettes; they sat in the midst of pic tures and stuffs, and sipped and smoked. Now," Mrs. Phillips announced briskly, "I want to hear all about you." "It's only the old story, more jobs and strikes, the chase for the nimble dollar," he answered lightly. "You have to run faster for it all the time."

66

"But you are making money?" she questioned directly.

"I'm spending it!"

He found it not difficult to tell her the state of his case. She nodded comprehendingly, while he let her see that his situation was not altogether as prosperous as it appeared on the surface. Payments on buildings were delayed on account of the strikes; office expenses crept upwards; and personal expenses mounted too. And there was the constant pressure of business, the fear of a cessation in orders.

"We may have to move back to town. That Loring place is pretty large to swing. In town you can be poor in obscurity."

"Nonsense! You must not go back. People will know that you haven't money. You are going to get bigger things to do. And you are so young. My! Not thirtyfive!"

Her sharp eyes examined the man frankly, sympathetically, approving him

In her enthusiasm she proposed to go at once to examine the site. Pinning a big hat on her head, she gathered up her long skirt, and they set forth, following a neat wood-path that led from the north terrace into the ravine, across a little brook, and up the other bank.

"Now, here!" She pointed to a patch of hazel bushes. "See the lake over there! And my house is almost hid. You would be quite by yourselves."

He hinted that to build even on this charming spot a certain amount of capital would be needed. She frowned and settled herself on the stump of a tree.

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Why don't you try that Harris man? You know him. He made a heap of money for me once, - corn, I think. He knew just what was going to happen. He's awfully smart, and he's gone in with Rainbow, you know. I am sure he could make some money for you." "Or lose it?"

She laughed scornfully at the idea of losing.

"Of course you have got to risk something. I would n't give a penny for a man who would n't trust his luck. You take my advice and see Harris. Tell him I sent you."

She laughed again, with the conviction of a successful gambler, and it became her to laugh, for it softened the lines of her mouth.

She was now forty-one years old, and she appeared to Jackson to be younger than when he had first gone to see her about the house. She had come back from Europe thinner than she had been for several years. Her hair was perfectly black, still undulled by age, and

her features had not begun to sharpen noticeably. She had another ten years of active, selfish woman's life before her, and she knew it.

Meantime he had grown older, so that they were much nearer together. She treated him quite as her equal in experience, and that flattered him.

"Yes," she continued, in love with her project, "there is n't a nicer spot all along the shore. And you would be next door, so to say. You could pay for the land when you got ready."

She gave him her arm to help her in descending the steep bank of the ravine, and she leaned heavily on him. The June sun lay warmly about the big house as they returned to it. The shrubbery had grown rankly around the terrace, doing its best in its summer verdancy to cover the naked walls. Beneath the bluff the lake lapped at the sandy shore in a summer drowse. The architect looked at the house he had built, with renewed pride. It was pretentious and ambitious, mixed in motive like this woman, like himself. He would have fitted into the place like a glove, if his uncle had done the right thing! Somewhat the same thought was in the widow's mind.

"It was a shame that old Powers treated you so shabbily! It ought to have been yours."

They stood for a moment on the terrace, looking at the house. Yes, it was like them both! They loved equally the comforts and the luxuries and the powers of this our little life. And they were bold to snatch what they wanted from the general feast.

"You must make Harris do something for you!" she mused. "You can't bury yourself in a stuffy flat." Then in a few moments she added, "How's that handsome wife of yours? I hear she's going to have another child." She continued with maternal, or, perhaps, Parisian, directness, "Two babies, and not on your feet yet! You must n't have any more. These days children are no unVOL. XCIII. NO. 558.

31

She put her arms about his neck in her desire to make him feel what she

could not say. But he was thinking of Mrs. Phillips's advice to see the broker, and merely kissed her in reply to her caress. It was the year of the great bull

market, when it seemed as if wealth hung low on every bough, and all that a bold man had to do to win a fortune was to pick his stock and make his stake. . . .

Forest Park was very gay that summer. There were perpetual dinners and house parties and much polo at the Shoreham Club. The architect, who was very popular, went about more than ever, sometimes with his wife, and often alone, as her health did not permit much effort. Occasionally he played polo, taking the place of one of the regular team, and usually when there was a match he stopped at the club on his way from the city.

