. All at once, as it were out of the twilight, the
sunlight settled momentarily on the field at the bottom of the hill
before her. Stark upright and in serried rows stretched the waste of
last year's cornfield, the withered stalks touched with a passing
glory, standing quite proudly erect and then--blue-gray darkness. A
mellow waste delivering a valedictory! Next year it would doubtless be
ploughed up--prepared for a crop. Over beyond the crest of hills
clouds were gathering like a smoke pall. She wondered if the factory
chimneys were sending their beacons that far. There were forty miles
between the two worlds.

A voice spoke behind her, a strange, unknown voice. She turned and
went back to the bedside. Joe lay staring straight before him and his
lips were moving stiffly. The words came muffled and indistinct: "Tell
you--got to have more money 'n that, Mr. Heston. 'Tisn't a question of
just gettin' by. A man's got to get ahead." And then there was an
unintelligible muttering. And then suddenly the voice rose, clear,
querulous, and high-pitched: "Well you can go to hell with it. Needn't
think you're doin' us a favour--payin' us a living--just because
you've got it all. No, sir! I can go back home. Can live there without
havin' to thank _you_!" The voice died away.

She hung on the echo, shaken to the depths of her. Like a disembodied
voice it had come out of the great silence. What was it all about? Who
was Mr. Heston?

Then in a flash it all came clear to her. The mists arose from the
past and before her stood envisioned all in the proper relationship:
herself, Claybrook, and Joe; Bloomfield, the city, all of mankind.

Life was, after all, but one shrewd bargain; success a process of
getting more than one gave; the survivors, shrewd bargainers,
shouldering, edging, metamorphosed by a modern Circe, their forefeet
and muzzles thrust eager and deep into the magic swill of her trough;
and the others--creatures like Joe--untouched by the sorcery, going
without and suffering discredit. Militant, her spirit rose in revolt.
Was there no escape from the dilemma? She felt dried up, parched,
athirst for something; her throat contracted in a burning ache.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and took his hand. She sat in
silence with a great pain in her heart. Over beyond the window sill
the glow was dying, and the gathering pall was rising and coming
nearer. Like a blanket the relentless world the cog-world of personal
inte