the dirt and disease of the
unclean street. And the dirt and the ugliness and the rush and the noise
aren't the worst of it; it's what the dirt and ugliness and rush and
noise MEAN--that's the worst! The outward things are insufferable, but
they're only the expression of a spirit--a blind embryo of a spirit, not
yet a soul--oh, just greed! And this 'go ahead' nonsense! Oughtn't it
all to be a fellowship? I shouldn't want to get ahead if I could--I'd
want to help the other fellow to keep up with me."

"I read something the other day and remembered it for you," said Mary.
"It was something Burne-Jones said of a picture he was going to paint:
'In the first picture I shall make a man walking in the street of
a great city, full of all kinds of happy life: children, and lovers
walking, and ladies leaning from the windows all down great lengths of
a street leading to the city walls; and there the gates are wide open,
letting in a space of green field and cornfield in harvest; and all
round his head a great rain of swirling autumn leaves blowing from a
little walled graveyard."

"And if I painted," Bibbs returned, "I'd paint a lady walking in the
street of a great city, full of all kinds of uproarious and futile
life--children being taught only how to make money, and lovers hurrying
to get richer, and ladies who'd given up trying to wash their windows
clean, and the gates of the city wide open, letting in slums and
slaughter-houses and freight-yards, and all round this lady's head a
great rain of swirling soot--" He paused, adding, thoughtfully: "And yet
I believe I'm glad that soot got on your cheek. It was just as if I were
your brother--the way you gave me your handkerchief to rub it off for
you. Still, Edith never--"

"Didn't she?" said Mary, as he paused again.

"No. And I--" He contented himself with shaking his head instead of
offering more definite information. Then he realized that they were
passing the New House, and he sighed profoundly. "Mary, our walk's
almost over."

She looked as blank. "So it is, Bibbs."

They said no more until they came to her gate. As they drifted slowly
to a stop, the door of Roscoe's house opened, and Roscoe came out with
Sibyl, who was startlingly pale. She seemed little enfeebled by her
illness, however, walking rather quickly at her husband's side and not
taking his arm. The two crossed the street without appearing to see Mary
and her companion, and entering the New House, were lo