The Interpreter caught up her words. "McIver says that by feeding the starving families of the strikers the strike is prolonged. He relies upon the hunger and cold and sickness of the women and children for his victory. And Jake Vodell relies upon the suffering in the families of his followers for that desperate frenzy of class hatred, without which he cannot gain his end. Does McIver want for anything? No! Is Jake Vodell in need? No! It is not the imperialistic leaders in these industrial wars who pay the price. It is always the little Bobbies and Maggies who pay. The people of America stood aghast with horror when an unarmed passenger ship was torpedoed or a defenseless village was bombed by order of a ruthless Kaiser; but we permit these Kaisers of capital and labor to carry on their industrial wars without a thought of the innocent ones who must suffer under their ruthless policies." He paused; then, with no trace of bitterness, but only sadness in his voice, he added, "You say you do not know, child--and yet, you could know so easily if you would. Little Bobby and Maggie do not live in a far-off land across the seas. They live right over there in the shadow of your father's Mill--the Mill which supplies you, Helen, with every material need and luxury of your life." As if she could bear to hear no more, Helen rose quickly and went from the room to stand on the balcony-porch. It was not so much the Interpreter's words--it was rather the spirit in which they were spoken that moved her so deeply. By her own heart she was judged. "For every idle hand," he had said. Her hands were idle hands. Her old white-haired friend in his wheel chair was doing her work. His crippled body drooped with weariness over his task because she did nothing. His face was lined with care because she was careless of the need that burdened him. His eyes were filled with sadness and pain because she was indifferent--because she did not know--had not cared to know. * * * * * The sun was almost down that afternoon when Bobby Whaley came out of the wretched house that was his home to stand on the front doorstep. The dingy, unpainted buildings of the Flats--the untidy hovels and shanties--the dilapidated fences and broken sidewalks--unlovely at best, in the long shadows of the failing day, were sinister with the gloom of poverty. High above the Mill the twisting columns of smoke from the tall stacks caught the last of the sunlight and formed slow, changing cloud-shapes--rolling hills of brightness with soft, shadowy valleys and cañons of mysterious depths between--towering domes and crags and castled heights--grim, foreboding, beautiful.