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On the occasion of every accident that befalls you, remember to turn to yourself and inquire what power you have for turning it to use.—EPICTETU’s.

I took my job and I stuck;

And I took the chances they wouldn’t, an' now they're calling t luck. —RUDYARD KIPLING. HERE is no use in saying there is no such thing as luck. There is nothing that influences our lives quite so much as luck—provided we know what luck is and how to use it. I have no patience with the man who says he has never had any-luck. I have even less patience, however, with the man who says life is all luck, and no matter what we do, the fall of the cards will govern. No one can sit down and trust to luck; no one can arrange in advance that all of his luck will be good. What one can do—and indeed must do—is to arrange to know good luck when one sees it and to learn something from what might be called bad luck. We can learn to understand good luck only by having enough bad luck to distinguish the one from the other. For there are three kinds of luck. There is good luck. There is bad luck. And then there is also the kind of “luck” that comes about, if not by arrangement, at least by so controlling affairs that the luck will fall only in one direction. Of course you may make a mistake about which way it ought to fall and have it fall the wrong way, but that is not the fault of the luck. The importance, however, that bull luck—good or bad—plays is much less than generally fancied. We sometimes get ourselves quite a bit mixed up on luck. We think it is both the start and the finish. But luck, like a good golf stroke, re

quires a follow-through. To me this whole matter of luck is bound up in a cowboy motto that I found somewhere and which I always keep hanging in my room. It is spelled so: “Life ain't in holding a good hand but in plaing

a pore hand well.”

By John Hays Hammond Illustrated by Herbert M. Stoops

All luck is divided into three kinds: bull luck, bad luck—and controlled luck. Neither Collier's nor Mr. Hammond will subscribe to what John Stuart Mill, greatest of writers on logic and political economy, once said about luck. "Next to birth,” said Mill, "the chief cause of success is accident and opportunity. No degree whatever of good conduct can raise most people in the world without fortunate accidents.” That isn't true. Nobody's life would be worth living if it were true. Mr. Hammond here analyzes, better than it has ever been done before, the part that controlled luck really does play in your life and business.

If I had my way, I would hang that in big letters in every school and university—in every place where young men meet. It says that if you add skill and pluck to anything, the result will be what others call luck.

Nowadays it seems to be the fashion to sneer a little at a man who takes his chances as they come and makes the most of them. They say: “Oh, he's merely an opportunist.” I cannot see how a man can amount to anything if he is anything else. Suppose

he starts out to find a gold mine and happens to stumble over a silver mine. He is most certainly an opportunist if he does the only sensible thing under the circumstances, which is to postpone hunting for the gold and take the silver. Would we say if he passed up the silver mine that he was a man of great and lofty principle, not to be deviated by any circumstance? It is the same way with life. I think one should fix a destination, but also bear in mind that this destination was perhaps not too maturely settled on, that maybe some of the unfulfilled wishes were none too worthy, and that some fresh opportunity may promise more than the previously settled ambition. Or again it may be that you have thought of only one road to your destination, while experience will teach you that there are always several roads. They say that Winston Churchill, who has been so large a figure in British politics for the last twenty years and who is still a young man, is a combination of luck and opportunism. He first came into prominence, it will be remembered, through a spectacular escape from prison in the Boer War. Many others had similar escapes, many more made escapes that were infinitely more difficult and dangerous. But Churchill's was the escape that made him a hero in England, that carried him into Parliament, and finally into the Cabinet. Ever since that escape he has been one of the prominent figures of England. Was it merely bull luck that carried him along? Was it luck that made Buffalo Bill a boys' hero and gave him a Wild West Show that was such a tremendous money-maker? Hundreds of other men had been scouts and had fought Indians and driven stagecoaches and grown up with the West when it was wild. We do not know their names. Go back to Winston Churchill. He had the advantage of being fairly rich. He might have turned out as a fox-hunting squire, or as a gentleman who never has his name in the papers excepting when he writes an indignant letter to the “Times” about something.

