right is
bound to win because the right is only another name for the
sensible"--that had been his teaching. And a hardy army he had
trained. The armies trained by victory are strong; but the armies
schooled by defeat--they are invincible.

When he had explained his new campaign--as much of it as he deemed it
wise at that time to withdraw from the security of his own brain--she
said:

"But it seems to me we've got a good chance to win, anyhow."

"A chance, perhaps," replied he. "But we'll not bother about that.
All we've got to do is to keep on strengthening ourselves."

"Yes, that's it!" she cried. "One added here--five there--ten yonder.
Every new stone fitted solidly against the ones already in place."

"We must never forget that we aren't merely building a new party," said
Dorn. "We're building a new civilization--one to fit the new
conditions of life. Let the Davy Hulls patch and tinker away at trying
to keep the old structure from falling in. We know it's bound to fall
and that it isn't fit for decent civilized human beings to live in.
And we're getting the new house ready. So--to us, election day is no
more important than any of the three hundred and sixty-five."

It was into the presence of a Victor Dorn restored in mind as well as
in body that Jane Hastings was shown by his sister, Mrs. Sherrill, one
afternoon a week or so later.

All that time Jane had been searching for an excuse for going to see
him. She had haunted the roads and the woods where he and Selma
habitually walked. She had seen neither of them. When the pretext for
a call finally came to her, as usual, the most obvious thing in the
world. He must be suspecting her of having betrayed his confidence and
brought about the vacating of those injunctions and the quashing of the
indictments. She must go to him and clear herself of suspicion.

She felt that the question of how she should dress for this crucial
interview, this attempt to establish some sort of friendly relations
with him, was of the very highest importance. Should she wear something
plain, something that would make her look as nearly as might be like
one of his own class? HIS class!

No--no, indeed. The class in which he was accidentally born and bred,
but to which he did not belong. Or, should she go dressed frankly as
of her own class--wearing the sort of things that made her look her
finest and most superior and most beautiful? Having nothing else to do,
she