d and Pat each read it in the papers, but
said nothing of it to each other. Courtland worked the harder these
days.

He tried to plunge into the work and forget self, and to a certain
extent was successful. He found plenty of distress and sorrow to stand
in contrast with his own; and his hands and heart were presently full
to overflowing.

Like the faithful fellow-worker that he was, Pat stuck by him. Both
looked forward to the week that Tennelly had promised to spend with
them. But instead of Tennelly came a letter. Gila's plans interfered and
he could not come. He wrote joyously that he was sorry, but he couldn't
possibly make it. It shone between every line that Tennelly was
overwhelmingly happy.

"Good old Nelly!" said Courtland, with a sigh, handing the letter over
to Pat, for these two shared everything these days.

Courtland stood staring out of the window at the vista of roofs and tall
chimneys. The blistering summer sun simmered hot and sickening over the
city. Red brick and dust and grime were all around him. His soul was
weary of the sight and faltered in its way. What was the use of living?
What?

Then suddenly he straightened up and leaned from the window alertly! The
fire alarm was sounding. Its sinister wheeze shrilled through the hot
air tauntingly! It sounded again. One! two! One! two! three! It was in
the neighborhood.

Without waiting for a word, both men sprang out the door and down the
stairs.

CHAPTER XXIX

"The Whited Sepulcher," as some of the bitterest of her poorly paid
slaves called the model factory, stood coolly, insolently, among her
dirty, red-brick, grime-stained neighbors; like some dainty lady
appareled in sheer muslins and jewels appearing on the threshold of the
hot kitchen where her servitors were sweating and toiling to prepare her
a feast.

The luxuriant vines were green and abundant, creeping coolly about the
white walls, befringing the windows charmingly, laying delicate clinging
fingers even up to the very eaves, and straying out over the roof. No
matter how parched the ground in the little parks of the district, no
matter how yellow the leaves on the few stunted trees near by, no matter
how low the city's supply of water, nor how many public fountains had to
be temporarily shut off, that vine was always well watered. Its root lay
deep in soft, moist earth well fertilized and cared for; its leaves were
washed anew each evening with refreshing spray from the