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But Churchill was different. Before he had finished school he had decided to be a statesman. He was going to be in politics; he was going to get into politics somehow or other, and he knew that to get in in a big way he had to make himself known. It so happened that he had his chance in the Boer War, just as Colonel Roosevelt had his chance in the Spanish War. If it had not been the Boer War with Churchill, it would have been something else; if it had not been the Spanish War with Roosevelt, it would have been something else. Both men were ready to capitalize whatever opportunities came their way—and the man who is looking for opportunities finds that they do come his way.

There is nothing invidious in this; there is nothing wrong in it. If a man feels that he has a certain kind of ability, he ought to use every possible means to exploit it. He will know that he cannot travel on his reputation; he will know that he can use the incident only so far and that thereafter he will have to travel on his ability. No one would for an instant say that Colonel Roosevelt's largest contribution to American life was his service in Cuba. Taking his life as a whole, that service appears insignificant. He had the ability to capitalize that incident and get into a position where the public could find out that he was really a great man who could do great things. It is quite ridiculous, at least in my mind, to characterize a man such as Colonel Roosevelt or a man such as Winston Churchill—and I do not mean to compare the ability of the two men, but merely to represent two men who are supposed to be children of fortune—as lucky.

They made their luck. They knew luck when they saw it. Hundreds of other men of lesser ability and with equal or even greater opportunities can be found to-day who will say that Roosevelt and Churchill simply had luck. These might-have-beens could not possibly have “luck.” They have not the nose for luck.

Cecil Rhodes Made His Own Luck

ECAUSE in the past there was a good deal of plain bull luck in mining (and not all of it is gone to-day) I think there are more hard-luck stories per square inch in the mining camps than anywhere else. The owners and proprietors of these stories seem to flourish best in the deserted camps. These men tell each other of what they have missed. They get what might be called the hard-luck habit, and there is no way of breaking the habit. I believe if one of them found a ton of gold all done up in bars ready for the mint somehow he would contrive to have the bars fall on him and kill him, and when he was dying he would murmur: “If I had only gone with Jim to Idaho, I would now be half a million to the good instead of being crushed with a lot of gold.” There is so much hard luck in mining because there is also so much good luck. There must be a balance in things. There is a variety that one might call “burro” luck. Maybe the prospector's donkeys get into the way of looking around for good things, because the Bunker Hill and Sullivan mine of Idaho, which is the greatest silver-lead in the world, was stumbled over by prospectors searching for a burno which had strayed from camp! And Tonopah, too, was found in nearly the same fashion. Some men do have bull luck. But, oddly enough, those who sometimes have bad luck seem to get on much better than those with the good luck. I remember Barney Barnato. The De Beers Company used to sell its entire output for a year ahead to a syndicate on a carat basis. The bidder had to take the run of the mine in carats. Everyone knows that a tencarat diamond is worth many times more than ten one-carat diamonds. The price under the concession often made the little stones an actual loss to the bidder. Barnato's syndicate contract ended at noon on a certain day. All diamonds mined after that had to go to the Wernher-Beij, syndicate, his great competitors. The first blast after twelve o'clock on that day turned out a diamond weighing more than

100 carats and worth several hundred thousand dollars. That was bull luck!’ The difference between a man who succeeds and as man who fails is often in how he takes the bits of real hard luck that come to him. A great, all-butdestroying calamity that thrusts itself into a prosperous career more often than not makes a man more useful than before. It brings out faculties that he did not know he had. Consider Cecil Rhodes. Think of him first as the youngest of nine children of an impoverished English clergyman. Think of him as being too puny and

