--in all her strange beauty; and he knew that even if she cared for him,
such a sacrifice as linking her life with his was impossible. Yet her
very presence there was like a garden of bloom to him: a garden full of
the odour of life, of vital things, of sweet energy and happy being.
Somehow, he and she were strangely alike. He knew it. From the time
he held her in his arms at Carillon, he knew it. The great adventurous
spirit which was in him belonged also to her. That was as sure as light
and darkness.

"No, there's no master man in me, but I think I know what one could be
like," he remarked at last. He straightened himself against the pillows.
The old look of power came to a face hardly strong enough to bear it.
It was so fine and thin now, and the spirit in him was so prodigious.

"No one cares what happens to the man who always succeeds; no one loves
him," he continued. "Do you know, in my trouble I've had more out of
nigger Jim's affection than I've ever had in my life. Then there's
Rockwell, Osterhaut and Jowett, and there's your father. It was worth
while living to feel the real thing." His hands went out as though
grasping something good and comforting. "I don't suppose every man needs
to be struck as hard as I've been to learn what's what, but I've learned
it. I give you my word of honour, I've learned it."

Her face flushed and her eyes kindled greatly. "Jim, Rockwell,
Osterhaut, Jowett, and my father!" she exclaimed. "Of course trouble
wouldn't do anything but make them come closer round you. Poor people
live so near to misfortune all the time--I mean poor people like Jim,
Osterhaut, and Jowett--that changes of fortune are just natural things to
them. As for my father, he has had to stretch out his hands so often to
those in trouble--"