w living. But for the sake of the generations to come--he thought of
his own tiny grandchildren--for the love of God and the mercy of
mankind, let this madness be crushed. If his country must enter the war
let it be only for the love and service of humanity. "It is a fearful
thing," he thought, "but the right is more precious than peace."

Sad at heart he turned again to the typewriter, and the keys clicked off
the closing words:

"_To such a task we can dedicate our lives and our fortunes, everything
that we are and everything that we have, with the pride of those who
know that the day has come when America is privileged to spend her blood
and her might for the principles that gave her birth and happiness and
the peace which she has treasured_."

He leaned back in his chair, stiff and weary. His head ached hotly. With
elbows on the desk he covered his forehead and eyes with his hands. All
the agony, the bitterness, the burden of preceding days swept over him,
but behind it was a cool and cleansing current of peace. "_Ich kann
nicht anders_," he whispered.

Then, turning swiftly to the machine, he typed rapidly:

"_God helping her, she can do no other_."

THE HEAD OF THE FIRM

He always lost his temper when the foreign mail came in. Sitting in his
private room, which overlooked a space of gardens where bright red and
yellow flowers were planted in rhomboids, triangles, parallelograms, and
other stiff and ugly figures, he would glance hastily through the papers
and magazines. He was familiar with several foreign languages, and would
skim through the text. Then he would pound the table with his fist, walk
angrily about the floor, and tear the offensive journals into strips.
For very often he found in these papers from abroad articles or cartoons
that were most annoying to him, and very detrimental to the business of
his firm.

His assistants tried to keep foreign publications away from him, but he
was plucky in his own harsh way. He insisted on seeing them. Always the
same thing happened. His face would grow grim, the seam-worn forehead
would corrugate, the muscles of his jaw throb nervously. His gray eyes
would flash--and the fist come down heavily on the mahogany desk.

When a man is nearly sixty and of a full-blooded physique, it is not
well for him to have these frequent pulsations of rage. But he had
always found it hard to control his temper. He sometimes remembered what
a schoolmaster had said to