"They have not gone about their work intelligently, for there are still unfed men in New York. I am a practical man, not a theorist. Emotions, respected sir, are all very well to appeal to at vote-getting times, but they are poor things to think with. Now I don't suppose I have devoted more than one hour's thought to this subject, and yet see the difference. _All_ the hungry!" In H. R.'s voice there was not the faintest trace of self-glorification nor did his manner show the slightest vanity. Both were calmly matter-of-fact. The Bishop had to have an explanation. So he asked: "And your--er--quite unemotional and sudden interest in this--er--affair, Mr. Rutgers...." "You mean, where do I come in?" cut in H. R. The Bishop almost blushed as he shook his head and explained: "Rather, your motive in undertaking so difficult...." "Oh yes. You mean, _why_?" "Yes," said the Bishop, and looked at H. R. full in the eyes. "Because I desire to marry Grace Goodchild and I wish to be worthy of her. It is a man's job to jolt New York into a spasm of practical Christianity." The Bishop smiled. After all, this was a boy, and his enthusiasm might make up for what his motive lacked in profundity of wisdom. "And besides," went on H. R., in a lowered voice, "I hate to think that men can starve when I have enough to eat without earning my food." He smiled shamefacedly. "My boy!" cried the Bishop, and shook the boy's hand warmly, "I'm afraid you are--" "Don't call me good, Bishop!" "I was going to say it, but I won't. Do you think you can do what you propose?" "I know it!" And H. R. looked at Dr. Phillipson steadily. The Bishop looked back. He was no match for H. R. "I will sign!" said the Bishop. XVI H. R. walked slowly to his office. Spring was in the air. The sky was very blue and the air sparkled with sun-dust. Life thrilled in waves. The breeze sang, as it does at times in the city. It had not the harps of the trees to strum on, but it made shift with the corners of the houses. Hand in hand with the breeze from the south came the joy of living that, after all, is merely the joy of loving. The soul of God's beautiful world--light, heat, beauty, love--percolated into the soul of Hendrik Rutgers and filled it--filled it full. It called for the One Woman in songs--the same songs the breeze was humming.... Ah, the encouragement of the wind! It bade him take her! It told him exactly whither the breeze was going, whither he should carry her in his arms. It whispered to him the place where he might lay down his burden! He walked on, head erect, chest inflated, fists clenched. He would take her from the world and make her his world. Their world!--his and hers; his first, then hers. After that they would share it equally. The breeze sang on.