The farmer was agitated and presented his case desperately. Mr.
Worth knew the situation--the unforeseen circumstances that made it
impossible for him to pay then. Only two months more were needed--
until his new crop matured. He could not blame Mr. Worth, of course.
He understood that it was business, but still--The farmer searched
that cold, mask-like face for a ray of hope as a man might hold out
his hands for pity to a machine. He was made to feel somehow that
the banker was not a man with human blood, but a mechanical
something, governed and run by a mighty irresistible power with
which it had nothing to do save to obey as a locomotive obeys its
steam.

Jefferson Worth began explaining again in exact, precise tones that
the loan, wholly for business reasons, was impossible, when Barbara
entered the bank. As the girl greeted the teller in front, her
voice, full and rich, with the same unconscious power that looked
out of her eyes and spoke in every movement of her body, came
through the bronze grating at the window and carried down the room.
Jefferson Worth paused. With the farmer he faced the open door of
his apartment. Every man in the place looked up. The desk-weary
clerks smilingly answered her greeting and turned back to their
books with renewed energy. The cashier straightened up from his
papers and--leaning back in his chair--exchanged a jest with her as
she passed.

"Oh, excuse me, father, I thought you were alone. How do you do, Mr.
Wheeler? And how is Mrs. Wheeler and that dear little baby?"

The man's face lighted, his form straightened, his voice rang out