stomed mildness as he spoke.

"Be sensible, boy," he pleaded softly. "Be sensible!"

Dick dropped down on the couch, and made his answer very gently, his
eyes unseeing as he dwelt on the things he knew of the woman he loved.

"Why, Dad," he said, "she is young. She's just like a child in a hundred
ways. She loves the trees and the grass and the flowers--and everything
that's simple and real! And as for her heart--" His voice was low and
very tender: "Why, her heart is the biggest I've ever known. It's just
overflowing with sweetness and kindness. I've seen her pick up a baby
that had fallen in the street, and mother it in a way that--well, no one
could do it as she did it, unless her soul was clean."

The father was silent, a little awed. He made an effort to shake off the
feeling, and spoke with a sneer.

"You heard what she said yesterday, and you still are such a fool as to
think that."

The answer of the son came with an immutable finality, the sublime faith
of love.

"I don't think--I know!"

Gilder was in despair. What argument could avail him? He cried out
sharply in desperation.

"Do you realize what you're doing? Don't go to smash, Dick, just at the
beginning of your life. Oh, I beg you, boy, stop! Put this girl out of
your thoughts and start fresh."

The reply was of the simplest, and it was the end of argument.

"Father," Dick said, very gently, "I can't."

There followed a little period of quiet between the two. The father,
from his desk, stood facing his son, who thus denied him in all honesty
because the heart so commanded. The son rested motionless and looked
with unflinching eyes into his father's face. In the gaze of each was a
great affection.

"You're all I have, my boy," the older man said at last. And now the big
voice was a mildest whisper of love.

"Yes, Dad," came the answer--another whisper, since it is hard to voice
the truth of feeling such as this. "If I could avoid it, I wouldn't hurt
you for anything in the world. I'm sorry, Dad, awfully sorry----" He
hesitated, then his voice rang out clearly. There was in his tone, when
he spoke again, a recognition of that loneliness which is the curse and
the crown of being:

"But," he ended, "I must fight this out by myself--fight it out in my
own way.... And I'm going to do it!"

CHAPTER XVI. BURKE PLOTS.

The butler entered.

"A man to see you, sir," he said.

Gilder made a gesture of irritation, as he sank into the chair