. Dodson's sigh defied analysis. "Such things are
relative." She was silent for a moment. Then her voice reverted to its
tone of business. "But come--that's enough philosophy. If you talk too
much it interferes with doing. Now, if you care to come, I'll have you
to lunch with me to-morrow. I'll have some work waiting for you. And
when that is finished, there will be more to follow. Will you come?"

Judith looked into the kindly grey eyes, so plainly studying her, and
was ashamed of the reluctance and disappointment she felt. She nodded
her head affirmatively. Was life always a compromise like this? Must
noble aspirations forever fade away in the cold light of fact? The older
woman seemed to sense her thought, for she smiled and patted her
shoulder gently.

"My dear little girl--I understand. And so will you--when you find
yourself. The world's made up of doers and dreamers. The doers dream a
little and the dreamers do a little--it is not given to many to be both.
Dream a little, always, my dear, for the good of your soul. And listen
always to the dreamers, even when their dreams seem nonsense. But you
mustn't be sad because you are only an agent. We are not less human
because we are not gods. We have our place in the scheme of things: we
must fill it--awkwardly, incompletely, stupidly--still, as best we may."

They parted then, and as soon as she decently could, Judith assured Mrs.
Weidely of the "perfectly delightful" evening she had had, and went
home. It was a long time before she could sleep.

She spent the morning wandering restlessly through the house. Was she
always, she asked herself again and again, to be subject to the
influence of others? Was she never to act for herself? Of the influence
of Good upon her, she was quite conscious. But that, she sensed, could
never be again as it was before that afternoon at Braeburn. When the
snow began to fall, it had ended his call, the call of the dreamer. He
had given her all he had. It was not enough. Now came the call of the
doer. Would that end in time, as the other had ended, and would she then
go ahead for herself, not the puppet of Brent Good nor the aid of Mrs.
Dodson, but Judith Wynrod, free agent? She wondered, and wondered.
There was no answer.

At length, when she could endure the house no longer, she went out for a
walk in the frosty air. She had an hour or two before going to Mrs.
Dodson's.

The sun was shining brightly, but it was cold, and she had to