e thought of the sacrifices he had made for it--not
begrudgingly, but with a generous thankfulness that he had been
permitted to pay the cost--thought of the sleepless nights, the
neglected work, the nervous exhaustion which had followed on the broken
laws of health. At the moment he regretted none of these things, because
the end, which he already saw foreshadowed in his mental vision, seemed
to him to be only the crowning of his last few weeks. Even the bodily
and moral redemption of Connie appeared no longer difficult in the
illumination of his mood; for his compassion, in absorbing all that was
vital in his nature, seemed possessed suddenly of the effectiveness of a
dynamic force.

"Already she is better," he thought, hopefully; "I see it in her
face--in her hands even, and when she is entirely cured the craving for
excitement will leave her and we shall be at peace again. Peace will be
very like happiness," he said to himself, and then, with the framing of
the sentence, he stopped in his walk and smiled. "Peace is happiness,"
he added after a moment, "for certainly pleasure is not." With the words
he remembered the bitter misery of Connie who had lived for joy
alone--the utter disenchantment of Arnold Kemper, who had made gratified
impulse the fulfilling of his law of life. Back and forth swung the
oscillation between fugitive desire and outward possession--between the
craving of emptiness and the satiety of fulfilment--and yet where was
the happiness of those who lived for happiness alone? Where was even the
mere animal contentment? "Is it only when one says to Fate 'take
this--and this as well--take everything and leave me nothing. I can do
without'--that one really comes into the fulness of one's inheritance of
joy? Was this what Christ meant when he said to His disciples 'Seek ye
first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things
shall be added unto you?' In renunciation was there, after all, not the
loss of one's individual self, but the gain of an abundance of life."

The afternoon passed almost before he was aware of it, and when he
finished his work and drew on his overcoat, he saw, as he glanced
through his office window, that it was already dusk. As he reached the
entrance to the elevator, he found Perry Bridewell awaiting him inside,
and he kept, with an effort, his too evident surprise from showing in
his face.

"Why, this is a treat that doesn't happen often!" he exclaimed with
hea