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“Life,” says the cowboy motto, “ain't in holding a good hand but in plaing a pore hand well”

sickly at the age of seventeen to be able to work. Then think of him as an empire builder at forty— one of the few men who have made whole countries. He went in where nothing was, and came out not only a very rich man but a man who made a nation where only people were before. You will undoubtedly think of him as a man who succeeded only by a surprising, surpassing run of luck. Yet through my long association with Rhodes I never knew him to have anything that might be called luck excepting the one piece of bad luck that upset all the plans of years, made him resign his public office, and utterly, although quite unjustly, disgraced him for the time being. That incident, in the case of any ordinary man, would have marked the close of a career. But Rhodes was the better for it. He had something much bigger than luck. He needed a reverse to bring him all out. He had an insatiable ambition to add to the greatness of England. It started with him as a child. He was forever getting out an atlas and trying to think how the countries would be arranged in the next century. Many times I saw him sweep the map of Africa with his hand and say: “I want to see all that red.” He eared nothing at all about money excepting

as it served to realize his ends; he knew that he could not realize his ends without money. He was not afraid to take chances. The first thing he did in that new and growing country, and at a time when by all records he should have been a clerk in some one's office, was to form a combination that produced nearly all of the diamonds in the world and that regulated the supply and fixed the price. At thirtyseven he was Prime Minister of the Cape Colony and an outstanding figure of the British Empire. Yet he had done this all by calculations that were almost mathematical in their exactness. Always he had an immediate end to achieve. He found out the ways to that end. Then he threw himself entirely into the achieving of that end and there was nothing that could stop him. He made his luck. His great piece of ill luck was the outcome of the Jameson Raid and the subsequent political investigation. He had taken a great chance and failed. He had to give up his Prime Ministership—and he loved that office because he loved power. An ordinary man would have been beaten, but he saw in that stroke of ill luck (for an impartial judge will some time have to say that it was ill luck that the project behind the Jameson Raid did not succeed) a chance to do more. He told my wife that he thought it was a piece of good luck and not hard luck at all. He said it had made him see things in a different and better light than ever, and that he thought he would be more useful for the experience.

