Mr. Procter lifted the helmet, hushed the machine. He went to his book, took it to the window, raised the shade a trifle and peered down. "As I knew," he said. Then closing the book and turning to his small daughter, he went on: "My little Maizie will some day nurse back to health those who are weary and worn; she will be patient, full of understanding, and she will be greatly beloved." Maizie's face grew luminous. "And so I'll do good too, just like you," she said, with a beautiful faith. "You will do good, too, my daughter," he answered, with exquisite egotism in his inclusion. Peter, eager-eyed, looked up at his father. "Do you think I have a color, too, daddy?" he asked. "Yes, Peter. Take your place." Peter did so. For him there grew a tongue of sturdy bronze. In the dim light it waved across the surface of the glass plate. And Mr. Procter said: "In time our little boy Peter will build great bridges." "That four horses can walk across, daddy?" Peter cried in ecstasy. "That a hundred horses can walk across, and a big engine pull safely its train of cars." Then again into the inventor's eyes leaped a radiance. He placed his hand lovingly upon the machine as though it were alive, and indeed so it seemed to be, for into it he had put his finest ideals, his deepest hopes for the development of man. "A few months more of work," he cried. "And then it will be ready to give to the world." Someone came lightly up the stairs. A head appeared, then a body, then a hearty voice: "May I come in?" it asked. Mrs. Procter swung the door wide to Mr. Reynolds, neighbor across the way. He entered with a little hesitation. He was a large man with a heavy brick-colored face, yet with eyes that had preserved some spirit of youth. Mr. Reynolds was as great an idealist as his friend, the inventor, though his idealism gave out in totally different directions. He read all sorts of books, but reacted to them with originality. His imagination only grasped their meanings, not his intellect. He worked in another town, several miles from Anchorville, in a large chair factory, and several times a week in the evening he stood upon a soap box on a street corner, and amused a mixed audience by his picturesque setting forth of what he thought was wrong with the world; also what methods he believed would, if employed, straighten out the tangles. Since he spoke "straight from the shoulder," as he put it, touching dramatically upon the hand of wealth as causing the tangles, he had called down upon himself the wrath of the town's richest man, old John Massey, owner of the Massey Steel Mills. Twice Mr. Massey had threatened the eloquent and fearless orator with arrest, and twice for some unknown reason he had refrained from carrying out his threat, and the authorities of the town complacently allowed Mr. Reynolds to continue his pastime. "I knew you were at home today," said Mr. Reynolds, "and I must see the machine." He looked at the joyous face of the inventor.