ed in its prison house of the
flesh looks forth," he writes, "and sees other chained souls, and
hails them in passing like distant ships. But soul only meets soul in
some great passion of giving, whether it be man to his fellow-man, to
his God, or in the love of men and women; it matters not how the
ecstasy comes, its root is in sacrifice, in giving, in forgetting self
and merging through abnegation into the source of life in this
universe for one sublime moment. For we may not come out of our prison
houses save to inhale the air of heaven once or twice, and then go
scourged back to our dungeons. Great souls are they who love the most,
who breathe the deepest of heaven's air, and give of themselves most
freely."

CHAPTER XXIII

The next morning, before the guests were downstairs, Barclay, reading
his morning papers before the fireplace, stopped his daughter, who was
going through the living room on some morning errand.

"Jeanette," said the father, as he drew her to his chair arm, "let me
see it."

She brought the setting around to the outside of her finger, and gave
him her hand. He looked at it a moment, patted her hand, put the ring
to his lips, and the two sat silent, choked with something of joy and
something of sorrow that shone through their brimming eyes. Thus Mary
Barclay found them. They looked up abashed, and she bent over them and
stroked her son's hair as she said:--

"John, John, isn't it fine that Jennie has escaped the curse of your
millions?"

Barclay's heart was melted. He could not answer, so he nodded an
assenting head. The mother stooped to kiss her son's forehead, as she
went on, "Not with all of your millions could you buy that simple
little ring for Jennie, John." And the father pressed his lips to the
ring, and his daughter snuggled tightly into his heart and the three
mingled their joy together.

Two hours later Barclay and General Ward met on the bridge by the
mill. It was one of those warm midwinter days, when nature seems to be
listening for the coming of spring. A red bird was calling in the
woods near by, and the soft south wind had spring in it as it blew
across the veil of waters that hid the dam. John Barclay's head was
full of music, and he was lounging across the bridge from the mill on
his way home to try his new pipe organ. He had spent four hours the
day before at his organ bench, trying to teach his lame foot to keep
up with his strong foot. So when General Ward