ect nobler things.

For the same old hydra seemed to be still alive on earth, lifting, by
turns, its separate heads of envy, intolerance, bigotry and greed.
Ignorance, robed with authority, legally robbed those comfortably
off.

The bleat of the pacifist was heard in the land. Those who had once
chanted in sanctimonious chorus, "He kept us out of war," now sang
sentimental hymns invoking mercy and forgiveness for the crucifiers of
children and the rapers of women, who licked their lips furtively and
leered at the imbecile choir. Representatives of a great electorate
vaunted their patriotism and proudly repeated: "We forced him into
war!" Whereas they themselves had been kicked headlong into it by a
press and public at the end of its martyred patience.

There appeared to be, so far, no business revival. Prosperity was
penalised, taxed to the verge of blackmail, constantly suspected and
admonished; and the Congressional Bolsheviki were gradually breaking
the neck of legitimate enterprise everywhere throughout the Republic.

And everywhere over the world the crimson tide crept almost
imperceptibly a little higher every day.

* * * * *

Toward the middle of January the fever which had burnt John Estridge
for a week fell a degree or two.

Palla, who had called twice a day at the Memorial Hospital, was seated
that morning in a little room near the disinfecting plant, talking to
Ilse, who had just laid aside her mask.

"You look rather ill yourself," said Ilse in her cheery, even voice.
"Is anything worrying you, darling?"

"Yes.... You are."

"I!" exclaimed the girl, really astonished. "Why?"

"Sometimes," murmured Palla, "my anxiety makes me almost sick."

"Anxiety about _me_!----"

"You know why," whispered Palla.

A bright flush stained Ilse's face: she said calmly:

"But our creed is broad enough to include all things beautiful and
good."

Palla shrank as though she had been struck, and sat staring out of the
narrow window.

Ilse lifted a basket of soiled linen and carried it away. When,
presently, she returned to take away another basket, she inquired
whether Palla had made up her quarrel with Jim Shotwell, and Palla
shook her head.

"Do you really suppose Marya has made mischief between you?" asked
Ilse curiously.

"Oh, I don't know, Ilse," said the girl listlessly. "I don't know what
it is that seems to be so wrong with the world--with everybody--with