“Is there anything else?” the rector asked, looking searchingly at his assistant.

“It may as well be that,” replied McCrae.

The suspicion began to dawn on Hodder that the Scotch man’s ideals were as high as his own.  Both of them, secretly, regarded the new scheme as a compromise, a yielding to the inevitable . . . .

Mr. Ferguson’s remark that an enlarged parish house and a new settlement house might help to keep some of the young women employed in his department store out of the dance-halls interested Hodder, who conceived the idea of a dance-hall of their own.  For the rector, in the course of his bachelor shopping, often resorted to the emporium of his vestryman, to stand on the stairway which carried him upward without lifting his feet, to roam, fascinated, through the mazes of its aisles, where he invariably got lost, and was rescued by suave floor-walkers or pert young women in black gowns and white collars and cuffs.  But they were not all pert—­there were many characters, many types.  And he often wondered whether they did not get tired standing on their feet all day long, hesitating to ask them; speculated on their lives—­flung as most of them were on a heedless city, and left to shift for themselves.  Why was it that the Church which cared for Mr. Ferguson’s soul was unable to get in touch with, or make an appeal to, those of his thousand employees?

It might indeed have been said that Francis Ferguson cared for his own soul, as he cared for the rest of his property, and kept it carefully insured,—­somewhat, perhaps, on the principle of Pascal’s wager.  That he had been a benefactor to his city no one would deny who had seen the facade that covered a whole block in the business district from Tower to Vine, surmounted by a red standard with the familiar motto, “When in doubt, go to Ferguson’s.”  At Ferguson’s you could buy anything from a pen-wiper to a piano or a Paris gown; sit in a cool restaurant in summer or in a palm garden in winter; leave your baby—­if you had one—­in charge of the most capable trained nurses; if your taste were literary, mull over the novels in the Book Department; if you were stout, you might be reduced in the Hygiene Department, unknown to your husband and intimate friends.  In short, if there were any virtuous human wish in the power of genius to gratify, Ferguson’s was the place.  They, even taught you how to cook.  It was a modern Aladdin’s palace:  and, like everything else modern, much more wonderful than the original.  And the soda might be likened to the waters of Trevi,—­to partake of which is to return.

“When in doubt, go to Ferguson!” Thus Mrs. Larrabbee and other ladies interested in good works had altered his motto.  He was one of the supporters of Galt House, into which some of his own young saleswomen had occasionally strayed; and none, save Mr. Parr alone, had been so liberal in his gifts.  Holder invariably found it difficult to reconcile the unassuming man, whose conversation was so commonplace, with the titanic genius who had created Ferguson’s; nor indeed with the owner of the imposing marble mansion at Number 5, Park Street.