as his means of ministering to the
wants of his neighbours. His neighbours were a large tribe, however,
scattered all the way from the cellars and dives of Water Street to the
shanties and goat ranges of the Upper Harlem. Stuart had never met a
man so full of contagious health. He was a born physician. There was
healing in the touch of his big hand. Healing light streamed from his
brown eyes, and his iron-gray beard sparkled with it. His presence in a
sick-room seemed to fill it with waves of life, and his influence over
the patients to whom he ministered was little short of hypnotic.

"Christian Science is no new doctrine, my boy," he had said one day in
answer to a question about the new cult.

"I thought it was," Stuart answered in surprise.

"No. All successful physicians practise Christian Science. The doctor
must heal first the mind. I can kill a man with an idea. So often I
have cured him with an idea. If I can succeed with ideas, I do so. If
there's no mind to work on, why then I use pills."

The young man stopped impatiently at Broadway, unable to cross. A
little girl of ten, pale and weak and underfed, staggering under a load
of clothing from a sweatshop on the East Side, had been knocked down
trying to cross the street to deliver her burden to a Broadway
clothier. A long line of cars stood blocked for a quarter of a mile,
every car packed with human freight, every seat filled, every inch of
standing room jammed with men and women holding to straps. Tired office
boys even clung to the rear guards at the risk of death from a sudden
collision with the car behind.

They were always crowded so at this hour. And yet Stuart recalled with
a curious touch of irony the fate of the indomitable old man, Jake
Sharp, who had fought for years to force this franchise for a public
necessity through the city government. His reward was a suit of
stripes, shame, dishonour, death. No one knew, or cared, or remembered
it now. A new set of corrupt law makers took the place of the old ones,
their palms still itching for money, money, money, always more money.

"And men who seek to serve the people must grease their itching palms
or make way for those who will!" he muttered, fighting his way across.
"A tough town--this, for a young lawyer with ideals. I wonder how long
I'll hold out?"

Stuart found the doctor standing at the door of his factory, shaking
hands and chatting with his employees as they emerged from the building
a