she felt. "Wait,"
she cried. "The men will get better hours and wages. You don't
understand father's ways. He was really discussing that very thing--in
his own mind. You'll see. He has a great admiration for you. You can
do a lot with him. You owe it to the men to make use of his liking."

He looked at her in silence for a moment. Then he said: "I'll have to
be at least partly frank with you. In all his life no one has ever
gotten anything out of your father. He uses men. They do not use him."

"Believe me, that is unjust," cried Jane. "I'll tell you another thing
that was on his mind. He wants to--to make reparation for--that
accident to your father. He wants to pay your mother and you the money
the road didn't pay you when it ought."

Dorn's candid face showed how much he was impressed. This beautiful,
earnest girl, sweet and frank, seemed herself to be another view of
Martin Hastings' character--one more in accord with her strong belief
in the essential goodness of human nature.

Said he: "Your father owes us nothing. As for the road--its debt
never existed legally--only morally. And it has been outlawed long
ago--for there's a moral statute of limitations, too. The best thing
that ever happened to us was our not getting that money. It put us on
our mettle. It might have crushed us. It happened to be just the thing
that was needed to make us."

Jane marveled at this view of his family, at the verge of poverty, as
successful. But she could not doubt his sincerity. Said she sadly,
"But it's not to the credit of the road--or of father. He must
pay--and he knows he must."

"We can't accept," said Dorn--a finality.

"But you could use it to build up the paper," urged Jane, to detain him.

"The paper was started without money. It lives without money--and it
will go on living without money, or it ought to die."

"I don't understand," said Jane. "But I want to understand. I want to
help. Won't you let me?"

He shook his head laughingly. "Help what?" inquired he. "Help raise
the sun? It doesn't need help."

Jane began to see. "I mean, I want to be helped," she cried.

"Oh, that's another matter," said he. "And very simple."

"Will YOU help me?"

"I can't. No one can. You've got to help yourself. Each one of us is
working for himself--working not to be rich or to be famous or to be
envied, but to be free."

"Working for himself--that sounds selfish, doesn't it?"

"If you are