“I'm of the second generation, dad,” the boy went on, at length, “and the second generation has an ideal of its own, and that ideal is Success. It took us these forty years to come to understand the spirit of America. You were a dreamer who loved America. I'm an American. We've translated democracy and brotherhood and equality into enterprise and opportunity and success--and that's getting Americanised. Now, father,” he sought refuge in the tone of every-day things, “you'll get used to it--won't you? I don't expect you to feel very good about it, but you aren't going to be broken up about it--are you? After all, father,” laughing and moving about as if to break the seriousness of things, “there's nothing criminal about being one of the other fellows--is there? Just remember that there _are_ folks who even think it's respectable!” The father had risen and picked up his hat. “No, Fred,” he said, with a sadness in which there was great dignity, “there is nothing criminal in it if a man's conviction sends him that way. But to me there is something--something too sad for words in a man's selling his own soul.” “Father! How extravagant! _Why_ is it selling one's soul to sit down and figure out what's the best thing to do?” He hesitated, hating to add hurt to hurt, not wanting to say that his father's fight should have been with the revolutionists, that his life was ineffective because, seeing his dream from within a dream, his thinking had been muddled. He only said: “As I say, father, it's a question of giving or getting. I couldn't even give in your way. And I've seen enough of giving to want a taste of getting. I want to make things go--and I see my chance. Why father,” he laughed, trying to turn it, “there's nothing so American as wanting to make things _go_.” He looked at him for a long minute. “My boy,” he said, “I fear you are becoming so American that I am losing you.” “Father,” the boy pleaded, affectionately, “now don't--” The old man held up his hand. “You've tried to make me understand it,” he said, “and succeeded. You can't complain of the way you've succeeded. I don't know why I don't argue with you--plead; there are things I could say--should say, perhaps--but something assures me it would be useless. I feel a good many years older than I did when I came into this room, but the reason for it is not that you're joining the other party. You know what I think of the men who control this State, the men with whom you desire to cast your lot, but I trust the years I've spent fighting them haven't made a bigot of me. It's not joining their party--it's _using_ it--makes this the hardest thing I've been called upon to meet.” “Father, don't look like that! How do you think I am going to get up and speak tonight with _that_ face before me?” “You didn't think, did you,” the man laughed bitterly, “that I would inspire you to your effort?” The boy stood looking at his father, a strange new fire in his eyes.