sleepily across the room at his master. The gas, blown about by drafts from the open window, threw grotesque dancing shadows upon the stained, worn boards of the floor. Finally Donaldson burst out, ever recurring to the one subject like a man anxious to defend himself, "Barstow, I tell you that merely to cling to existence is not an act in itself either righteous or courageous. If we owe obligations to individuals we should pay them to the last cent. If we owe obligations to society, we should pay those, too,--just as we pay our poll tax. But life is a straight business proposition--pay in some form for what you get out of it. There are no individuals in my life, as I said. And what do I owe society? Society does not like what I offer--the best of me--and will not give me what I want--the best of _it_. Very well, to the devil with society. Our mutual obligations are cancelled." Barstow, still busy with his work, shook his head. "You come out wrong every time," he insisted. "You don't seem to get at the opportunities there are in just living." The young man took a long breath. "So?" he demanded between half closed teeth. "No?" he challenged with bitter intensity. "You are wrong; I know all that it is possible for life to mean! That's the trouble. Oh, I know clear to my parched soul! I was made to live, Barstow,--made to live life to its fullest! There isn't a bit of it I don't love,--love too well to be content much longer to play the galley slave in it. To live is to be free. I love the blue sky above until I ache to madness that I cannot live under it; I love the trees and grasses, the oceans, the forests and the denizens of the forests; I love men and women; I love the press of crowds, the clamor of men; I love silks and beautiful paintings and clean white linen and flowers; I love good food, good clothes, good wine, good music, good sermons, and good books. All--all it is within me to love and to desire mightily. How I want those things--not morbidly--but because I have five good senses and God knows how many more; because I was _made_ to have those things!" "Then why don't you keep after them?" demanded Barstow coldly. "Because the price of them is so much of my soul and body that I 'd have nothing left with which to enjoy them afterwards. You can't get those things honestly in time to enjoy them, in one generation. You can't get them at all, unless you sell the best part of you as you did when you came to the Gordon Chemical Company. Oh Lord, Barstow, how came you to forget all the dreams we used to dream?" Barstow turned quickly. There was the look upon his face as of a man who presses back a little. For a moment he appeared pained. But he answered steadily,