That _he_ should be the one! Had he not lived just the average life--blameless, cheerful, hard-working, fun-loving--the life of the average American? Just by every-day standards his was the useful and good life. But no, that was not enough. In his rush for success he had made property his treasure instead of human beings. That was the crime. And so these dead lay all about him as if he had murdered them with his hands. It was his being an average man that had killed sixty-three girls and men. And what had he been after? Money? He did not use his money, did not need so much. Just a little shared with his employees would have saved them. No, the average man must cease to exist, and the social man take his place, the brother careful of his fellow-men, not careless of all but his own gain. A boy passed, hoarsely shouting that terrible extra. Would nothing in the world silence that sound? The cold sweat came out on his face. He was the guilty one. That was the one fact that he knew. And then he paused; the door opened creakingly and his mother entered. She was a magnificent young-old woman, her body sixty-three years old, her mind singularly fresh and young. She was tall, straight, spirited, and under the neat glossy-white hair was a noble face, somewhat long, somewhat slim, a little pallid, but with firm chin and large forehead and living large black eyes set among sharp lines of lids. The whole woman was focussed in the eyes, sparkled there, lived there, deep, limpid, quick, piercing. Her pallor changed to pure whiteness. "Joe ..." her voice broke. "I've been looking for you...." He paused, walled away from her by years of isolation. She advanced slowly; her face became terrible in its hungry love, its mother passion. She met his eyes, and then he fled to her, and his body shook with rough, tearless sobs. Her relief came in great tears. "And all those girls," she was murmuring, "and those men. How did it happen?" He drew back; his eyes became strange. "Mother," he said, harshly, "I'm the guilty one. There was a heap of cotton waste in the corner, shouldn't have been there. And I let the men smoke cigarettes." She was horrified. "But _why_ did you do that?" she whispered, moving a little away from him. "My thoughtlessness ... my _business_." The word was charged with bitterness. "Business! business! I'm a business man! I wasn't in business"--he gave a weird laugh--"for the health of my employees! I was making money!" She looked at him as if he had ceased being her son and had turned into a monster. Then she swayed, grasped the bedpost and sank on the bed. Her voice was low and harsh. "_Your_ fault ... and all those young girls...." His mother had judged him; he looked at her with haggard eyes, and spoke in a hollow voice. "Nothing will ever wipe this guilt from my mind.... I'm branded for life ... this thing will go on and on and on every day that I live...."