When the old basket maker spoke again, that note of strange and solemn authority was in his voice. "Listen, Adam Ward! In the ideals, the heroism, the suffering, the sacrifice of the war--in shell hole and trench and bloody No Man's Land, the sons of men have found again the God that you and men like you had banished from the Mill. Your boy and Pete Martin's boy, with more thousands of their comrades than men of your mind realize, have come back from the war fields of France to enthrone God once more in the industrial world. And it shall come that every forge and furnace and anvil and machine shall be an organ to His praise--that every suit of overalls shall be a priestly robe of ministering service. And this God that you banished from the Mill and that is to be by your son restored to His throne and served by a priesthood of united employers and employees, shall bear a new name, Adam Ward, and that name shall be WORK." Awed by the strange majesty of the Interpreter's voice, Adam Ward could only whisper fearfully, "Work--the name of God shall be Work!" "Ay, Adam Ward, WORK--and why not? Does not the work of the world express the ideals, the purpose, the needs, the life, the _oneness_ of the world's humanity, even as a flower expresses the plant that puts it forth? And is not God the ultimate flowering of the human plant?" The Mill owner spoke with timid hesitation, "Could I--do you think--could I, perhaps, help to, as you say, put God back into the Mill?" "Your part in the building of the Mill is finished, Adam Ward," came the solemn answer. "You have made many contracts with men, sir; you should now make a contract with your God." The owner of the new process sprang to his feet with an exclamation of fear. As one who sees a thing of horror in the dark, he drew back, trembling. That deep, inexorable voice of sorrowful authority went on, "Make a contract with your God, Adam Ward; make a contract with your God." With a wild cry of terror Adam Ward fled into the night. The Interpreter in his wheel chair looked up at the stars. * * * * * It seems scarcely possible that the old basket maker could have foreseen the tragic effect of his words--and yet-- CHAPTER XX THE PEOPLE'S AMERICA