ass plate."

Mr. Massey obeyed. Now a satiric smile touched his lips. He was almost
enjoying this child's play.

But soon the smile faded, for in a moment there grew upon the glass
plate standing between the two tubes a pillar of color, vivid yellow,
tipped with primrose.

"What--what does that mean?" asked old John Massey.

The inventor lifted the helmet, and shut off his power before speaking.
"According to my belief, my understanding of color significance, the
reason for your being in this world, with, of course, interesting
variations brought about by environment and education, is identical with
that of Reynolds."

Mr. Massey started forward angrily, but he thought better of whatever he
had in his heart to say. "Go on," he commanded gruffly.

"As a young man you had dreams of being a practical humanitarian," said
Mr. Procter softly, "and undoubtedly with your opportunity you might
have been a valuable figure in the world. You were endowed with vision.
You saw the wrongs man labors under; as a youth you smarted because of
those wrongs. And you saw the super-being man might become given equal
chances."

"Like Reynolds--" repeated Mr. Massey after a time, on impulse--one
immediately regretted.

"Like Reynolds, our great rough, fine-hearted Reynolds," said Mr.
Procter, "the one whom you've had threatened with arrest because he
harangued too freely on the street corner." He paused to finish
impressively: "I see now that the man who throws away his spiritual
birthright for a mess of pottage hates the one who keeps his in the face
of all--poverty--misunderstanding--ridicule."

A silence dark as a cavern ensued. Mr. Massey at last got to his feet.
He stood a long moment looking at the machine, then he glanced at the
inventor, but when someone knocked softly at the door he started,
revealing how far away from his immediate surroundings his thoughts had
flown.

Suzanna entered. "Here's David, daddy," she said. "He wants to talk with
you."

David entered. "I had some time," he said, "and I wanted to see the
machine again."

"Glad to see you," said the inventor heartily. "Mr. Massey, this is my
friend, David Ridgewood, Graham Woods Bartlett's gardener."

"How do you do, Mr. Massey," said David. "I've seen you before, of
course. Heard of you often."

John Massey did not answer at once, since he was somewhat at a loss. He
had not been in the habit of meeting socially his friends' gardeners. At
last he blurted