ed him most.
Eugene was genial enough about the matter. Wherever he was was right. He
liked to be in the cars or on a lumber pile or in the plane room. He
also liked to stand and talk to Big John or Harry Fornes, his basket
under his arm--"kidding," as he called it. His progress to and fro was
marked by endless quips and jests and he was never weary.

When his work was done at night he would hurry home, following the right
bank of the little stream until he reached a path which led up to the
street whereon was the Hibberdell house. On his way he would sometimes
stop and study the water, its peaceful current bearing an occasional
stick or straw upon its bosom, and contrasting the seeming peace of its
movement with his own troubled life. The subtlety of nature as expressed
in water appealed to him. The difference between this idyllic stream
bank and his shop and all who were of it, struck him forcefully. Malachi
Dempsey had only the vaguest conception of the beauty of nature. Jack
Stix was scarcely more artistic than the raw piles of lumber with which
he dealt. Big John had no knowledge of the rich emotions of love or of
beauty which troubled Eugene's brain. They lived on another plane,
apparently.

And at the other end of the stream awaiting him was Carlotta, graceful,
sophisticated, eager in her regard for him, lukewarm in her interest in
morals, sybaritic in her moods, representing in a way a world which
lived upon the fruits of this exploited toil and caring nothing about
it. If he said anything to Carlotta about the condition of Joseph Mews,
who carried bundles of wood home to his sister of an evening to help
save the expense of fuel, she merely smiled. If he talked of the poverty
of the masses she said, "Don't be doleful, Eugene." She wanted to talk
of art and luxury and love, or think of them at least. Her love of the
beauty of nature was keen. There were certain inns they could reach by
automobile where they could sit and dine and drink a bottle of wine or a
pitcher of claret cup, and here she would muse on what they would do if
they were only free. Angela was frequently in Carlotta's thoughts,
persistently in Eugene's, for he could not help feeling that he was
doing her a rank injustice.

She had been so patient and affectionate all this long time past, had
tended him as a mother, waited on him as a servant. Only recently he had
been writing in most affectionate terms, wishing she were with him. Now
all that w