turned the pages slowly. Blocks of color lay upon each, some in squares
alone, some merging into others like a disjointed rainbow. Above each
block, or merged block, were writings, interpretations of color meaning,
word above word; many erasures, as though fresh thought thrust out the
integrity of early ones.

Mr. Procter spoke to his wife. "Till the machine showed the
possibilities of ultimate success, I have said nothing even to you of
its inception. Now, however, I may speak.

"It may sound strange, but from the time I was a very young boy, I've
seen others in color. That is, a vivid personality never failed to
translate itself in purple to me; a pale one in blue. It was out of that
spiritual sight that I built my theory of color. It took me years, but
time after time have I proved to my own complete satisfaction that each
individual has a keynote of color; a color explaining his purpose."

A thousand questions of details, of practicalities that his theory did
not seem in the rough to touch, rushed to Mrs. Procter's lips; but she
could not voice one, she could not quench his uplifted expression and,
indeed, so great was her belief in him that she had faith that he would
overcome all obstacles.

He went on: "After I had my system of color worked out, I began to plan
my machine, then to build it, and now--" He covered his face with his
hands. Suddenly he took them down, turned to his children and with eyes
alight, cried:

"For the progress of humanity have I worked, my children. To read men's
meanings, the purposes for which they live, have I created this