"Our youthful conceit is more justifiable than such self-disparagement," he answered. "I often think that humility--at any rate a certain kind--is a questionable virtue. In lessening our own value, we lessen our own responsibility, and our responsibility is tremendous. One life can make the difference of a cathedral spire in a town of low-built huts or of a snow mountain in an ugly plain. I am sure of it--and so are you. So is everybody who thinks about it. But people do not think. It is sometimes much more convenient to believe that one is too insignificant to have any responsibility. But to my mind there is not a vagabond in the street who is not directly helping on our national decay, and who might not be building up the Empire." He leaned toward her, lowering his voice. "You know I am not just talking, Lois. It is my life's principle which I lay before you--mine and yours. How long is it since we have spoken of these things? Ten years. Since then we have been building steadily at our cathedral. We must go on." "How can we?" she answered wearily. "It is not our cathedral any more. I thought you had forgotten, and--" "My first day in Marut I sent a message to you--a little in fun, but with an earnest purpose. I wanted to see if you had forgotten, and I wanted you to know that I had remembered. I told you that the cathedral still lacked its chief spire." "I never got the message. It was that day Archibald asked me to be his wife. When did you send the letter?" "It was not a letter but a verbal message, by Travers." "That afternoon?" "Yes, that afternoon." She covered her face with her hand. "He--he must have forgotten," she said at last. "Yes, he must have forgotten," he agreed quietly. There was a long silence. She remained motionless, but he heard her breath being drawn in quick, painful gasps. The battle for them both was at its height. He bent forward and took the hand that lay clenched in her lap gently in his own. [Illustration: He took her hand that lay clutched in her lap.] "Dear little Lois, dear little comrade! We are like two architects, you and I. We were very young when we set out on our great task, and no doubt we have made many blunders. In the beginning we each hoped secretly that the time would come when we should be able to crown our work hand in hand. It was that I was thinking of when I sent my message. Well, things have turned out differently--perhaps through our own fault. But the cathedral must go on. Instead of one spire, as we had hoped, there will be two spires. You will build yours, I mine. They will be far apart, and so we of necessity must be apart, too. But the cathedral will go on; and in the end--who knows?--it may be more perfect than as we saw it in our first great plan." "But we might have built together, Adam!"