One of these polo Wednesdays, late in August, Helen strolled along the shorepath in the direction of the Phillipses' place, with an idea of calling on Venetia Phillips, if her strength held out. The path followed the curves of the bluff in full view of the lake, from which rose a pleasant coolness like a strong odor. Back from the edge of the bluff, in the quiet of well-spaced trees, stood the houses. They seemed deserted on this midsummer afternoon; those people who had the energy to stir had gone to the polo grounds. The Phillips house was asleep, but Helen finally roused a ser

vant, who departed in search of Venetia. The silence of the long drawing-room, with its close array of dominating furniture, oppressed her. She moved about restlessly, then crossed the hall to an open window, where from the north the lake air was floating into the close house. Outside on the terrace there were voices. The murmur of the voices was broken by a laugh which she knew to be her husband's, and she started forward in surprise. Through the open window she could see the blue lake, and, nearer, a corner of the north terrace, where the luxuriant vines curtained a sheltered nook. Jackson and Mrs. Phillips were there, leaning slightly forward in the animation of their talk. The widow put her hand on the architect's arm to emphasize her words, and it lay there while she looked into the man's face with her vivacious, gleaming eyes. The odor of Jackson's cigar floated up through the open dow into Helen's face.

win

It was nothing. She had no suspicion of wrong, or jealousy of this woman, who liked men, all men. Yet some unfamiliar pain gripped her heart. Some mysterious and hostile force had entered her field, and she seemed to see it pic tured, dramatized here before her in this little scene, a man and a woman with chairs pulled close together, their faces aglow with eager feelings! The other part of her husband, that side she dimly felt and put from her with dread, was fed by this woman. And the wife hated her for it.

She lingered a moment, not listening, but trying to still her beating heart, not daring to trust herself to move.

...

There was nothing evil, however, between those two on the terrace. The architect had come from town by an early train to see the polo, and there Mrs. Phillips had found him, and had brought him home in her automobile. She had just learned a piece of news that concerned the architect closely, and they were dis

cussing it in the shade and quiet of the north terrace.

"I know they're going to start soon. The judge let it out last night. He's no friend of yours, of course, because I like you. You must get hold of your cousin and the other trustees."

It was here that Mrs. Phillips laid her hand on the young man's arm in her eagerness. Hart murmured his thanks, thinking less of the widow than of the trustees of the Powers Jackson bequest.

"It'll be the biggest thing of its kind we have had in this city for years. It's only right that you should have it, too. Can't your wife win over the judge? He's always talking about her."

It was not strange that the man should take the woman's hand in the end, and hold it while he expressed his gratitude for all her good offices to him. It was a pleasant hand to hold, and the woman was an agreeable woman to have in one's confidence. Naturally, he could not know that she considered all men base,

emotionally treacherous and falsehearted. . . .

Venetia found Helen in the drawingroom, very white, her lips trembling, and beads of perspiration on her forehead.

"It's nothing," the older woman protested. "I should n't have walked so far. And now I must go back at once, yes, really I must. I'm so sorry!"

"Let me call Mr. Hart," Venetia said, troubled by the woman's face. “I saw him come in with mamma a little while ago."

"No, no, I prefer not, please. It would worry him."

Then Venetia drove her home, and left her calmer, more herself, but still cold. She kissed her, with a girl's demonstrativeness, and the older woman burst into tears.

"I am so weak and so silly! I see things queerly," she explained, endeavoring to smile.

After the girl had gone, Helen tried to recover her ordinary calm. She played

with the little Francis, who was beginning to venture along the walls and chairs of his nursery, testing the power in his sturdy legs. This naïve manifestation of his masculine quality touched the mother strangely. She saw in this germ of manhood the future of the boy. What other of man's instincts would he have? Would he, too, fight for his share of the spoil of the world?

The terrible hour of her woman's agony was fast approaching, when she should put forth another being into the struggle with its mates. She did not shrink from the pain before her, although she began to wonder if it might not end her own life, having that dark foreboding common to sensitive women at this crisis.

If death came, now, what had she done with her life? She would leave it like a meal scarce tasted, a task merely played with. This afternoon when she saw her husband, so remote from her, traveling another road, a bitter sense of the fruitlessness of all living had entered her heart. This husband, whom she had so passionately loved!

