"But John says that Mr. McIver, with his talk of force and of starving helpless women and children, is as bad as this man Jake Vodell who has come to Millsburgh to organize a strike. It is really brother's attitude toward the workmen and their unions and his disagreement with Mr. McIver's views that make father as--as he is." The Interpreter's voice was gentle as he asked, "Your father is not worse, is he, Helen? I have heard nothing." "Oh, no," she returned, quickly. "That is--" She hesitated, then continued, with careful exactness, "For a time he even seemed much better. When I went away he was really almost like his old self. But this labor situation and John's not seeing things exactly as he does worries him. The doctors all agree, you know, that father must give up everything in the nature of business and have absolute mental rest; but he insists that in the face of this expected trouble with the workmen he dares not trust the management of the Mill wholly to John, because of what he calls brother's wild and impracticable ideas. Everybody knows how father has given his life to building up the Mill. And now, he--he--It is terrible the way he is about things. Poor mother is almost beside herself." The young woman's eyes filled and her lips trembled. The man in the wheel chair turned to the unfinished basket on the table beside him and handled his work aimlessly, as if in sorrow that he had no word of comfort for her. When Adam Ward's daughter spoke again there was a curious note of defiance in her voice, but her eyes, when the Interpreter turned to look at her, were fixed upon her old friend with an expression of painful anxiety and fear. "Of course his condition is all due to his years of hard work and to the mental and nervous strain of his business. It--it couldn't be anything else, could it?" The Interpreter, who seemed to be watching the intricate and constantly changing forms that the columns of smoke from the tall stacks were shaping, apparently did not hear. "Don't--don't you think it is all because of his worry over the Mill?" "Yes, Helen," the Interpreter answered, at last, "I am sure your father's trouble all comes from the Mill." For a while she did not speak, but sat looking wistfully toward the clump of trees that shaded her birthplace and the white cottage where Peter Martin lived with Charlie and Mary. Then she said, musingly, "How happy we all were in the old house, when father worked in the Mill with you and Uncle Pete, and you used to come for Sunday dinner with us. Do you know, sometimes"--she hesitated as if making a confession of which she was a little ashamed--"sometimes--that is, since brother came home from France, I--I almost hate it. I think I feel just as mother does, only neither of us dares admit it--scarcely even to ourselves." "You almost hate what, Helen?"