the passing of his own day and generation, and the rise to power of
younger men; with their "shilly-shallying," he would say. He was
an aristocrat, an autocrat, and a survival. He tied Howard's hands
in the management of the now vast mills, and then blamed him for
the results.

But he had been a great man.

He had had two children, a boy and a girl. The girl had been the
tragedy of his middle years, and Howard had been his hope.

On the heights outside the city and overlooking the river he owned
a farm, and now and then, on Sunday afternoons in the eighties, he
drove out there, with Howard sitting beside him, a rangy boy in
his teens, in the victoria which Anthony considered the proper
vehicle for Sunday afternoons. The farmhouse was in a hollow, but
always on those excursions Anthony, fastidiously dressed, picking
his way half-irritably through briars and cornfields, would go to
the edge of the cliffs and stand there, looking down. Below was
the muddy river, sluggish always, but a thing of terror in spring
freshets. And across was the east side, already a sordid place,
its steel mills belching black smoke that killed the green of the
hillsides, its furnaces dwarfed by distance and height, its rows of
unpainted wooden structures which housed the mill laborers.

Howard would go with him, but Howard dreamed no dreams. He was a
sturdy, dependable, unimaginative boy, watching the squirrels or
flinging stones over the palisades. Life for Howard was already
a thing determined. He would go to college, and then he would
come back and go into the mill offices. In time, he would take