a trafficking commercialism, asks this question of himself in the
hope that some answer may be vouchsafed to him. If it come at all, it
comes like the "still small voice" _after the whirlwind_; and the man
who asks that question in the expectation of a response, must first have
suffered, repented, struggled, fought, at times succumbed to fateful
overwhelming circumstance, before his soul can be attuned so finely that
the "still small voice" becomes audible. Youth and that question are not
synchronous.

* * * * *

"I've not been so much alone as you imagine, Champney," said his mother.
They were picking their way over the granite slopes and around to Father
Honore's house. "Aileen and Father Honore and all the Caukinses and,
during this last year, those sweet women of the sisterhood have brought
so much life into my life up here among these old sheep pastures that
I've not had the chance to feel the loneliness I otherwise should. And
then there is that never-to-be-forgotten summer with you over the
ocean--I feed constantly on the remembrance of all that delight."

"I'm glad you had it, mother."

"Besides, this great industry is so many-sided that it keeps me
interested in every new development in spite of myself."

"By the way, mother, you wrote me that you had invested most of that
twenty thousand from the quarry lands in bank stock, didn't you?"

"Yes; Mr. Emlie is president now; he is considered safe. The deposits
have quadrupled these last two years, and the dividends have been
satisfactory."

"Yes, I know Emlie's safe enough, but you don't want to tie up your
money so that you can't convert it at once into cash if advisable. You
know I shall be on the inside track now and in a position to use a
little of it at a time judiciously in order to increase it for you. I'd
like to double it for you as Aunt Meda has doubled her inheritance from
grandfather--Who's that?"

He stopped short and, shading his eyes with his hat, nodded in the
direction of the sisterhood house that stood perhaps an eighth of a mile
beyond the pines. His mother, following his look, saw the figure of a
girl dodge around the corner of the house. Before she could answer, Rag,
the Irish terrier, who had been nosing disconsolately about on the
barren rock, suddenly lost his head. With one short suppressed yelp, he
laid his heels low to the slippery granite shelves and scuttled,
scurried, scrambled, tore across the