"You must think of them, Jack. It's there that salvation lies. Think of the true woman--the wife who loves you. Think of the little one who used to put baby hands around your neck and try to tell you all the beautiful things that only children know. That is what will save you now, Jack--and only that! Think.... Think!" "It's too late, Tom!" "It's not too late!" "You're sure? Quite, quite sure?" "I'm sure, Jack!" There was a pause. Schuyler rose. He thrust forth his hand. Blake took it, gripping it in his own. "I'll go, Tom. I'll go." Came to him a touch of that from which he had been able to withdraw so pitifully little. "We'll fool her yet, won't we?" he asked, breathlessly. "We'll fool her, and Young Parmalee, and Rogers, and Van Dam and the rest of them. Let's go now, Tom. Take me away! For the love of God who has forsaken me--whom I have forsaken--take me away! Save me from her--from myself--My blood has turned to water, and my bones to chalk! My brain has withered! Good God! What has come over me! To think that I, who could once look in the eye all men, all women, all little children, should have come to this. Look at me! A fool in his drunken Palace of Folly! Dust, dirt, grime, filth all about me--in my home--in my soul! ... I thought it was too late, Tom. I thought from the beginning it was too late. The shame, the disgrace, the loss of honor--of everything, were new to me. I couldn't understand. Then I cursed myself. I swore to God that I wouldn't become the thing I am. But He didn't help me; and I couldn't help myself. I tried! Ah, how I tried! But there was something--her eyes, it was--eyes that burnt and seared!--I tried to kill myself, as Parmalee did. I couldn't.... And the only forgetfulness lay in drink--drink that sapped my strength and drained my veins and shrivelled my brain. Tell me it's a dream, Tom--that it's all but a vile, horrible, grewsome dream! Tell me that I'm the kind of a man you are! the kind of a man I once was! And don't hate me, Tom. Don't loathe, and despise me, all; but pity me a little--just a little!" He had sunk in a huddled heap to the floor, weak, hysterical--a half- crazed soul in the white-hot crucible of suffering. Blake leaned over him, gently, and lifting him, helped him to the great chair. There was a great, unselfish gladness in his heart. But that gladness had changed swiftly to horror. He stood back aghast. For there had entered the room Kathryn, and Muriel. The horror of it all did not show in the eyes of the wife. She would not let it. The child, all gladness, ran to her father; she did not notice. "Daddy! Oh, daddy!" she called. Schuyler, a huddled heap by the desk, straightened, weakly. "You!" he cried, brokenly. Tears welled to his eyes. He seized--the little form in his arms, clutching it to him. Blake turned to Kathryn. "You should not have come," he said. He was sorry for the hurt he knew she suffered. "My place is here." She went to Schuyler, stooping over him.