Making Chance Work for You

To: men who do have real bull luck, who play a hunch and win a fortune by falling over a mine where no gold was supposed to be, or by guessing the right color enough times in succession on a roulette wheel, or who make a killing on the stock market, or in some fashion or other play the hundred-to-one shot and win, hardly ever hold their money. They may be shrewd, the money they get suddenly may not turn their heads and sometimes they may even become conservative, but nearly always, because what they get is not riveted down by experience, they lose it. For instance, the Schieflin brothers, who, aimlessly prospecting in a region that was supposed to be worthless, ran across the great Tombstone, Ariz., property. It turned out to be a fine rich property, and they made a great deal of money. They had made it by bull luck, but they were not gamblers; they were sound, sensible men. They refused to reinvest their earnings or winnings in more mines; they were not going to have everything they owned tied up in mines, so they used their best judgment in outside securities. They lost nearly every penny they had made 1 They confused their mining luck with their investment judgment. Science and training have gone far toward eliminating bull luck. An engineer plans an undertaking. He may come to a point on which there is no statistical information. He may have to work out all of that part of the problem on his own. He will have solved his problems to a point where unless something most unusual happens, success is inevitable. His luck will be in not having the unusual happen. Take mining again. Take the development of the deep levels of the Rand. Working out those levels practically made the future of the Rand. That was said to be a lucky idea of my engineers and myself. But was it? We knew the geology of that country. We felt certain that there was gold far below any of the levels that had been worked. Perhaps it took courage to advise our clients to risk millions in sinking thousands of feet of shafts. Perhaps it was luck that they took our advice. We would have trusted to luck had we advised them to sink a single costly shaft and stand or fall by the result of that one adventure, but we did nothing of the kind. That is not my method of working. Instead, the plan that we proposed, and the plan that we carried out was to distribute our chances over a large territory, to put down many shafts on the assumption, first, that the gold was there, and, second, which is an equally important assumption, that it probably would not be located on a single sinking except by chance. As it happened, a few of the shafts turned up nothing. If we had depended on those few, our adventure would have been a failure, but by sinking many, the few that did fail gave us valuable indications for future work, and the cost of those few, with so many being entirely successful, was as nothing. - The same rule holds in getting a start in business. Most business comes from men. Whatever your talents, they will languish (Continued on page 25) E were a picturesque group, I suppose, loafing on Ab Linder's saloon porch, waiting for the stage to come in from Chuckawalla. We were far removed from all womankind; and when men lack the appraising eye of the opposite sex they become lax in their habits, careless alike of moral and sartorial pulchritude. But we men of Stovelid did not realize this. We were accustomed to ourselves as we were. “Wonder what's keepin' Poker Terribone?” said Uncle Tommy Saddler. He squinted under bushy old eyebrows toward the lower end of the street where the Chuckawalla stage road made a narrow break in the low brush. “I hope he ain't got drunk and lost the mail bag.” “I hope he ain't got drunk and lost the new manager of the hotel,” said Daddy Burris. “If we don’t get a good manager, we'll maybe have to sleep out in the bresh l’” Pacheco Dan was of the same mind. “I’m curious to see what the new manager will be like,” he said. “I ain’t sayin’ I’m glad Uncle Jimmy Barto got sick and had to quit; I merely advances the hope that the new one will leave us lose our haggard look.” “And Sam Duck ain't any better!” complained Uncle Tommy Saddler peevishly. “If we pick on him a while longer, I got a hunch that Chink's goin' to poison us all!” “Ain’t it the truth?” wailed Ab Linder. “Sam Duck's a good cook, but it takes a reg'lar man with whiskers to manage a hotel in this town. Besides, Sam Duck don't understand he-man jests. He ain’t got no sense of humor. Why, when I tied the end of his queue to a flatiron yesterday, he grabbed his cleaver and chased me clean out of town, chatterin’ the porch in a panic and went teetering away down the street. The girl went inside the hotel and shut the door behind her. Over on the saloon porch we caught our breath in a gasping sigh. After he had put his team away, Poker Terribone came round and joined us in Ab Linder's place. But he was not the rollicking, devil-may-care Poker Terribone of yesterday. “I used to think that Adam was a poor, weak excuse for a man,” began Poker without other preamble. “Yes, sir, I used to think that when Adam laid all the blame on his li'l wife he was a low sneak and ought to have been horsewhipped. But now I don’t know. Maybe that was just a newspaper story. Maybe there was two sides to that story, after all. Maybe Adam couldn’t help it!” “Who's this girl you brought in to-night, Poker?” asked Ab Linder. “And what did she do to you?” “She’s Miss Birdie Calamus—and what she done to me was a plenty!” said Poker wildly. “She gets my goat—that's what she done to me! I reckon Stovelid's goin' to know Ole Man Trouble real intimate from now on!” “On account of Birdie Calamus?” inquired Ab. Poker nodded. “On account of Birdie Calamus!” he said. “This female is goin’ to stand Stovelid on its head and keep it there!” “She-she didn’t look to me none dangerous,” Uncle Saddler quavered nervously. “Of course I been a desert man all my life and I ain’t never got real well acquainted with no She, but this lady—” “Which shows you ain’t goin’ to last long when she starts workin’ on you!” said Poker earnestly. “Me, I thought the same way about her when she climbs aboard my stage at Chuckawalla, after leavin' the Los Angeles train. I figured her as timid and harmless as a rabbit. I’d always heard women was thataway. But I soon learns different. She-she gets my goat afore we’re twenty miles out of Chuckawalla!”

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Birdie paused just inside the door and looked at us. That was all, but that look flayed the skin from our pride

By Lowell Otus Reese Illustrated by William B. King

“Did you ever see a kitten wrinkle up its nose and fluff up its fur and try to terrify a bulldog?” asked Birdie Calamus. “That was me! All my life I’ve had to fight. A girl who goes out to face the world has to fight every day of her life. And I found out early I could bluff. How frightened I was!”

