ely
mention the children, because if I married him, it would have an
inevitable influence on their lives, an influence that I don't in the
least covet either for them or for myself. Nancy Ellen, can't you
remotely conceive of such a thing as one human being in the world who
is SATISFIED THAT HE HAS HIS SHARE, and who believes to the depths of
his soul that no man should be allowed to amass, and to use for his
personal indulgence, the amount of money that John Jardine does?"

"Yes, I can," cried Nancy Ellen, "when I see you, and the way you act!
You have chance after chance, but you seem to think that life requires
of you a steady job of holding your nose to the grindstone. It was
rather stubby to begin with, go on and grind it clear off your face, if
you like."

"All right," said Kate. "Then I'll tell you definitely that I have no
particular desire to marry anybody; I like my life immensely as I'm
living it. I'm free, independent, and my children are in the element
to which they were born, and where they can live naturally, and spend
their lives helping in the great work of feeding, clothing, and housing
their fellow men. I've no desire to leave my job or take them from
theirs, to start a lazy, shiftless life of self-indulgence. I don't
meddle much with the Bible, but I have a profound BELIEF in it, and a
large RESPECT for it, as the greatest book in the world, and it says:
'By the sweat of his brow shall man earn his bread,' or words to that
effect. I was born a sweater, I shall just go on sweating until I die;
I refuse to begin perspiring at my time of life."

"You big fool!" cried Nancy Ellen.

"Look out! You're 'in danger of Hell fire,' when you call me that!"
warned Kate.

"Fire away!" cried Nancy Ellen, with tears in her eyes and voice. "When
I think what you've gone through--"

Kate stared at her fixedly. "What do you know about what I've gone
though?" she demanded in a cold, even voice. "Personally, I think
you're not qualified to MENTION that subject; you better let it rest.
Whatever it has been, it's been of such a nature that I have come out
of it knowing when I have my share and when I'm well off, for me. If
John Jardine wants to marry me, and will sell all he has, and come and
work on the farm with me, I'll consider marrying him. To leave my life
and what I love to go to Chicago with him, I do not feel called on, or
inclined to do. No, I'll not marry him, and in about fifteen minutes
I'll