"Why," he laughed, "I expected to do great things. Whereas, look, I have done _nothing_. This strike ends in a little bettering, and a few people read my paper. It's just a little stir, hardly a dent--a few atoms set into motion. How slow! how slow! _Patience_! That's the word I've learned! It will take worlds of time; it will take a multitude striving; it will take unnumbered forces--education, health-work, eugenics, town-planning, the rise of women, philanthropy, law--a thousand thousand dawning powers. Oh, we are only at the faint beginnings of things!" And he thought of the books he had read, and the theories of which he had been so sure. "But," he exclaimed, "was my diagnosis correct? Did I really know the human muddle? Has any man really mapped out civilization? It's so huge, complex, varied--so many disorganized forces--who can classify it--label it? It's bigger than our thought about it. We lay hands on only a few wisps of it! Life! Life itself--not our interpretation--is the great outworking force!" And then again. "We see certain tendencies and believe they will advance unhindered, but there may be other tendencies to counteract, change, even defeat these. No future can be predicted! And yet I was so sure of the future--so sure of what we are to build--that future which we keep modifying so persistently the moment it hits To-day." In short, he had reached his _social manhood_--which meant to him, not dogma, but the willingness to arise every morning ready to reshape his course, prepared for any adventure, receptive, open-minded, and all willing to render his very life for what seemed good to do. Scientific reverence this, the willingness to experiment, to try, to test, and then, if the test failed, to grope for a new line of outlet, the readiness to reverse all he believed in in the face of a new and contradictory fact. He was a new Joe Blaine. And so the spirit that sprang from those dead girls became a creative power, a patient, living strength. And so in the blaze of new morning, in the beginnings of a new life, Joe and Myra leaned over the rail of the boat, coming back, coming back to the ramparts and heights of the great World City. They saw full in the glory of the morning sun those tiers on tiers of towers rising to their lonely pinnacle. Beneath them harbor craft scurried about in the bright waters; above them rose the Big Brothers of the city looking out toward the sea. It seemed some vision builded of no human hands. It seemed winged and uplifted toward the skies, an immensity of power and beauty. It seemed to float on measureless waters, a magic metropolis, setting sail for the Arabian Nights. Tears came into Joe's eyes. He held Myra's hand fast. "Are you glad to get back?" "Yes, glad, Joe." "No more peace, no more green earth, Myra." "I know it, Joe." "Even our honeymoon--that can't be repeated, can it?" "No," she said, sadly, "I guess it cannot."