"I grieve because you were willing to apologize."

"Don't let that worry you. I wouldn't have apologized any too strong.
Well, I don't believe the fish will bite to-day. I'll go back."

Milford watched him as he walked slowly across the stubble field, and
strove to harden his heart against the cutting edge of remorse. The
fellow was a bully. To him there was nothing sacred, and he thought evil
of all women. His manliest words waited to be knocked out of him.

Milford returned to the house and gathered up the scattered sheets of
his newspaper. But he sat a long time without reading. The gathered
vengeance of his arm had been spent. It had shot forth with delight,
like a thought inspired by devoted study, but like a hot inspiration
grown cold, it faded under the strong light of reason. He heard the
shriek of a railway train, rushing toward the city. He saw George
Blakemore coming up the hill.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE GRIZZLY AND THE PANTHER.

Blakemore came up briskly, shook hands with a quick grasp, looked at his
watch and sat down on the edge of the veranda. His eye was no longer
fixed and rusty, but bright and restless. He did not drool his words,
hanging one with doubtful hesitation upon another, but blew them out
like a mouthful of smoke. He talked business; he had just engineered
another land deal. He had traveled about among the surrounding towns,
and spoke of a railway ticket as a "piece of transportation." Sunday to
him was a disease spot, the blotch of an inactive liver. Rest! There was
no rest for a man who wanted to work.

"What's to be the end of this rush?" Milford asked. "What's your
object?"

"Money, of course. You know what the object of money is, so there you
are."

"I don't know that I do. Money's object is to increase, but I've never
been able to discover its final aim, except possibly in a few instances.
We struggle to get rich. Then what? We read an advertisement and find
that we have kidney trouble. We take medicines, go to springs, grow
puffy, turn pale--die. That's the average man who makes money for
money's sake. But it's a waste of words to talk about it."

"It is undoubtedly a waste of time to think about it," said Blakemore.
"Not only that, to give it daily attention would mean stagnation and dry
rot. There'd be no land sales. But, speaking of an object, you have one,
of course."

"Yes, such as it is. And strain my eyes as I may, I can't look beyond
it. I made up my mind a g