of a damage that might be irreparable. I am sure that the somber shade of old John Benham guided me upon my way and made light my footsteps as I crept through the bushes and peered through the window of the cabin.
There upon the floor, before the hearth, in which some fagots were burning, sat Jerry and the minx, as thick as thieves, oblivious of the fall of night, wrapped in their own conversation and in themselves. I am willing to admit that the girl was pretty, though from the glimpses I had of it, her profile gave no suggestion of the classical ideals of beauty, for her nose made a short line far from regular and her hair, though carelessly dressed, was worn, in some absurd modern fashion with which I was unfamiliar. And yet in a general way I may say that there seemed to be no doubt as to her comeliness. She was quite small and crouched as she was upon the floor before the fire she even seemed childish—quite too unimportant a creature to have made such a hullabaloo in this small world of ours.
Nevertheless I felt justified in keeping silence and even in listening to their conversation.
"You didn't mean it," I heard Jerry ask, "about all those girls' mothers, did you?"
She laughed.
"Of course I did. You're a catch, you know."
"You mean, they want to catch me? Nonsense. I don't believe you."
"It's true. You're too rich to escape."
"If that's the way marriage is made I don't think much of it."
"It isn't always like that." She smiled. "People aren't all as rich as you are."
"It's queer," he said after a pause. "I've never thought of myself as being different from other people. If money makes one man more desirable than another then money sets false standards of judgment. The people here I like for what they are, not for what they have. That's all wrong somehow, Una. It makes me think crooked."
"I suppose I'm talking too much. You don't have to believe what I say," she said slowly.
"But I want to know and I want you to talk. You've stirred something deep in me. You somehow make me think I've been looking at everything sideways without being able to walk around it. Roger knows what he's about, of course, and I suppose he has reasons of his own, but I'm a not a child any longer. And if he does not care to tell me the whole truth, I've got to find out things for myself from somebody else." And then, turning upon her suddenly: "You aren't lying to me, are you?"
"Do you think I would?" she asked.
"No, I don't. But I thought you might say queer things, just as a joke."
She shook her head. "No," she said calmly. "I laughed a little at first, because I didn't understand, but I'm quite serious now."
"You said Roger was a fossil. I know what a fossil is. That wasn't kind."
"But it's true," she repeated warmly. "He might keep things from you, but he has no right to misrepresent women."
"Are women as fine as men?" he asked.
She looked around at him.
"Why shouldn't they be? I think they're finer. Your Roger wouldn't agree with me. I've told you the kind of things they do—that men can't and won't do. You may believe me or not as you choose. Some day you'll find out."
"But I want to find out now. I want to find out everything."
She smiled into the fire.
"That's a great deal, isn't it?" she said.
He went on soberly:
"You see, I don't want you to think I'm an idiot and I don't want you to think Roger is narrow-minded. If you only knew him—"
"I'm sure he has a long nose, sandy hair, grayish? watery eyes and spectacles."
"There. I knew you hadn't a notion of him. He's nothing like that."
"Well, what is he like?"
"Why, I've never thought. But he isn't like that. He has a beautiful mind. I think that is what matters more than anything. What do looks count for? I would rather think fine thoughts than be the handsomest person in the world."
He might have been the handsomest person in the world but he wouldn't have been aware of it. Through the window I saw the girl search his bent head quickly and then peer into the fire smiling. But Jerry did not know what she was thinking about and went on slowly:
"You've said some things that make me believe I ought to know more about women and their work. I didn't know that they ever did the sort of things you tell me of. It's strange I don't know, but I've always been pretty busy in here and I've never really thought much about them. What did you mean by 'the plague-spots of the cities'?" he asked. "Surely there can be no such a disease as the plague in a modern city when science has made such progress."
She smiled.
"Moral plague-spots, Jerry, civic sores." She paused.
"I don't understand."
"You will in time. The world isn't all as beautiful as you think it is. There are men and women with diseased minds, diseased bodies that no medicine can cure. There are hospitals and homes for them, but there never seems to be enough money or skill or civic righteousness to make such people well."
"How do you know all this?" he asked in wonder.
"I've always been interested in social problems. I can't abide being idle."
"Social problems! And do you mean that you go among these diseased people and try to make them well?"
She nodded.
"I begin to understand," he said slowly, "why you said you thought I wasn't doing my work in the world. It's true. I've been sheltered from evil. Things have been made easy for me. And you"—he burst forth admiringly—"I think you're very wonderful. Perhaps some day I can help. You'll let me help, won't you?"
"Oh, would you, Jerry?" she cried.
"I don't see any reason why I shouldn't. I shall be twenty-one in December. I can do what I please. The executors want to make me a business man—to go to board meetings and help run some companies my money is in. But I don't want to. Finance makes my head tired. I've been working at it some. Seems like awful rubbish to me. They want me to make a lot more money. I suppose I've got enough to get along on. I don't want any more than I've got. I'd much rather do something useful."
She laughed.
"Useful! I'm afraid your executors have different ideals of utility."
Jerry sighed.
"Of course, I've got to go through with the thing for awhile. But I—I'd rather give you my money to cure the plague spots."
"Not all of it, Jerry," she cried, "but would you, some of it? Just a very little?"
"Of course—as much as you like. You can do a lot more with it than I can."
In my hiding place, I didn't know whether to be alarmed or amused. She had done well. Jerry was already giving her his twenty millions. She was a capital missionary. It seemed about time I made my entrance, so I coughed, then walked through the door and faced them.
"I
