The man in the wheel chair turned to the unfinished basket on the table
beside him and handled his work aimlessly, as if in sorrow that he had
no word of comfort for her.

When Adam Ward's daughter spoke again there was a curious note of
defiance in her voice, but her eyes, when the Interpreter turned to
look at her, were fixed upon her old friend with an expression of
painful anxiety and fear. "Of course his condition is all due to his
years of hard work and to the mental and nervous strain of his
business. It--it couldn't be anything else, could it?"

The Interpreter, who seemed to be watching the intricate and constantly
changing forms that the columns of smoke from the tall stacks were
shaping, apparently did not hear.

"Don't--don't you think it is all because of his worry over the Mill?"

"Yes, Helen," the Interpreter answered, at last, "I am sure your
father's trouble all comes from the Mill."

For a while she did not speak, but sat looking wistfully toward the
clump of trees that shaded her birthplace and the white cottage where
Peter Martin lived with Charlie and Mary.

Then she said, musingly, "How happy we all were in the old house, when
father worked in the Mill with you and Uncle Pete, and you used to come
for Sunday dinner with us. Do you know, sometimes"--she hesitated as if
making a confession of which she was a little ashamed--"sometimes--that
is, since brother came home from France, I--I almost hate it. I think I