The town of Avon, two hours from New York, lay along Avon creek, from
which its first manufacturing industries derived their motive power.
Years before, when it was little more than a barren stretch of sand,
some enterprising soul had built a cotton mill there, with only a few
primitive looms. As the years passed, and kindly Congresses reared
about the industry a high protective wall, the business prospered
marvelously. But shortly after the death of the senior Ames the
company became involved, through mismanagement, with the result that,
to protect itself, the house of Ames and Company, the largest
creditor, was obliged to take over its mills.

At first, J. Wilton Ames was disposed to sell the assets of the
defunct company, despite the loss to his bank. But then, after a visit
of inspection, and hours of meditation on certain ideas which had
occurred to him, he decided to keep the property. The banging of the
looms, the whirr of the pickers, the sharp little shrieks of the
spinning machines, fascinated him, as he stood before them. They
seemed to typify the ceaseless throbbing of his own great brain. They
seemed, too, to afford another outlet for that mighty flood of
materialistic thought and energy which flowed incessantly through it.

And so he set about reorganizing the business. He studied the process
of cloth manufacture. He studied the growth and handling of cotton. He
familiarized himself with every detail of the cotton market. He was
already well versed in the intricacies of the tariff. And soon the
idle machinery was roaring again. Soon the capacity of the mills was
doubled. And soon, very soon, the great Ames mills at Avon had become
a corporate part of our stupendous mechanical development of the
century just closed.

When Carmen stepped from the train that morning she stood for a moment
looking uncertainly about her. Everywhere on one side as far as she
could see were low, ramshackle frame houses; a few brick store
buildings stood far up the main street; and over at her right the
enormous brick mills loomed high above the frozen stream. The dull
roar of the machinery drifted through the cold air to her ears. Up the
track, along which she had just come, some ragged, illy clad children
were picking up bits of coal. The sight seemed to fix her decision.
She went directly to them, and asked their names.

"Anton Spivak," answered one of the children dully, when she laid a
hand on his shoulder.

"And wh