Somewhere in Halloran's make-up, deep-hidden beneath the laborious years of work and study, lay a well, a spouting, roaring geyser of profanity. It had come into the world with him; it had been richly fed during his rough, knockabout boyhood; and now, in spite of the weights he had put on it, a year or two of Michigan lumbermen had been enough to prime it. Mr. Higginson was still thinking--thinking. The facts were before him now; at last he had penetrated to them and brought them together. And he was facing them--meeting them squarely without flinching. Quietly he sat, one elbow on the green-topped table, his hand shading his eyes; and the lamplight fell gently on his head. He was facing the question of himself, of his ability to conduct his own business; and another question, granting that he was unable, whether he could, in his best judgment, place everything he had in the world--his business, his family, himself--in the hands of this man and bid him Godspeed in his work. So he sat thinking--thinking; and Halloran, a little abashed, but angry still, dropped into a chair and waited. At last the old gentleman spoke--in a low, changed voice. “Mr. Halloran, I have not been well lately; and I think it best--to tell you that--for the present the business is in your hands. I will stay here and advise with you, but--I do not wish you to feel hampered by my presence in carrying on this fight. I am laying a heavy responsibility on you--but I think--I trust you will be equal to it.” Mr. Higginson's part of the fight was over; and he had won. Mrs. Higginson was playing clock at the centre-table. She was a wiry little woman, capable of great exertion and showing remarkable endurance when set on some purpose, such as a shopping trip to Chicago; but suffering at other times from languor, and low spirits, and in constant need of medical attendance. She had never been able to understand why “Mr. H.” should insist on burying himself in the lumber business, when he was plenty rich enough to sell out and take her and her daughter forth from the slumberous quiet of Wauchung into the stir of the world. Such stupidity, such meanness of ideals (to pass over the injustice to herself--_she_ was nothing; _she_ didn't count) was out of her ken. And in the second place, her heart had been set for three seasons on a trip to Hot Springs; and even if Mr. H.'s plainness of character were to hold his interests in Wauchung in spite of her known desires, he certainly owed it to her to give her an outing for a few months. She had borne a great deal for him--but never mind. Doctor Brown would sympathize with her, anyway--would bring her medicine every day if she were but so much as to drop a hint. Mamie had been trying to read a novel; but being herself the meek centre of a tremendous little drama, she found it difficult to focus her attention.