n. "Society may rule a poor man, but a rich
man rules society. Common sense always commands respect, for nearly
every rule that governs the conduct of man is founded upon it. Don't
you worry about the reception or anything else. You are a man of the
world, and to such a man society is a mere plaything."

"Well," replied Ellen, wrinkling her handsome brow with a frown, "I
must say that you preach an odd sort of sermon. Society is supposed to
hold the culture and the breeding of a community, sir."

"Yes, supposed to," Witherspoon agreed.

"Oh, well, if you question it I won't argue with you." And giving
Henry a meaning look, she continued: "Of course business is first. Art
drops on its worn knees and prays to business, and literature begs it
for a mere nod. Everything is the servant of business."

"Everything in Chicago is," the merchant replied.

"Art is the old age of trade," said Henry. "A vigorous nation buys and
sells and fights; but a nation that is threatened with decay paints
and begs."

"Good!" Witherspoon exclaimed. "I think you've hit it squarely. Since
we went to Europe, Ellen has had an idea that trade is rather low in
the scale of human interest."

"Now, father, I haven't any such idea, and you know it, too. But I do
think that people who spend their lives in getting money can't be as
refined as those who have a higher aim."

Witherspoon grunted. "What do you call a higher aim? Hanging about a
picture gallery and simpering over a lot of long-haired fellows in
outlandish dress, ha? Is it refinement to worship a picture simply
because you are not able to buy it? Some people rave over art, and we
buy it and hang it up at home."

She laughed, and slipping off her chair, ran round to her father and
put her arms about his neck. "I can always stir you up, can't I?"

"You can when you talk that way," he answered.

"But you know I don't mean that you aren't refined. Who could be more
gentle than you are? But you must let me enjoy an occasional mischief.
My mother's people, the Craigs, were all full of mischief, and"

"Ellen," said her mother.

Witherspoon laughed, and reaching back, pretended to pull the girl's
ears. "Am I going down town with you?" she asked.

"No, not this morning. I'm going to drive Henry down in the light
buggy. My boy, I've got as fine a span of bay horses as you ever saw.
Cost me five thousand apiece. That's art for you; eh, Ellen?"

"They are beautiful," she admitted.

"Yes