still seeing the fantastic side of this grand game of swindle.

Two paragraphs made an especial impression on her:

``Remsen City is no worse--and no better--than other American
cities. It's typical. But we who live here needn't worry about
the rest of the country. The thing for us to do is to CLEAN UP
AT HOME.''

``We are more careful than any paper in this town about verifying
every statement we make, before we make it. If we should publish
a single statement about anyone that was false even in part we
would be suppressed. The judges, the bosses, the owners of the
big blood-sucking public service corporations, the whole ruling
class, are eager to put us out of existence. Don't forget this
fact when you hear the New Day called a lying, demagogical
sheet.''

With the paper beside her on the rustic bench, she fell to
dreaming--not of a brighter and better world, of a wiser and
freer race, but of Victor Dorn, the personality that had unaided
become such a power in Remsen City, the personality that sparkled
and glowed in the interesting pages of the New Day, that made its
sentences read as if they were spoken into your very ears by an
earnest, honest voice issuing from a fascinating, humor-loving,
intensely human and natural person before your very eyes. But it
was not round Victor Dorn's brain that her imagination played.

``After all,'' thought she, ``Napoleon wasn't much over five
feet. Most of the big men have been little men. Of course,