ies of man in air. But still I
say the dawn comes, the voices do not bring it."

The Third Fate: "We do not know how the awakening voices in the
dark know that the light is coming. We do not know what power moves the
loom. We do not know who dreams the pattern. We only weave and muse and
listen for the voices of change as a world threads its events through
the woof of time on our loom."

* * * * *

The stage is dark. The weavers weave time into circumstances and in the
blackness the world moves on. Slowly it grays. A thousand voices rise.
Then circumstance begins to run brightly on the loom, and a million
voices join in the din of the dawn. The loom goes. The weavers fade. The
light in the world pales the thread of time and the whirl of the earth
no longer is seen. But instead we see only a town. Half of it shines in
the morning sun--half of it hides in the smoke. In the sun on the street
is a man.

CHAPTER XL

HERE WE HAVE THE FELLOW AND THE GIRL BEGINNING TO PREPARE FOR THE LAST
CHAPTER

A tall, spare, middle-aged person was Thomas Van Dorn in the latter
years of the first decade of the twentieth century; tall and spare and
tight-skinned. The youthful olive texture of the skin was worn off and
had been replaced by a leathery finish--rather reddish brown in color.
The slight squint of his eyes was due somewhat to the little puffs under
them, and a suspicious, crafty air had grown into the full orbs, which
once glowed with emotion, when the younger man mounted in his oratorical
flights. His hands were gloved to match his exactly formal clothes, and
his hat--a top-hat when Judge Van Dorn was in the East, and a sawed-off
compromise with the local prejudice against top-hats when he was in
Harvey--was always in the latest mode. Often the hat was made to match
his clothes. He had become rigorous in his taste in neckties and only
grays and blacks and browns adorned the almost monkish severity of his
garb. Harsh, vertical lines had begun to appear at the sides of the
sensuous mouth, and horizontal lines--perhaps of hurt pride and
shame--were pressed into his wide, handsome forehead and the zigzag scar
was set white in a reddening field.

All these things a photograph would show. But there was that about his
carriage, about his mien, about the personality that emerged from all
these things which the photograph would not show. For to the eyes of
those who had known him