whether he would or no. Truly it was. And was there any need for him to

disturb himself about it? There was not. He fancied at times that it might as well never have been started at all. "The one divine, far-off event" of the poet did not appeal to him as having any basis in fact. Mrs. Lester

Kane was of very much the same opinion.

Jennie, living on the South Side with her adopted child, Rose Perpetua,

was of no fixed conclusion as to the meaning of life. She had not the

incisive reasoning capacity of either Mr. or Mrs. Lester Kane. She had

seen a great deal, suffered a great deal, and had read some in a desultory way. Her mind had never grasped the nature and character of specialised

knowledge. History, physics, chemistry, botany, geology, and sociology

were not fixed departments in her brain as they were in Lester's and

Letty's. Instead there was the feeling that the world moved in some

strange, unstable way. Apparently no one knew clearly what it was all

about. People were born and died. Some believed that the world had been

made six thousand years before; some that it was millions of years old.

Was it all blind chance, or was there some guiding intelligence—a God?

Almost in spite of herself she felt there must be something—a higher

power which produced all the beautiful things—the flowers, the stars, the trees, the grass. Nature was so beautiful! If at times life seemed cruel, yet this beauty still persisted. The thought comforted her; she fed upon it in her hours of secret loneliness.

It has been said that Jennie was naturally of an industrious turn. She liked to be employed, though she thought constantly as she worked. She was of

matronly proportions in these days—not disagreeably large, but full-

bodied, shapely, and smooth faced, in spite of her cares. Her eyes were

grey and appealing. Her hair was still of a rich brown, but there were

traces of grey in it. Her neighbours spoke of her as sweet-tempered,

kindly, and hospitable. They knew nothing of her history, except that she had formerly resided in Sandwood, and before that in Cleveland. She was

very reticent as to her past.

Jennie had fancied, because of her natural aptitude for taking care of sick people, that she might get to be a trained nurse. But she was obliged to

abandon that idea, for she found that only young people were wanted. She

also thought that some charitable organisation might employ her, but she

did not understand the new theory of charity which was then coming into

general acceptance and practice—namely, only to help others to help

themselves. She believed in giving, and was not inclined to look too

closely into the credentials of those who asked for help; consequently her timid inquiry at one relief agency after another met with indifference, if not unqualified rebuke. She finally decided to adopt another child for

Rose Perpetua's sake; she succeeded in securing a boy, four years old,

who was known as Henry—Henry Stover. Her support was assured, for

her income was paid to her through a trust company. She had no desire

for speculation or for the devious ways of trade. The care of flowers, the nature of children, the ordering of a home were more in her province.

One of the interesting things in connection with this separation once it

had been firmly established related to Robert and Lester, for these two

since the reading of the will a number of years before had never met.

Robert had thought of his brother often. He had followed his success,

since he had left Jennie, with interest. He read of his marriage to Mrs.

Gerald with pleasure; he had always considered her an ideal companion

for his brother. He knew by many signs and tokens that his brother, since the unfortunate termination of their father's attitude and his own peculiar movements to gain control of the Kane Company, did not like him. Still

they had never been so far apart mentally—certainly not in commercial

judgment. Lester was prosperous now. He could afford to be generous.

He could afford to make up. And after all, he had done his best to aid his brother to come to his senses—and with the best intentions. There were

mutual interests they could share financially if they were friends. He

wondered from time to time if Lester would not be friendly with him.

Time passed, and then once, when he was in Chicago, he made the friends

with whom he was driving purposely turn into the North Shore in order to

see the splendid mansion which the Kanes occupied. He knew its location

from hearsay and description.

When he saw it a touch of the old Kane home atmosphere came back to

him. Lester in revising the property after purchase had had a conservatory built on one side not unlike the one at home in Cincinnati. That same

night he sat down and wrote Lester asking if he would not like to dine

with him at the Union Club. He was only in town for a day or two, and he

would like to see him again. There was some feeling, he knew, but there

was a proposition he would like to talk to him about. Would he come, say, on Thursday?

On the receipt of this letter Lester frowned and fell into a brown study. He had never really been healed of the wound that his father had given him.

He had never been comfortable in his mind since Robert had deserted him

so summarily. He realised now that the stakes his brother had been

playing for were big. But, after all, he had been his brother, and if he had been in Robert's place at the time, he would not have done as he had

done; at least he hoped not. Now Robert wanted to see him.

He thought once of not answering at all. Then he thought he would write

and say no. But a curious desire to see Robert again, to hear what he had to say, to listen to the proposition he had to offer, came over him; he

decided to write yes. It could do no harm. He knew it could do no good.

They might agree to let bygones be bygones, but the damage had been

done. Could a broken bowl be mended and called whole? It might be

CALLED whole, but what of it? Was it not broken and mended? He

wrote and intimated that he would come.

On the Thursday in question Robert called up from the Auditorium to

remind him of the engagement. Lester listened curiously to the sound of

his voice. "All right," he said, "I'll be with you." At noon he went downtown, and there, within the exclusive precincts of the Union Club,

the two brothers met and looked at each other again. Robert was thinner

than when Lester had seen him last, and a little greyer. His eyes were

bright and steely, but there were crow's-feet on either side. His manner

was quick, keen, dynamic. Lester was noticeably of another type—solid,

brusque, and indifferent. Men spoke of Lester these days as a little hard.

Robert's keen blue eyes did not disturb him in the least—did not affect

him in any way. He saw his brother just as he was, for he had the larger

philosophic and interpretative insight; but Robert could not place Lester exactly. He could not fathom just what had happened to him in these

years. Lester was stouter, not grey, for some reason, but sandy and ruddy, looking like a man who was fairly well satisfied to take life as he found it.

Lester looked at his brother with a keen, steady eye. The latter shifted a little, for he was restless. He could see that there was no loss of that

mental force and courage which had always been predominant

characteristics in Lester's make-up.

"I thought I'd like to see you again, Lester," Robert remarked, after they had clasped hands in the customary grip. "It's been a long time now—