of all action in the growth of the great affairs he spoke of.  Carson was the son of a man who had been one of the early heads of a newly created department, in the days when departments were just being tried, and he had heard many a time of the way in which Matthew Kendrick had held to his course of introducing innovations which had startled the men most closely associated with him, and had made them wonder if he were not going too far for safety or success.

“Well, well, gentlemen,” said Mr. Kendrick, rising abruptly at last, “you have beguiled me into long speech.  It takes me back to old days to sit and discuss a young business like this one with young men like you.  It has been very interesting, and it delights me to find you so ready to take counsel, while at the same time you show a healthy belief in your own judgment.  You will come along—­you will come along.  You will make mistakes, but you will profit by them.  And you will remember always, I hope, a motto I am going to give you.”

He paused and looked searchingly into each face before him:  Hugh Benson’s, serious and sincere; Alfred Carson’s, energy and purpose showing in every line; his own boy’s, Richard’s, keen interest and a certain proud wonder looking out of his fine eyes as he watched the old man who seemed to him to-day, somehow, almost a stranger in his unwontedly aroused speech.

“The most important thing a business can do,” said Matthew Kendrick slowly, “is to make men of those who make the business.”

He let the words sink in.  He saw, after an instant, the response in each face, and he nodded, satisfied.  He held out his hand to each in turn, including his grandson, and received three hearty grips of gratitude and understanding.

As he drove away with Richard his eyes were bright under their heavy brows.  It had done him good, this visit to the place where his thoughts had often been of late, and he was pleased with the way Richard had borne himself throughout the interview.  He could not have asked better of the heir to the Kendrick millions than the unassuming and yet quietly assured manner Richard had shown.  It had a certain quality, the old man proudly considered, which was lacking in that of both Benson and Carson, fine fellows though they were, and well-mannered in every way.  It reminded Matthew Kendrick of the boy’s own father, who had been a man among men, and a gentleman besides.

“Grandfather, we shall pass Mr. Rufus Gray’s farm in a minute.  Don’t you want to stop and see them?”

“Rufus Gray?” questioned Mr. Kendrick.  “The people we entertained at Christmas?  I should like to stop, if it will not delay us too long.  It seems a colder air than it did this morning.”

“There’s a bit of wind, and it’s usually colder, facing this way.  If you prefer, after the call, I’ll take you back to the station and run down alone.”

“We’ll see.  Is this the place we’re coming to?  A pleasant old place enough, and it looks like the right home for such a pair,” commented Mr. Kendrick, gazing interestedly ahead as the car swung in at a stone gateway, and followed a winding roadway toward a low-lying, hospitable looking white house, with long porches beyond masses of bare shrubbery.