her foot was on the stair, and in another moment she came into view; he saw at once the apprehension in her face, he heard it in her voice as she spoke from the stairs,—
"Oh, Floyd! It's something about Stewart!"
"There's where you're wrong," he laughed. "Not a word about Stewart. Now can you guess?"
But she had been so agitated by all her forebodings that great as was her relief she could not immediately turn to any other subject; so she did not heed his question; she gave him her hand and said, "Oh, I'm so troubled about Stewart, Floyd; I was sure it was about Stewart when you telephoned that you had something to tell me. He is so sincere in all that he's doing—and saying; it's all a conviction—almost a religion with him—and he—he's let go—I'm afraid he's lost his grip on other things—" Her eyes were bright with tears. "And I remember—the day I pushed him down with an oar, Floyd;—and now I don't dare to say anything—lest—he's trying to—to find himself, just as he was that day—and if I interfered, I might only push him down again. And this time—something tells me—it would be fatal; not even you could bring him back to me."
"Stewart has sudden enthusiasms that have to go through him like a fever," Floyd said lightly. "This is a little more violent than most, but you must n't think it's going to finish him."
"It is n't the enthusiasm that I mind." She seated herself in a low chair and leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. "It's—it's his opposition to you.—The rest of it—his wanting to improve the condition of workingmen—he's earnest and sincere in that, I know; that's really become with him a great purpose. But—it's his starting in against you—and—and, I'm afraid, getting embittered because at once all his old friends have turned against him—my father, for instance; he's always admired Stewart tremendously, but now he's quite out of patience with him; and I think Stewart's found it so with
