Donaldson retired to his room, and without undressing threw up his window and stared at the hedge and the dark that lay beyond. Then he tried to work out some solution to the problem which confronted him. There was no use for him to try to blind himself to the fact that he loved this girl—that was but to shirk the question. She stood out as the supreme passion of his life and forced upon him a future that had a meaning beyond anything of which he had ever dreamed. She quickened in him new hopes, new aspirations, new ambitions. She made him see the triviality of all that he had most hoped to enjoy during this week; she opened his eyes to all that he had tried to make Arsdale see. With her by his side every day would be like that first afternoon; every hour thrilling with opportunities. The barren future which he had so feared, even though it offered no greater opportunities than had always lain before him, would tingle with possibilities. Wait? He could wait an eternity with her by his side and every waiting minute would be a golden minute. He could go back to that little office now and find a thousand things to do. He could hew out a career that would honor her. He saw numberless chances for reform work into which he could throw himself, heart and soul, while waiting. But there would be no waiting; life would begin from the first hour. What more did he need than her? He shuddered back from his luxurious room at the hotel as from something cheap.

A loaf of bread without even so much as a jug of wine would be paradise enow. Just the opportunity to live and breathe and have his being in this big pregnant universe was all he craved. He needed nothing else. So the universe would be his.

He dared not try to read her thoughts. He had no right to do this. It did n\'t matter. Her love was not essential. If he deserved it, that would come. It was enough that she had given him back his dreams, that she had taken him back to those fragrant days when his uncrusted soul had known without knowing. It was enough that the sweetness of her had become an inseparable part of him for evermore. She was his now, even though he should never again lay eyes upon her. The only relief he had was in the thought that she had accomplished this without committing herself. At least he did not have the burden of her tender love upon his soul further to complicate matters.

So much he admitted frankly; so much was fact. The problem which now confronted him was how he could best escape from involving her at all in the inevitable climax—how he could make his escape without destroying in her the ideals with which she had surrounded him and which she had a right to keep. He owed this to her, to Arsdale, and to the world of men.

A dozen times he was upon the point of pushing out into the dark. If he had followed his own impulse he would have taken some broad road and footed it hour after hour, through the night, through the next day, through the next night, and so till the end overtook him, striking him down in his tracks. He would get as far away as possible, keeping out under the broad expanse of the sky above. He could find rest only by taking a course straight on over the hills, turning aside for nothing, tearing a path through the tangle.

But he still had his work to do. He must lend his strength to the boy so long as any strength was left. He must pound into him again and again the realization of life which he himself had been tempted to shirk. He must make him see,—must make him know. In recalling that scene in the room by the window, in recalling his own words to Arsdale, he felt strangely enough the force of his own thoughts entering into himself with new life. He listened as it were to himself. Even for him there were the Others. Down to the last arrow-sped minute there would still be the Others. Who knew what remained for him to do—charged with what influence might be even the manner in which he drew his last breath? If he stood up to it sturdily, if he faced death with his head high, his shoulders back, even though he might be cornered in his room like a rat in its hole, so the message might be wired silently into the heart of some poor devil struggling hard against his death throes and lend him courage.

At the end of two hours he undressed and tumbled upon the bed.

His room was next to Arsdale\'s room and during the night the latter came in.

"I \'ve had bad dreams about you," the boy exclaimed. "Is anything the matter?"

"I \'m not sleeping very well," Donaldson answered.

"You haven\'t a fever or anything?"

"No. Just restless."

"I have n\'t slept very well myself. I \'ve been doing so much thinking. That keeps a fellow awake."

"Yes—thinking does. You \'d better let your brain close up shop and get some rest."

"I can\'t. I \'ve been chewing over what you said, and the more I think of it, the more I see that you have the right idea. The secret of keeping happy is to fight for others. It\'s the only thing that will make a man put up a good fight, isn\'t it?"

"The only thing," answered Donaldson.

"I don\'t understand why I did n\'t realize that before—with Elaine here. You \'d think she would make a man realize that."

Donaldson did not answer.

"I think one reason is," continued the boy, "that until now, until lately, she\'s been so nervy herself that she did n\'t seem to need any one. She \'s been stronger than I. But last night she looked like a little girl. And now, I\'d like to die fighting for her."

Donaldson found the boy\'s hand.

"Never lose that spirit," he said earnestly. "But remember, she \'s worth more than dying for, she \'s worth living for."

"That\'s so. You put things right every time. She is worth living for. You are n\'t much good to people after you \'re dead, are you?"

"Not as far as we know."

The boy hesitated a moment, a bit confused, and then blurted out,

"I \'m going to take up some sort of work. Perhaps you can help me get after something. We have loads of money, you know. I don\'t think much of giving it out as cash,—the charity idea. I \'ve a hunch that I \'d like to study law and then give my services free to the poor devils who need a man to look after their interests. They are darned small interests to men who are only after their fee, but they are big to the poor devils themselves. And generally they get done. Do you think I have it in me to study law?"

"You have it in you to study law with that idea back of you. You \'d make a great lawyer with that idea."

"Do you think so?" asked the boy eagerly.

"I know it."

"Then perhaps—perhaps—say, would yo............