nt Jim Doyle away to
college.

He would not sell to Anthony. When he said he could not sell his wife's
garden, Anthony's agents reported him either mad or deeply scheming.
They kept after him, offering much more than the land was worth. Doyle
began by being pugnacious, but in the end he took to brooding.

"He'll get me yet," he would mutter, standing among the white phlox of
his little back garden. "He'll get me. He never quits."

Anthony Cardew waited a year. Then he had the frame building condemned
as unsafe, and Doyle gave in. Anthony built his house. He put a brick
stable where the garden had been, and the night watchman for the
property complained that a little man, with wild eyes, often spent half
the night standing across the street, quite still, staring over. If
Anthony gave Doyle a thought, it was that progress and growth had their
inevitable victims. But on the first night of Anthony's occupancy of his
new house Doyle shot himself beside the stable, where a few stalks of
white phlox had survived the building operations.

It never reached the newspapers, nor did a stable-boy's story of hearing
the dying man curse Anthony and all his works. But nevertheless the
story of the Doyle curse on Anthony Cardew spread. Anthony heard it, and
forgot it. But two days later he was dragged from his carriage by young
Jim Doyle, returned for the older Doyle's funeral, and beaten insensible
with the stick of his own carriage whip.

Young Doyle did not run away. He stood by, a defiant figure full of
hatred, watching Anthony on the cobbles, as though he wanted to see him
revive and suffer.

"I didn't do it to revenge my father," he said at the trial. "He was
nothing to me--I did it to show old Cardew that he couldn't get away
with it. I'd do it again, too."

Any sentiment in his favor died at that, and he was given five years
in the penitentiary. He was a demoralizing influence there, already a
socialist with anarchical tendencies, and with the gift of influencing
men. A fluent, sneering youth, who lashed the guards to fury with his
unctuous, diabolical tongue.

The penitentiary had not been moved then. It stood in the park, a grim
gray thing of stone. Elinor Cardew, a lonely girl always, used to stand
in a window of the new house and watch the walls. Inside there were men
who were shut away from all that greenery around them. Men who could
look up at the sky, or down at the ground, but never out and across, as
she coul