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6 "THE LIMIT OT THE LINE” SHIRLEY BRYAN, stenographer for a great Iron Corporation, is the first actor on the scene. The story begins with a suburban train pulling out from under the marble corridors of a grand Terminal Station. Barry Moore, Miss Bryan’s employer, plays the role of “The, Man of Iron.” He is trying to build a collossal fortune. Gregory Ford, a Harvard athlete, a Frineeton theologue, a multi-millionaire, is deeply interested in the question, propounded by the Book of Job, “If a man die, shall he live again?” because a specialist has told him, his days are numbered. Henry Brown, editor of the Water Oaks Ga HERE was an amphitheater of hills thru which the river ran in slumberous shadow, except where the moon, which swung like a silver bow low down to the water line, gleamed coldly in ivory ir ridescence, upon the rippling waves. Farther on, to the west, the bonfire cast the red reflection of its flames against the gray horizon of the winter night; T revealing nearer, the group of commercial travelers and the blue overalls of the negro workmen. Here and there a pick rang, sharply, against a steel rail, and a chorus of voices, mellow, rich, carelesss, kept time to the refrain: 44 De Lord, he thought he’d make er man, Dese bones gwine to rize er-gin.; Made him out o’ dirt and a little bit o’ sand, Dese bones gwine to rize er-gin.” Ford and Shirley listened to the musical min strelsy, with full appreciation of its merit, and the weird picturesque background of the natural stage. 14 The explanation is simple enough,” Shirley said, after a time, referring again to his question. 11 All the ladies aboard the Suburban, injured and other wise, went back to the city. I stayed for the mid night mail, because I thought that the track would be repaired by them, and, I felt safe in Dr. Bloxam’s care. Also I wished to go home.” Ford nodded, comprehendingly. 44 The System takes care of its victims,” he said. 44 About what time did the wreck occur?” 4 4 About 5:00 p. m., Mr. Ford. Mr. Barry Moore let me off earlier than usual, and I caught the first Suburban.” “Well, that corresponds,” Ford affirmed, “with a brief, psychological vision, that your mother had, at that hour. ’ ’ 44 Indeed? .What did the mater see?” Shirley questioned breathlessly, her brown eyes full of aroused interest. 4 4 Simply a coach of people, laughing and talking, hysterically, as if they had just escaped a great dan ger. The coach was over a bridge.” 44 The coach did not reach the bridge,” commented Shirley. 44 Was anybody in the room?” 44 Yes. I had stepped across the hall. I often call on your mother. She has so much optimism and common sense, that she furnishes me with a charm ing antidote for my black moods.” 44 She is very fine, the mater,” Shirley said, frank ly, 44 on any line you take her. Your presence doubt less blurred the psychic photograph. I am glad that her good angel prevented an accurate vision of the wreck as it happened, for it was really . . . hor rible!” She shuddered and put her patrician hands up to her pale, bloodless face. 44 Come, Miss Shirley,” Ford said, in a tone of compassion and sympathy, 4 4 this will not do. The White Steamer and Manson can get you home, long before the track can be repaired for the midnight mail. I phoned to Mrs. Ford before I left Water Oaks, but I expect that Mrs. Bryan, Little Nell and the Governess are not having a happy time, right about now.” “No. Mother is not at all philosophical about me. CHAPTER X. The Golden Age for February 25, 1909. By Odessa Strickland Payne and Lamar Strickland Payne SYNOPSIS zetto, is a discovery of Ford’s. He is a lover of poetry, psychology, economy. He is an environ ment-fighter of the best type. Gregory Ford and his mother rent one-half of the old colonial Bryan home, and wealth and pov erty are only across the hall from each other. Mrs. Ford is a woman, “who has never had a thrill.” •Mrs. Bryan is a breeze of sunshine for Shirley’s sake, and she begins to draw young Ford’s confi dence. Then there is Little Nell, the child of wisdom. And, on the horizon looms a girl, a cousin of the Fords, Ethel, by name, who will play a dramatic part as the story progresses. I hope that she will not hear about the wreck,” ris ing slowly. “I hope not,” he said, decisively. “I have lost my hat,” she went on, with a wan, tired little smile. “And . . jacket. I ought to care. I ought to be exercised over the fact, and be worried over the consequences to my personal ap pearance . . but really nothing seems to matter —now. ’ ’ “Just why?” he asked, in a tender, interrogative tone. She stared at him blankly. “Oh! the wreck!” she murmured, flinging back the loosened glory of her bronze hair, with a nerv ous hand, from her face, which was singularly at tractive in spite of its deadly pallor. “It precipitates, with emphasis, the questioning of my sub-conscious mind about human suffering.” She turned upon the New Yorker, walking, square shouldered, erect, nonchalant, by her side. “Why is it necessary? The rack, the torture, and the stake, in some kind of form, crucifixion form, all the time, for all of us?” “Some of the time, for some of us,” he suggest ed, “would be a better way to state the case. Uni versal lessons, such as earthquakes, plagues and