and paid for don't stay bought--do they, my boy? Oh, your
old mother knows, John. Men who will sell are never worth buying; and
the house that relies on them, falls. You have built a sand dam,
son--like the dams you used to build in the spring stream when you
were a child. It melts under pressure like straw. You have no worldly
power. In this practical world you are a failure, and good old Phil
Ward, who went out into the field and scattered seeds of discontent at
your system--he is seeing his harvest ripen in his old age, John,"
she cried. "Can't you see your failure? Look at it from a practical
standpoint: what thing in the last thirty years have you advocated,
and Philemon Ward opposed, that to-day he has not realized and you
lost? His prescription for the evils may have been wrong many times,
but his diagnosis of them was always right, and they are being cured,
in spite of all your protest that they did not exist. Which of you has
won his practical fight in this practical world--his God or your God;
the ideal world or the material world, boy? Can't you see it?" The old
woman leaned forward and looked in her son's dull, unresponsive face.
"Can't you see how you have failed?" she pleaded.

They rose together and began to pace the long floor of the veranda.
"Oh, mother," he cried, as he put his arm about her, "I am so
lonely--so tired, so sick in the heart of me."

They didn't speak for a time, but walked together in silence. At
length the mother began again. "John," she said, as they turned at the
end of the porch, "I suppose you are saying that you have your
money--that it is material--solid, substantial, and undeniable. But
is it? Isn't it all a myth? Leave it where it is--in the shape of
securities and stocks and credits--what will it do? Will it bring
Jane back? Will it give Jeanette her heart's desire, and make her
happy all her life? You know, dear, that it will only make me
miserable. Has it made you happy, John? Turn it into gold and pile it
up in the front yard--and what will it buy that poor Phil Ward has
not had all of his life--good food, good clothing--good enough, at
least--a happy family, useful children, and a good name? A good name,
John, is rather to be chosen than great riches--than all your money,
my son--rather to be chosen than all your money. Can you buy that
with your millions piled on millions?"

They were walking slowly as she spoke, and they turned into the
terrace. There they stood look