ore additions?" she asked.

"No," said Tom. "It is a new plant--a pipe foundry."

"Don't tell me we are going to have more neighbors in Paradise," she
said in mock concern.

"I'll tell you something that may shock you worse than that: the owner
of this new plant has camped down right next door to Deer Trace."

"How dreadful! You don't mean that!"

"Oh, but I do. He's a young man, of poor but honest parentage, with a
large eye for the main chance. I shouldn't be surprised if he took every
opportunity to make love to you."

"How absurd you can be, Tom! Who is he?"

"He is Mr. Caleb Gordon's son. I think you think you know him, but you
don't; nobody does."

"Really, Tom? Have you gone into business for yourself? I thought you
had another year at Boston."

"I have another year coming to me, but I don't know when I shall get it.
And I am in business for myself; though perhaps I should be modest and
call it a firm--Gordon and Gordon."

"What does the firm do?"

"A number of things; among others, it buys the entire iron output of the
Chiawassee Consolidated, just at present."

"Dear me!" she said; "how fine and large that sounds! If I should say
anything like that you would tell me that Brag was a good dog, but--"

He grinned ecstatically. It was so like old times--the good old
times--to be bandying good-tempered abuse with her.

"I do brag a lot, don't I? But have you ever noticed that I 'most always
have something to brag about? This time, for instance. I built this new
firm, and it is all that has kept Chiawassee from going into the
sheriff's hands any time during the past six months."

Longfellow had picked his way judiciously around the obstructions and
through the gap in the boundary hills, and was jogging in a vertical
trot up the valley pike made clean and hard and stony-white by the
sweeping and hammering of the autumn rains. The mingled clamor of the
industries was left behind, but the throbbing pulsations of the big
blowing-engines hung in the air like the sighings of an imprisoned
giant. They were passing the miniature copy of Morwenstow Church when
Ardea spoke again.

"You have been home all summer?" she asked.

"At home and on the road, trying to hypnotize somebody into buying
something--anything--made out of cast-iron. Ah, girl! it's been a bitter
fight!"

She was instantly sympathetic; more, there was a little thrill of
vicarious triumph to go with the sympathy. She was sure he had won, o