the future and smiled. "I
wonder--I wonder if the country ever will come to see the economic and
social and political meaning of this politics that we have now--this
politics that the poor man gets through a beer keg the night before
election, and that the rich man buys with his 'barl.'"

He shook his head. "You'll see it--you and Grant--but it will be long
after my time." Amos lifted up his old face and cried: "I know there is
another day coming--a better day. For this one is unworthy of us. We are
better than this--at heart! We have in us the blood of the fathers, and
their high visions too. And they did not put their lives into this
nation for this--for this cruel tangle of injustice that we show the
world to-day. Some day--some day," Amos Adams lifted up his face and
cried: "I don't know! May be my guides are wrong but my own heart tells
me that some day we shall cease feeding with the swine and return to the
house of our father! For we are of royal blood, George--of royal blood!"

"Why, hello, Morty," cut in Mr. Brotherton. "Come right in and listen to
the seer--genuine Hebrew prophet here--got a familiar spirit, and says
Babylon is falling."

"Well, Uncle Amos," said Morty Sands, "let her fall!" Old Amos smiled
and after Morty had turned the talk from falling Babylon to Laura Van
Dorn's kindergarten, Amos being reminded by Laura of Kenyon and his
music, unfolded his theory of the occult source of the child's musical
talent, and invited George and Morty to church to hear Kenyon play.

So when Sunday came, with it came full knowledge that most members of
the congregation were to hear Kenyon Adams' new composition, which had
been rather widely advertised by his friends; and Rev. John Dexter,
feeling himself a fifth wheel, discarded his sermon and in humility and
contrition submitted some extemporaneous remarks on the passion for
humanity of "Christ and him crucified."

A little boy was Kenyon Adams--a slim, great-eyed, serious faced, little
boy in an Eton jacket and knickerbockers--not so much larger than his
violin that he carried under his arm. His little hand shook, but Grant
caught his gaze and with a tender, earnest reassurance put sinews into
the small arms, and stilled an unsteady jaw. The organ was playing the
prelude, when the little hand with the bow went out in a wide, sure,
strong curve, and when the bow touched the strings, they sang from a
soul depth that no child's experience could know.

It was