Six months and a year had elapsed. And the monument stood serenely in the sunlight, as Sidney Wyeth came down the street that Sunday morn. To the side of this monument stood another, imposing and grand, not yet finished, but soon to be, and it had all come through the indirect efforts of B.J. Dickson. They were not satisfied with the one, when they learned they _could_ do things, but needed another--so they subscribed the necessary funds without effort, and built the other. Before entering, Sidney walked across the street and viewed the structure from the other side. Thus he saw his people, as others see them. For his life had been spent, for the most part, in white civilization. As he surveyed it carefully, he was relieved to find that, to a stranger, there was nothing to indicate that colored people occupied the building. An intelligent looking man came out of it, and, crossing the street, bowed casually to Wyeth. The latter, returning it, inquired regarding the building and Dickson, and he was told the following: "Yes, while there are many who do not give Dickson the credit, he is, nevertheless, the man who has made all that possible." "Everything is well kept apparently," said Wyeth. "That is unusual for our people." "That's Dickson," said the other. And then aside he inquired: "Have you ever been through it?" "I am just going," said Sidney. "You should have done so during the week. Any time before one o'clock Saturday." "Why one o'clock Saturday?" "Because everything ceases at that time." "Indeed," Wyeth commented in wide surprise. "System?" "That's it. That's Dickson." "Indeed! Does he have charge of everything?" "Indirectly, yes. That is, he does not own everything, of course not; but it's like this: Do you observe how everything is in order?" Wyeth did, and waited.