and the one who
had apparently suffered most had upon the whole lived the cleaner, more
normal life--and Mr. Brotherton drummed his penholder upon the black
desk before him and questioned the justice of life.

But, indeed, if we must judge life's awards and benefits from the
material side there is no justice in life. If there was any difference
between the two women whom Tom Van Dorn had wronged--difference in
rewards or punishments, it must have been in their hearts. It is
possible that in her life of motherhood and wifehood, in the sacrifices
that broke her body and scarred her face, Violet Mauling may have been
compensated by the love she bore the children upon whom she lavished her
life. For she had that love, and she did squander--in blind vain
folly--the strength of her body, afterwards the price of her soul--upon
her children. As for Margaret Van Dorn--Mr. Brotherton was no
philosopher. He could not pity her. Yet she too had given all. She had
given her mind--and it was gone. She had given her heart and it was gone
also, and she had given that elusive blending of the heart and mind we
call her soul--and that was gone, too. Mr. Brotherton could see that
they were gone--all gone. But he could not see that her loss was greater
than Violet's.

That night when Dennis Hogan came in for his weekly _Fireside
Companion_ as he said, "for the good woman," Mr. Brotherton, for old
sake's sake, put in something in paper backs by Marie Corelli, and a
novel by Ouida; and then, that he might give until it hurt, he tied up a
brand new _Ladies' Home Journal_, and said, as he locked up the
store and stepped into the chill night air with Mr. Hogan: "Dennis--tell
Violet--I sent 'em in return for the good turns she used to do me when I
was mayor and she was in Van Dorn's office and drew up the city
ordinances--she'll remember."

"Indeed she will, George Brotherton--that she will. Many's the night
she's talked me to sleep of them golden days of her splendor--indeed she
will."

They walked on together and Hogan said: "Well--I turn at the next
crossin'. I'm goin' home and I'm glad of it. Up in the mornin' at five;
off on the six-ten train, climbin' the slag dump at seven, workin' till
six, home on the six-fifteen train, into the house at seven; to bed at
ten, up at five, eat and work and sleep--sleep and eat and work,
fightin' the dump by day and fightin' the fumes in me chist by
night--all for a dollar and sixty a day; and if we jin