And later on I had company in these unaccustomed emotions; the crowd gave way, and who should come into the room but Mary Magna! She did not speak to either of us, but slipped to one side and stood in silence--while the crowd watched her furtively out of the corner of its eyes, thinking her some foreign princess, with her bold, dark beauty and her costly attire. I went over to her, whispering, “How did you get here?” She explained that, when we did not arrive at the studios, she had called up the Stebbins home and learned about the accident. “They warned me not to come here, because this man was a terrible Bolshevik; he made a blood-thirsty speech to the mob. What did he say?” I started to tell; but I was interrupted by a piercing shriek. A sick and emaciated young girl with paralyzed limbs had been carried into the room. They had laid her on the couch, from which the child had been taken away, and Carpenter had put his hands upon her. At once the girl had risen up--and here she stood, her hands flung into the air, literally screaming her triumphant joy. Of course the crowd took it up--these primitive people are always glad of a chance to make a big noise, so the whole room was in a clamor, and Carpenter had hard work to extract himself from the throng which wished to touch his hands and his clothing, and to worship him on their knees. He came over to us, and smiled. “Is not this better than acting, Mary? “Yes, surely--if one can do it.” Said he: “Everyone could do it, if they knew.” “Is that really true?” she asked, with passionate earnestness. “There is a god in every man, and in every woman.” “Why don't they know it, then?” “There is a god, and also a beast. The beast is old, and familiar, and powerful; the god is new, and strange, and afraid. Because of his fear, the beast kills him.” “What is the beast?” “His name is self; and he has many forms. In men he is greed; in women he is vanity, and goes attired in much raiment--the chains, and the bracelets, and the mufflers--” “Oh, don't!” cried Mary, wildly. “Very well, Mary; I won't.” And he didn't. But, looking at Mary, it seemed that she was just as unhappy as if he had. He turned to an old man who had hobbled into the room on crutches. “Poor old comrade! Poor old friend!” His voice seemed to break with pity. “They have worked you like an old mule, until your skin is cracked and your joints grown hard; but they have not been so kind to you as to an old mule--they have left you to suffer!” To a pale young woman who staggered towards him, coughing, he cried: “What can I do for you? They are starving you to death! You need food--and I have no food to give!” He raised his arms, in sudden wrath. “Bring forth the masters of this city, who starve the poor, while they themselves riot in wantonness!”