"I finished the book. That young man had an extraordinary experience, to say the least," said Wilson. "Mr. Carroll has finished the copy I sold him, but his sympathies are not altogether with the pioneer; he criticises him." "How's that? Oh, yes, I understand. I have heard the same thing from others. They see it; that the pioneer should have seen the evil and insincerity of the preacher, and should have governed his happiness accordingly. Yes," he went on, "but the pioneer _did_ see that the preacher meant no good; he was aware, fully aware that he was about to become the victim of an intrigue. But regardless of this fact, it must be appreciated, that if this grave incident had not come to pass in the life of that young man, we would not now have the book. Men do not----" "And women." "Yes, of course," he smiled, "write that kind of book unless their lives have met with extreme reverses; something in their souls has gone amiss, and, as a last resort--I can't quite find the words to explain it; but it--what they write--is a brief of the soul; while the public is the court, and to this court, as in the common court of the land, they cry out for justice, restitution." "Well," sighed Constance, "whoever this Lochinvar is, and regardless of his misfortunes, writing the book has made one person happy. That person is Mildred Latham. The book is her hobby. I would give something to learn why she is so wrapped up in the work; but it gives her more pleasure, I am sure, to show it to someone, and tell them the story a dozen times a day, than it does some of those levee Negroes to get drunk. And the work, she is simply lost in it. She makes the six work days of the week seem like one, with her cheerful enthusiasm. The very life in itself seems to please her. To make readers out of multitudes who've never given reading a second thought, seems to be her great ambition. She succeeds, too. And at the end of such days, more than at any other time, she is like I fancy her to be: Feminine, lovable, sympathetic--human in all its depths." "We certainly struck it rich when she condescended to play for the choir. And she can seem to get more out of the organ than anyone has heretofore." "She sings too. I never knew that she could sing so sweetly, until she led last Sunday, when Bernice Waverly was ill." "She almost made me forget my text." "She's coming now," whispered Constance, as, upon the narrow walk, a familiar footfall sounded. Presently the screen slammed lightly behind the one of their conversation. "I've been clear to the river, walked all the way there and back. Thirty blocks in all," she cried cheerfully, surveying both, smilingly.