“I've heard that kind of calculation before,” said the Honourable Hilary. “My experience is that they never come to much. As for this nonsense about the Northeastern Railroads running things,” he added more vigorously, “I guess when it's once in a man's head there's no getting it out. The railroad employs the best lawyers it can find to look after its interests. I'm one of 'em, and I'm proud of it. If I hadn't been one of 'em, the chances are you'd never be where you are, that you'd never have gone to college and the law school. The Republican party realizes that the Northeastern is most vitally connected with the material interests of this State; that the prosperity of the road means the prosperity of the State. And the leaders of the party protect the road from vindictive assaults on it like Gaylord's, and from scatterbrains and agitators like your friend Redbrook.” Austen shook his head sadly as he gazed at his father. He had always recognized the futility of arguments, if argument on this point ever arose between them. “It's no use, Judge,” he said. “If material prosperity alone were to be considered, your contention would have some weight. The perpetuation of the principle of American government has to be thought of. Government by a railroad will lead in the end to anarchy. You are courting destruction as it is.” “If you came in here to quote your confounded Emerson--” the Honourable Hilary began, but Austen slipped around the table and took him by the arm and led him perforce to his chair. “No, Judge, that isn't Emerson,” he answered. “It's just common sense, only it sounds to you like drivel. I'm going now,--unless you want to hear some more about the plots I've been getting into. But I want to say this. I ask you to remember that you're my father, and that--I'm fond of you. And that, if you and I happen to be on opposite sides, it won't make any difference as far as my feelings are concerned. I'm always ready to tell you frankly what I'm doing, if you wish to know. Good-by. I suppose I'll see you in Ripton at the end of the week.” And he pressed his father's shoulder. Mr. Vane looked up at his son with a curious expression. Perhaps (as when Austen returned from the shooting of Mr. Blodgett in the West) there was a smattering of admiration and pride in that look, and something of an affection which had long ceased in its strivings for utterance. It was the unconscious tribute, too,--slight as was its exhibition,--of the man whose life has been spent in the conquest of material things to the man who has the audacity, insensate though it seem, to fling these to the winds in his search after ideals. “Good-by, Austen,” said Mr. Vane.