e, I'd give my soul to look like a real man--my soul! Do you know
what I'd rather do than anything in this whole world--just once? I'd
rather draw myself to my full height--just once--than be Napoleon
Bonaparte. If all the treasure in this city were mine to give, I'd give
it to walk the length of a city block on my own feet, looking down at
the people instead of always up--always up--until the leverage of your
eyes twists the back of your brain in everlasting torment."

"When my father comes back," said Barbara quietly, "talk to him. And if
only it can be done--why, you'll forgive us, won't you, for all the
suffering you've had and everything?"

[Illustration: She said in a small, surprised voice, "Why, it's
finished"]

"Yes, yes," he said quickly. "But it isn't true--it isn't possible. It
won't work. It's against experience."

"It is _possible_," said Barbara gently. "That's all I know. And even
if--even if it can't be done yet awhile, I thought it would comfort you
to think that some day--almost surely--"

"You are always thinking of my comfort," he cried. "In this pit that we
call life, you are an angel serene, blessed and blessing. Oh," he cried,
"what would you say if I stood before you on my own feet, and told
you--told you--" He broke off short and hung his head.

Barbara bit her lips and lifted her hands with a weary gesture to resume
work. But the bust of Blizzard was a live thing, and seeing anew the
strength and hellish beauty of it, suddenly and as if with the eyes of a
stranger, her heart seemed to leap into her throat, her whole body
relaxed once more, and she said in a small, surprised voice:

"Why, it's finished!"

XXXII

Upon Blizzard, who had been looking forward to many mornings during
which he should unobtrusively advance his cause, this quiet statement
fell with disturbing force. It meant that his opportunities for intimate
talks had come to a sudden and most unprepared-for end. He knew that
Barbara was tired out with the steady grind of creation, and that she
had been going through an equally steady grind of discouragement and
uncertainty. He believed that she would make no delay in carrying her
triumph and her trouble out of the heat-ridden city, to cool places, to
her own people. He believed, not that she would forget him, but that,
free from his influence, she would see with equal vision how wide the
gulf between them really was.

He had made a slip in his calculation. He had