with this amazon. What noble burden for the victorious strength.

Dear old Mrs. Dunster was dispensing tea, looking from time to time
with interest towards Miss Moorsom. The aged statesman having
eaten a raw tomato and drunk a glass of milk (a habit of his early
farming days, long before politics, when, pioneer of wheat-growing,
he demonstrated the possibility of raising crops on ground looking
barren enough to discourage a magician), smoothed his white beard,
and struck lightly Renouard's knee with his big wrinkled hand.

"You had better come back to-night and dine with us quietly."

He liked this young man, a pioneer, too, in more than one
direction. Mrs. Dunster added: "Do. It will be very quiet. I
don't even know if Willie will be home for dinner." Renouard
murmured his thanks, and left the terrace to go on board the
schooner. While lingering in the drawing-room doorway he heard the
resonant voice of old Dunster uttering oracularly -

". . . the leading man here some day. . . . Like me."

Renouard let the thin summer portiere of the doorway fall behind
him. The voice of Professor Moorsom said -

"I am told that he has made an enemy of almost every man who had to
work with him."

"That's nothing. He did his work. . . . Like me."

"He never counted the cost they say. Not even of lives."