Its roots must always strike one soil to live--_the selfish
will to have what one wants regardless of the cost to others_."

"Is it a crime," Nan asked, passionately, "to wish to live a life
that's worth the struggle? You must take conditions as you find them."

"That's just it. I won't. I'd rather create new conditions and mould
life. I'd rather lead, organize and inspire, than follow. I refuse to
become a mere money-grubber, because I'm in love with Life."

"And you would be willing," the girl said dreamily, "to sacrifice the
happiness of all those you love and all who love you to follow this
whim?"

"Sacrifice your happiness? Why, the one purpose of my life is to make
you happy----"

"Well, I can't be happy in poverty. The man I love must be rich. Oh,
Jim, you shall be! Wealth is the only road now from the vulgar
crowd--the only way to climb on top."

"But, suppose I don't wish to climb on the top of people?"

"You can't be such a fool!"

"But suppose I am? Money is the most obvious sign of success in a new
crude world. Ours is no longer new, no longer crude or isolated. True
civilization has always placed manhood above money. The only names in
our history worth remembering--are there, because they did something
else than make money. Washington was the richest man in America in his
day. But nobody remembers this--why? Because it is of no importance.
The men you call great would simply reduce life to the terms of a
commercial dividend. Yet nothing pays that's really worth while."

"Jim, are you crazy?"

"It's true, dear. The lover who watches by the side of a stricken loved
one and loses time and money--is he crazy? My father gave up his law
practice to bend over my mother's bedside for six months. He was a
giant in mind and body--she a poor little, broken, withered invalid. He
lost money and clients and never regained them. Did it pay? Does
anything that's born of love pay? Surely not children. I was always a
dead expense. The biggest fee I ever received as a lawyer in New York
was a shout of joy from a poor woman, whose boy I freed from a false
charge of crime. She fell sobbing before me and actually kissed my
feet."

"Oh, Jim, why can't you be practical? Why are you not willing to fight
for a fortune--as other men----"

"Because, dear," he answered quickly and tenderly, "we haven't
time--you and I. Life is too short. Love is too sweet. The fields are
too green. The birds sing too sweetly. The treasur