of rings but of people, too, of curious personalities.  These human bits, these memories, he had picked up as he lived along and had taken them with him and made them his own, had trimmed and polished every one until its rough unpleasant edges were all nicely smoothed away and it glittered and shone like the gem that it was.  For Roger was an idealist.  And so he would have liked to do here.  What a gem could be made of Isadore with a little careful polishing.

But Deborah’s way was different.  She stayed in life, lived in it close, with its sharp edges bristling.  In this there was something splendid, but there was something tragic, too.  It was all very well for that young Jew to burn himself up with his talk about freedom, his feverish searching for new gods.  “In five years,” Roger told himself, “Mr. Isadore Freedom will either tone down or go stark mad.”

But quite probably he would tone down, for he was only a youngster, these were Isadore’s wild oats.  But this was no longer Deborah’s youth, she had been at this job ten years.  And she hadn’t gone mad, she had kept herself sane, she had many sides her father knew.  He knew her in the mountains, or bustling about at home getting ready for Laura’s wedding, or packing Edith’s children off for their summer up at the farm.  But did that make it any easier?  No.  To let yourself go was easy, but to keep hold of yourself was hard.  It meant wear and tear on a woman, this constant straining effort to keep her balance and see life whole.

“Well, it will break her down, that’s all, and I don’t propose to allow it,” he thought.  “She’s got to rest this summer and go easier next fall.”

But how could he accomplish it?  As he thought about her school, with its long and generous arms reaching upon every side out into the tenements, the prospect was bewildering.  He searched for something definite.  What could he do to prove to his daughter his real interest in her work?  Presently he remembered Johnny Geer, the cripple boy whom he had liked, and at once he began to feel himself back again upon known ground.  Instead of millions here was one, one plucky lad who needed help.  All right, by George, he should have it!  And Roger told his daughter he would be glad to pay the expense of sending John away for the summer, and that in the autumn perhaps he would take the lad into his office.

“That’s good of you, dearie,” Deborah said.  It was her only comment, but from the look she gave him Roger felt he was getting on.

* * * * *

One evening not long afterwards, as they sat together at dinner, she rose unsteadily to her feet and said in a breathless voice,

“It’s rather close in here, isn’t it?  I think I’ll go outside for a while.”  Roger jumped up.

“Look here, my child, you’re faint!” he cried.

“No, no, it’s nothing!  Just the heat!” She swayed and reeled, pitched suddenly forward.  “Father!  Quick!” And Roger caught her in his arms.  He called to the maid, and with her help he carried Deborah up to her bed.  There she shuddered violently and beads of sweat broke out on her brow.  Her breath came hard through chattering teeth.