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like a monkey! And the worst of it was that I couldn't tell whether he was cussin' me or recitin’ the Chinese multiplication table!” “Here comes Poker Terribone,” said Uncle Tommy Saddler. “But what's the matter with him? Usually he comes into town a-crackin’ his whip and yellin’ like a Piute with the stomachache. Look attim— drivin' slow and cautious, like he was afraid of wakin’ the baby!” Indeed, it was a subdued old Poker Terribone that drove the stage up to the Stovelid Hotel across the Stiffly he clambered down on the opposite side of the vehicle and helped a girl to the ground. A girl! Stovelid's bachelor world fell to pieces in

The Feminine Touch *...*.*.

dweller in more civilized lands this may seem absurd; but any man who has spent some years in a womanless wilderness will understand the effect that the coming of this first girl had upon the community of Stovelid. * Poker Terribone scrambled hurriedly back into his seat and drove on. Across the street the girl turned for a look about her before entering the hotel. As her glance rested for a moment upon the group standing on Ab Linder's porch, everybody shivered, for there was a quality in her regard that dared all the world. It was an indefinable look. You see it in the eyes of famous generals; the arrogance of conscious mental and moral superiority. Some have called it force of character. Whatever its name, this girl had it. We

who watched from across the street shuffled uneasily.

After that brief glance the girl picked up her bag and marched up to the hotel porch. But when she came opposite old Shad Popley, who was taking an alcoholic siesta on the front steps, she stopped and regarded the slumbering wretch with profound astonishment. “Well, for the love of Mike!” she said. Then, unceremoniously, she nudged Shad in the ribs with an ungentle toe. “Hey, you fuzzy old lizard!” she said. “Whaddye think this is—a Pullman car?” Old Shad's congested eyes opened and he stared up, unbelieving at first, then horrified. He got uncertainly to his feet and stood gaping at the girl, not yet rid of the impression that she was a hallucination. “Didn't you hear me?” she said. tells you to beat it—you beat it!” She was no dream! The hideous truth burst suddenly upon old Shad's understanding and he dived off

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ee OW did it happen, Poke?” “Why,” said the crushed stage driver, “it started like this: We was rollin’ along through the hot sand drifts a few miles this side of Chuckawalla, like I told you, when the lady speaks to me. “‘Good scourin’ sand,” she says, sort of cheerful and lookin’ round at the desert. I didn’t say anything. “‘Plenty of it too,” she remarks after waitin' a while. “‘Ugh!” I grunts, and fetches my Jerry mule a cut with the whip. You see, I don’t never like to talk to the tenderfeet that rides with me. Most generally they want me to lecture on my harrowin’ experiences or else they want to know what makes the heat blink wiggle—and they always want me to show 'em a mirage. They don’t make no allowances for me with my throat full of alkali dust and hoarse as a raven with cussin them hell-fire mules. “And she lets me be for fifteen minutes. Then: ‘If you can’t talk,” she says, “try wigglin' your ears!' “She was settin' behind me, of course, on the back seat. I didn’t say anything to this. I couldn't seem to think of anything, though I thought for half an hour. We was just comin’ round the foot of Cinder Butte when she spoke again. “‘They’re such good, big ears, too!” I hears her say to herself. “A person could see 'em good for a mile and a half, I bet you!” “She didn't say anything more for maybe an hour; but, gents, as shorely as I’m a-standin’ here I could feel her lookin’ at my ears! And my ears kept a-gettin’ hotter and hotter and it seemed to me at last that they stuck out like a couple of foldin’ doors! Yes, sir, I felt that if I shook my head them ears would flap! “We was halfway home before she said anything more. She spoke sudden, too, and I jumped. You see, I was all keyed up. “After I’d said a couple or maybe three things to my Jerry mule and handed him a long wipe of the whip, she reaches over and taps me on the shoulder. “‘Hey, you!' she says. “Lay off the rough stuff and treat the poor jackrabbit decent!’ she says. “‘Excuse me,' I says, “I been skinnin' mules for thirty year and I reckon I know their language!' I says. “You can’t treat no mule like a perfect lady!’ “‘Well, I bet if you was down there in the hot

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‘You’re crude,” she says. “And you need the gentle feminine touch of a woman who knows how to swing a pick handle to take some of the roughness out of your souls,” she says.” And then the hotel dinner gong rang.