floods, are comparatively rare.” “You are flanking the question, diplomatically and courteously, Mr. Ford. Must I add, unavoid ably?” “No, I’ll give you mw point of view,” he return ed. “I do not suppose that it is unique, but still it is mine. You will admit, perhaps, that there must be a difference between Infinite and Finite Wis dom?” Shirley paused. Her expression indicated pro found interest. “Assuredly. Goon.” “Therefore, unless you can find somebody wiser than the Ruler of the universe,” he replied gravely, “to criticise His methods, where does the logic of the argument come in? Besides, so much of the suf fering in the world is only the natural consequence of sin and broken law. Now this wreck, for instance, in which you shared, (which has brought on your morbid mood), was caused, I understand, by the spreading of the rails,, which fact eliminates for me, all but the human element. There was no wrath of providence about it: consequently the suffering can not be charged up to anything but the neglect of man.” “Thank you,” Shirley said, rather humbly, as they came up to the side of the waiting motor car. Brown, with the instinct of a true reporter, who had been gathering up all the news about the wreck, now joined them. And, after shaking hands with Shirley, congratulated her warmly upon her miracu lous escape. “Manson,” Ford enquired, “doesn’t mother keep an extra wrap and cap in this concern?” “Mrs. Ford? Yes, sir. The cap is for Miss Little Nell, yes.” Manson reached down, unbuckled straps, and handed out a dark cloth cap with a wide brim, and a cape lined with blue flannel. Ford handed the articles to Shirley, with a whim sical smile. “Mother’s preparation,” he explained, “for an unscheduled blizzard. The cap has flaps, and I am sure will be becoming.” “Thank you,” Shirley replied. “I am not dis posed to be critical or hyper-critical.” Ford and Brown turned back to the bonfire, for a few moment’s conversation with Dr. Bloxam, anent the casualties of the wreck. Taking advantage of their absence, Shirley deftly arranged the bronze abundance of her hair into a large braid, school-girl fashion. She adjusted the wrap and cap with a distinct sense of comfort. “The Emergency Lady,” said Ford gaily, “wins the palm.” “Why didn’t you call her the heroine of the wreck?” the editor inquired, with an admiring glance. “Because Miss Bryan does not like an excess of incense.” Ford climbed into the back seat beside Shirley, and motioned Editor Brown to Manson’s throne. “I like that,” the editor said, with a glint of mis chief in his eye. “I was sure that you would be perfectly delight ed,” Ford rejoined, “to give Manson a chance to tell you how he went up San Juan hill . . . » with Roosevelt! ” “Take us home, old fellow,” he continued, “as quickly as you can without getting up a miniature wreck.” “I do not feel at all afraid,” Shirley said, as the motor car struck the center of the wagon road bridge with unerring precision. “Because you are under my care?” Ford querried, lightly. “Possibly,” she returned in a colorless tone. 44 1 f a man die shall he live again, Brown?” Ford stood in his library with his back to the man tel, in 'his right hand a copy of Bouguereau’s 44 He Is Risen.” 4 4 You have the answer in your hand, Ford.” 44 This?” Gregory Ford placed the picture on the table, and went back to his former position, to study the symetric drawing, thru half-closed, quivering lids. “Bouguereau appealed to the emotional nature,” he argued, adjusting the carnation in his buttonhole. He knew the limitation of his audience, and he humored the children. They can understand one or two things, you know, Brown? Love is easy to grasp. So, Bouguereau has gathered about the tomb of the Prince of Love, three women who loved Him. They are looking into the sepulcher, and are asking, what the human race is constantly wanting to know: 44 1 f a man die shall he live again?” He fingered the carnation a second, staring at the picture, with luminous eyes. 4 4 The angel stands with uplifted arm, Brown, a being from another sphere. He has a body that can pass through the solid walls of Jerusalem. The psychic force of this body is stronger, billions of times stronger, than the law of gravitation. The angel has put himself in the power of the earth planet, without fear, because the Son of the Most Holy One has slept in the rich man’s garden and he is there to warn those who loved Him, those who will first seek the door of His tomb. 4 4 How strange it would seem, Brown, if you or I should go to the tomb of one who recently died, one we had loved, and expect to see them alive in the spirit, clothed with that immortal, eternal, celes tial body? Our friends would come to us, and say, 4 Ye are dreamers, theorists, fools.’ 44 We turn away from the clods that cover our dead, with the pitiful, heart-breaking cry: ‘Lord of Love! more light!’ And out of the gray, grim sky of winter, or the blue, azure sky of summer, comes no answer. God forgive us, developed and un developed, priest and layman, poet and grave digger, if, in the presence of death, we doubt. The stern, unbroken silence of 2,000 years is hard to fight. Hard for children who round out their atomic efforts in two score and three score years.” 44 Hush! Ford,” said Henry Brown, 44 you cannot Continued on Page 7.)