An hour later, as the architect was taking his leave of Mrs. Phillips, the butler brought him a telephone message from his house. His wife was suddenly taken ill. He raced home through the leafy avenues in the big touring car, which fortunately stood ready to take him. He found Helen white and exhausted, her eyes searching the vacant horizon of her bedroom.

"Why, Nell! Poor girl!" he exclaimed, leaning over her, trying to kiss her. "Venetia said you were there this afternoon. Why did n't you let me know?"

Her lips were cold and scarcely closed to his caress. She pushed him gently from her, wishing to be alone in her trial. But shortly, purging her heart of any suspicion or jealousy, still haunted by that fear of death, she drew him again to her.

Rumor had it that the Powers Jackson trust was about to be fulfilled. It had become known among the friends of the trustees that during these prosperous times the fund for the educational project had grown apace, and was now estimated to be from five to six millions of dollars. It was understood that certain trustees were in favor of handing over this munificent bequest to a large local university, with the stipulation that a part of the money should be devoted to some form of manual training or technological school on the West Side.

One morning Jackson Hart read from the newspaper an item to the effect that negotiations were under way with the university.

"So that's their game!" he exclaimed to Helen, seeing an unexpected check to his ambition. He went away to the train, trying to remember who were the influential trustees of the university, and wondering whether, after all, there would be any monumental building. He scarcely noticed his wife's disgust over the news.

She was stirred unwontedly to think that already to this extent had the old man's design become blurred!

"He did n't care for universities or theoretical education," she protested warmly the next time she met Judge Phillips on the Chicago train.

Pemberton, also one of the trustees, was sitting beside the judge. He listened gravely to Helen's speech. The judge, who preferred to talk babies or shrubs with a pleasant young woman, admitted that there had been some negotiations with the university; but nothing had been decided.

"Mr. Hollister seems to be against it. You 'll have to talk to Pemberton here. It was his idea!"

'Naturally! But we are all the ' people,' are n't we, Mrs. Hart? I have n't much sympathy with this talk nowadays about the 'people' as opposed to any other class."

"That's the unions!" the judge nodded sagely. "We are all the 'people'! We want to offer the best kind of education for the poor boy or the rich boy. What was Powers himself? His school must be a place to help boys such as he was."

They were both completely at sea as to the donor's real intentions, she felt sure, and she was eager to have them see the matter as she saw it. Suddenly ideas came to her, things she wished to say, things that seemed to her very important to say.

She remembered talks that she had had with the old man, and certain remarks about college education which had dropped from him like sizzling metal.

"But a technological school like the one in Boston," - Pemberton had instanced this famous school as an example they should follow, "that's a place to educate boys out of their class, to make them ambitious, to push them ahead of their mates into some higher class."

The judge's face was puckered in puzzle. He was of an older generation, and he could see life only in the light of competition. Free competition, that was his ideal. And the constant labor disputes in Chicago had thickened his prejudices against the working people as a class. He believed that their one aim was to get somebody's money without working for it.

But the other man was more responsive. He felt that this woman had an idea, that she knew perhaps what the benefactor really wanted, and so they talked of the school until the train reached Chicago.

"Well," the judge said, as the people bustled to leave the car, "I hope we can get the thing settled pretty soon, and start on the building. I want to see something done before I die."

"Yes," Helen assented. "I should think you would want to see the school go up. I hope Jackson will have the building of it."

She expressed this hope very simply, without considering how it might strike the trustees. It was merely a bit of sentiment with her that her husband, who had got his education from Powers Jackson, might, as a pure labor of love, in gratitude, build this monument to the old man. It did not then enter her mind that there would be a very large profit in the undertaking. She assumed that the architect would do the work without pay!

But Pemberton's thin lips closed coldly, and the judge's reply made her face turn crimson for her indelicacy.

"We have n't got that far yet, Mrs. Hart. It's probable that we shall have a competition of designs."

The two men raised their hats and disappeared into the black flood pouring across the bridge, while she got into an omnibus. That remark of hers, she felt, might have undone all the good of the talk they had had about the old man's plan. Her cheeks burned again as she thought of hinting for favors to her husband. It seemed a mean, personal seek