ut the sea in his memory of Dragon Beach; there was a wonderful
water-view there.

All the time they sat there in the parlor, the murmur of
conversation at the south door continued, and now and again over it
swelled the fervid exhortations of Nahum Beals. Not a word could be
distinguished, but the meaning was beyond doubt. That voice was full
of denunciation, of frenzied appeal, of warning.

"Who is it?" asked Lloyd, after an unusually loud burst.

"Mr. Beals," replied Ellen, uneasily. She wished that he would not
talk so loud.

"He sounds as if he were preaching fire and brimstone," said Robert.

"No, he is talking about the labor question," replied Ellen.

Then she looked confused, for she remembered that this young man's
uncle was the head of Lloyd's, that he himself would be the head of
Lloyd's some day. All at once, along with another feeling which
seemed about to conquer her, came a resentment against this young
man with his fine clothes and his gentle manners. Two men passed the
windows and one of them looked in, and when the electric-light
flashed on his face she saw Granville Joy, and the man with him was
in his shirt-sleeves. She saw those white shirt-sleeves swing into
the darkness, and felt at once antagonized against herself and
against Robert, and yet she knew that she had never seen a man like
him.

"I suppose he has settled it," said Robert.

"I don't know," replied Ellen.

"He sounds dangerous."

"Oh, no. He is a good man. He wouldn't hurt anybody. He has always
talked that way. He used to come here and talk when I was a child.
It used to frighten me at first, but it doesn't now. It is only the
way that poor people are treated that frightens me."

Again Robert had a sensation of moving unobtrusively aside from a
direct encounter. He looked across the room and started at something
which he espied for the first time.

"Pardon me," he said, rising, "but I am interested in dolls. I see
you still keep your doll, Miss Brewster."

Ellen sat stupefied. All at once it dawned upon her what might
happen. In the corner of the parlor sat her beloved doll, still
beloved, though the mother and not the doll had outgrown her first
condition of love. The doll, in the identical dress in which she had
come from Cynthia's so many years ago, sat staring forth with the
fixed radiance of her kind, seated stiffly in a tiny rocking-chair,
also one of the treasures of Ellen's childhood. It was a curious
feature