And he proceeded, sometimes seriously but for the most part whimsically, to outline his model republic, while Barbara worked and listened, sometimes with amusement, sometimes with a sense of being uplifted and thrilled by the man’s plausible originality.  Since she had but the vaguest recollection of history, and none whatever of economics, it was easy for the man to play the constructive statesman.  Nor were his schemes always foolish and illogical, since the book of human nature had been always in his library, and of all its volumes had been most often read.

“Ah!” said the legless man at last, “if I were younger, and whole!”

Whenever he referred to his maimed condition Barbara, to whom it was no longer physically shocking, was uncomfortable and distressed, changing the subject as swiftly as might be.  But now, stopping her work short off, her hands hanging at her sides, she began to speak of the matter.

“I suppose,” she said, “it’s almost life and death to you—­sometimes, that you’d give almost anything, take any chance to be—­the way you were meant to be.  My father believes that some day people can have anything that they’ve lost restored—­a hand or an arm.  He’s made experiments along those lines ever since he made his mistake with you, and it all works out beautifully with monkeys and dogs and guinea-pigs and rabbits.  Just now he is in Colorado to try it on a man.  There’s a man out there in jail for life, who has a brother that lost his right hand in some machinery.  The well brother has offered to let father cut off his hand, and graft it on the maimed brother’s wrist.  I’ve just had a letter—­it’s been done.  He thinks it’s all right, but he can’t be sure yet.  Please don’t say anything about it because—­well, because people are still queer about these things.  In the old days people burned the best doctors, and now they want to lynch vivisectors and almost anybody who’s really trying to make health more or less contagious.”

“Do you believe I could be made whole?” exclaimed Blizzard, his eyes glittering as with a sudden hope.  “My God!  Even if they weren’t much use to me, I’d give my soul to look like a real man—­my soul!  Do you know what I’d rather do than anything in this whole world—­just once?  I’d rather draw myself to my full height—­just once—­than be Napoleon Bonaparte.  If all the treasure in this city were mine to give, I’d give it to walk the length of a city block on my own feet, looking down at the people instead of always up—­always up—­until the leverage of your eyes twists the back of your brain in everlasting torment.”

“When my father comes back,” said Barbara quietly, “talk to him.  And if only it can be done—­why, you’ll forgive us, won’t you, for all the suffering you’ve had and everything?”

[Illustration:  She said in a small, surprised voice, “Why, it’s finished”]

“Yes, yes,” he said quickly.  “But it isn’t true—­it isn’t possible.  It won’t work.  It’s against experience.”