tle freckled face with its
crown of golden hair, and the deep brown eyes overflowed with tears for
just a moment. She brushed them away before he raised his head, so that
he never knew.

She put her hand on his head and stroked the dark hair tenderly.

"I'm so sorry, Jim," she said simply, "I understand now."

He raised his head and took her hand in his again.

"It's very sweet to have you share this ugly secret of my life, little
pal. It will help me."

"And you are sorry you ever knew her, Jim?"

"No, I'm not sorry. You see, dearie, there's just one thing even God
can't do--create a human character. He can only give us a will--the
spark from his own soul. We must do the rest. I've grown to see that
there's just one thing in the world that's really big--big as God is
big--the man who has attained a character. I haven't lived at all yet.
I'm just beginning to see what it means to live. Until now I've thought
only of myself. A new light has illumined the way. Now--I'm going to
live for others. From to-day I shall ask nothing for myself, and I can
never be disappointed again."

Harriet looked up quickly.

"Would it please you, Jim, if I should make a great singer?"

"More than I can tell you, dear. Your voice is a divine gift. I envy
you its power."

Her eyes were shining with a great purpose.

"I know that it means years and years of patient work--but I'll do it,"
she cried.

Stuart rose and pressed her hand to his lips. She wondered if he could
feel it tremble beneath the pounding of her heart.

When the last echo of his footstep in the hall above died away and his
door had closed, the little golden head bowed low in a passionate
tender prayer:

"God help me to keep my secret and yet to love and help him always!"

Book 2--The Root

CHAPTER I

AN OLD PERFUME

Stuart sat in his office holding a letter from Nan which was hard to
answer.

For nine years he had refused to see or speak to her. He met Bivens as
a matter of course, but always down town during business hours or at
one of his clubs. For the first year Nan had resented his attitude in
angry pride and remained silent. And then she began to do a curious
thing which had grown to be a part of his inmost life. For the past
eight years she had written a brief daily diary recording her doings,
thoughts and memories which she mailed to him every Sunday night. She
asked no reply and he gave none. No names appeared in its story and no