le-class, and in a way symbolic. Had old
Anthony Cardew ever visualized so imaginative a thing as a Nemesis,
he would probably have summoned a vision of a huddled figure in his
stable-yard, dying, and cursing him as he died. Had Jim Doyle, cunningly
plotting the overthrow of law and order, been able in his arrogance
to conceive of such a thing, it might have been Anthony Cardew he
saw. Neither of them, for a moment, dreamed of it as an elderly Scotch
Covenanter, a plain little womanly figure, rocking in a cane-seated
rocking chair, and making the great sacrifice of her life.

All of which simply explains how, on a March Wednesday evening of the
great year of peace after much tribulation, Mr. William Wallace Cameron,
now a clerk at the Eagle Pharmacy, after an hour of Politics, and no
Economics at all, happened to be taking a walk toward the Cardew
house. Such pilgrimages has love taken for many years, small uncertain
ramblings where the fancy leads the feet and far outstrips them, and
where heart-hunger hides under various flimsy pretexts; a fine night, a
paper to be bought, a dog to be exercised.

Not that Willy Cameron made any excuses to himself. He had a sort of
idea that if he saw the magnificence that housed her, it would through
her sheer remoteness kill the misery in him. But he regarded himself
with a sort of humorous pity, and having picked up a stray dog, he
addressed it now and then.

"Even a cat can look at a king," he said once. And again, following some
vague train of thought, on a crowded street: "The People's voice is
a queer thing. 'It is, and it is not, the voice of God.' The people's
voice, old man. Only the ones that count haven't got a voice."

There were, he felt, two Lily Cardews. One lived in an army camp,
and wore plain clothes, and got a bath by means of calculation and
persistency, and went to the movies on Friday nights, and was quite
apt to eat peanuts at those times, carefully putting the shells in her
pocket.

And another one lived inside this great pile of brick,--he was standing
across from it, by the park railing, by that time--where motor cars drew
up, and a footman with an umbrella against a light rain ushered to their
limousines draped women and men in evening clothes, their strong blacks
and whites revealed in the light of the street door. And this Lily
Cardew lived in state, bowed to by flunkeys in livery, dressed and
undressed--his Scotch sense of decorum resented this--by s