held together through some kind miracle, she only
thought it cosy and homey; she liked the queer old clock and the blue
bowl filled with artificial jonquils and the crocheted "tidies" with
dogs designed in intricate stitches.

"Here's Dale!" whispered Beryl. "I'm crazy to meet his friend. I'm going
to sit next to him at the table, see if I don't."

In the excitement of Dale's arrival and of introducing the strange "Mr.
Kraus" no one noticed Robin for a moment, or that she stared at Dale
with round, puzzled eyes. Had she ever seen him before? When Beryl
turned suddenly and said: "Dale, this is Gordon Forsyth," she hoped he
would say: "Why, I know her." However, he merely mumbled "How do you
do," stiffly, and turned away, to Beryl's indignation and Robin's vague
disappointment.

The pot roast and the cabbage salad were as delicious as Mrs. Moira's
loving pains could make them; Dale's friend talked mostly to big Danny
and Mrs. Moira listened and Dale occasionally put in a word. Over her
plate Robin watched first one and then another, her eyes invariably
coming back to Dale's face. Beryl, annoyed that no one noticed her and
Robin and treated them "as though they were just children," ate
ravenously, in dignified silence.

The talk centered about the Mills. Adam Kraus freely ridiculed the
Forsyth methods. "They're miles behind the times," he declared and
compared them glibly with other similar industries. "Old Norris belongs
to the has-beens. Look at the machinery he uses--all right in its day,
of course. But if a fellow went to him with some new kind of a loom,
would he look at it? Not he! The old's good enough."

"Hear that, Pop?" put in Dale, exchanging a meaning glance with his
father.

"And look at the way they house the mill hands here, putting a fellow
like Dale with his cleanness and his brains and his possibilities, into
a dump like this. They don't recognize the human element in industries
of this sort or what it's worth to them. Why, there's no argument any
more as to the increased efficiency from giving better living
conditions--but I'll bet Norris hasn't heard of it."

"We haven't been here long enough to know--" Mrs. Lynch began gently but
Dale interrupted her, his voice rough.

"It isn't Norris alone, Adam. You've got to go further up--it's the
House of Forsyth. They're feudal lords--or like to think they are. Do
you suppose it mattered much up there, when the little Castle girl had
her arm crushed in