m a plan of wide scope--a bold
regeneration of the land. It was a plan carefully studied out, long
thought of and read about. He was asked to be co-worker--nay, in a sense
to be a follower, for he was ignorant of much.

He hesitated. Then all at once a sense of his utter unworthiness
overwhelmed him. Who was he to stand and judge this unselfish woman? Who
was he to falter when she called? A sense of his smallness and
narrowness, of his priggish blindness, rose like a mockery in his soul.
One thing alone held him back: he was not unwilling to be simply human,
a learner and a follower; but would he as such ever command the love and
respect of this new and inexplicable woman? Would not comradeship on the
basis of the new friendship which she insisted on, be the death of love
and thoughts of love?

Thus he hesitated, knowing that his duty lay clear. In her direst need
he had deserted her. He had left her to go to destruction and expected
that she would. By a superhuman miracle she had risen and seated herself
above him. She was working; here was work to be done. He was asked to
help; he would help. If it killed his old and new-born dream of love,
well and good; it was his punishment.

Yet the sacrifice, the readjustment was hard; he grew to it gradually,
inwardly revolting, feeling always a great longing to take this woman
and make her nestle in his arms as she used to; catching himself again
and again on the point of speaking to her and urging, yet ever again
holding himself back and bowing in silent respect to the dignity of her
life. Only now and then, when their eyes met suddenly or unthinkingly, a
great kindling flash of flame seemed struggling behind showers of tears,
until in a moment she smiled or spoke, and then the dropping veil left
only the frank open glance, unwavering, soft, kind, but nothing more.
Then Alwyn would go wearily away, vexed or disappointed, or merely sad,
and both would turn to their work again.

_Thirty-six_

THE LAND

Colonel Cresswell started all the more grimly to overthrow the new work
at the school because somewhere down beneath his heart a pity and a
wonder were stirring; pity at the perfectly useless struggle to raise
the unraisable, a wonder at certain signs of rising. But it was
impossible--and unthinkable, even if possible. So he squared his jaw and
cheated Zora deliberately in the matter of the cut timber. He placed
every obstacle in the way of getting tenants for the s