Martin Moreland’s clenched muscles shivered the fragile wine glass until when he opened his hand, the blood was dripping from it. “Oh, Martin!” cried Marcia, “I did my best with the boy! Before God, I did! I never mentioned Junior’s name to him. I almost never speak to him at all, only about the work. The thing I did was to try to get him to study hard. He is a good boy, and I thought that was his only chance.” “‘A good boy!’” raved Martin Moreland. “‘A good boy!’ He’s an insidious imp of the devil! To-night he tried to kill Junior, and it may be that by morning my boy will develop concussion of the brain. _Concussion of the brain!_” He shouted each word at the terrified Marcia, wildly gesticulating toward her with his dripping hand. “I thought that first lesson I gave him would be enough for him. To-night I’ll not leave him till he’s in the same shape my boy is.” He turned and started toward the door. Marcia threw herself before him. “Wait, Martin! Wait!” she begged. “Don’t go to him feeling that way, you might kill him!” He thrust her roughly aside and the bleeding hand left its impress on the breast of a white dress that she was wearing for his allurement. “I’ll take devilish good care that I don’t kill him,” he said, “because I cannot afford the scandal. Maybe you think I don’t know every hound of the pack that would be at my throat if they had the slightest encouragement. Maybe you think I don’t know the man who would lead in running me down, if I gave him the least hint as to where he could find an opening.” He turned and started toward the stairway. Jason had dropped on his pillow just as he was, and had fallen asleep, his brain busy with the events of the evening. He was deep in the midst of a wonderful dream. He had seen himself with flesh on his bones, hope in his eyes, and pride in his heart. He made a surprising vision. He was wearing clothing as beautiful as the suits that always had been worn by Junior Moreland. He had seen himself, with the step of independence, standing before the door of Mahlon Spellman. He had used the knocker and had stepped inside. The great merchant had shaken hands with him and with his most urbane gesture had indicated that he was to walk into the parlour. He had boldly walked in, and in the presence of Mrs. Spellman and his schoolmates, he had offered Mahala the bird. She had been in such transports of joy as he had seen with his actual eyes that evening. She had opened the cage door and the gold bird had left its perch and flown to her finger; as she held it up, suddenly frightened at the faces and the lights, it had darted swiftly above their heads and from the open doorway.