d fought for. Why not go
out and deliberately kill a man, a libertine, a slacker? He would
still be acting on the same principle that imbued him during the war.

His thoughts drifted to Mel Iden. Strange how he loved her! Why?
Because she was a lonely soul like himself--because she was true to
her womanhood--because she had fallen for the same principle for which
he had sacrificed all--because she had been abandoned by family and
friends--because she had become beautiful, strange, mystic, tragic.
Because despite the unnamed child, the scarlet letter upon her breast,
she seemed to him infinitely purer than the girl who had jilted him.

Lane now surrendered to the enchantment of emotion embodied in the
very name of Mel Iden. He had long resisted a sweet, melancholy
current. He had driven Mel from his mind by bitter reflection on the
conduct of the people who had ostracized her. Thought of her now, of
what he meant to do, of the mounting love he had so strangely come to
feel for her, was his only source of happiness. She would never know
his secret love; he could never tell her that. But it was something to
hold to his heart, besides that unquenchable faith in himself, in some
unseen genius for far-off good.

The next day Lane, having ascertained where Joshua Iden was employed,
betook himself that way just at the noon hour. Iden, like so many
other Middleville citizens, gained a livelihood by working for the
rich Swann. In his best days he had been a master mechanic of the
railroad shops; at sixty he was foreman of one of the steel mills.

As it chanced, Iden had finished his noonday meal and was resting in
the shade, apart from other laborers there. Lane remembered him, in
spite of the fact that the three years had aged and bowed him, and
lined his face.

"Mr. Iden, do you remember me?" asked Lane. He caught the slight
averting of Iden's eyes from his uniform, and divined how the father
of Mel Iden hated soldiers. But nothing could daunt Lane.

"Yes, Lane, I remember you," returned Iden. He returned Lane's
hand-clasp, but not cordially.

Lane had mapped out in his mind this little interview. Taking off his
hat, he carefully lowered himself until his back was propped against
the tree, and looked frankly at Iden.

"It's warm. And I tire so easily. The damned Huns cut me to pieces....
Not much like I was when I used to call on Mel!"

Iden lowered his shadowed face. After a moment he said: "No, you're
changed, Lane