SHALL never forget the first meal at the hotel after the arrival of Birdie Calamus. And the thing that stands out clearest in my recollection of that momentous occasion is the white linen tablecloth. That tablecloth was the white banner of femininity; the visible symbol of the new crusade which Birdie Calamus was carrying into the heart of the desert. Old Shad Popley regarded it with bulging eyes. By and by he touched it with scared fingers. “Boys,” he whispered fearfully, “what I want to know is: where am I goin’ to pile my potato peelin's?” “Eat 'em, you darned old whippoorwill—eat em!” grow led Pacheco Dan. “Ain’t you had no raisin’?” Suddenly the door kicked open and Birdie came in for our orders. First, however, she paused just inside the door and looked at us. That was all. She did not speak; just looked at us; but that look flayed the skin from our pride and showed us our cru de n e s s—the crudeness of male creatures who had temporarily forgotten the instinct which causes the male to preen before the female of the species. I was conscious of my greasy shirt, reeking of sweat and grime and the evil smell of stale powder smoke. In that wretched instant I felt myself akin to poor old Poker Terribone, sitting alone and disconsolate in Ab Linder's saloon, afraid to come over to dinner. I was licked. Nor did we linger at the table. Swiftly we finished the meal and slunk out, walking on clumsy tiptoes. It was as though we had been participating in some strange, new rite. Back in the saloon we sat for a long time, trying to adjust ourselves to this new world into which we had been transported by a girl and a white tablecloth. Poker Terribone came in from the stable, where he had gone to bed down his mules. “Why don’t you go across and get your supper, Poke?” asked Daddy Burris with a feeble attempt at his old-time jocularity. “Poke dassen't!” said Uncle Tommy Saddler with a sickly grin. “Poke, he ain’t got the nerve to go to dinner! He's afraid of Birdie!” “Birdie!” wailed old Poker Terribone, goaded into speech by his misery. “She ain't no Birdie—she's a hen hawk!”

S the days went on we discovered that Birdie Calamus really meant to carry out her ominous prophecy, made to Poker Terribone on that fateful stage ride in from Chuckawalla. The girl had threatened to show Stovelid where to head in—and already she was doing it. Never was known such a cleaning up as she promoted during the very first week of her residence in the town. Under her dominant personality we cleared the tin cans from the street and received a lecture on Civic Pride which illuminated the Darkest Africa of our minds and left us feeling very much like a lot of small boys upon whose tingling hides still linger lively recol

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“What an irony of events!” said the elder Dr. Claveloux as he sprang up.

VIII

O Nara the weeks which | succeeded her experiment with the daughter of Gus Miller brought fastmoving events and sensations. Connor Lee, rubbing his long hands as if glad to touch the flesh and bones of one who had shown as much insight as he had disclosed, became an eager strategist. He knew human beings and, knowing them, he always appeared prepared to conduct a skillfully steered course through their midst, running foul of no one. As Nara looked about her apartment at the Du Bartas, where at breakfast time Connor Lee came from his own chambers across the hall, she felt again the daze of transformation. She could see her own figure in the long French mirror attired in a flowing classical gown of texture so fine that its faint luminous green was like an aura of light arising from the surface of her skin. Connor Lee had insisted upon the Grecian note in all her new clothes. “We must not forget that your powers—real as they are—require, for good taste, suitable presentation,” he said, speaking, as he always did, in clerical, balanced, well-modulated style. “You often speak as if we were conducting a fraud,” the girl told him. “Fraud!” He arose, pulled down the waistcoat of his new morning suit, cleared his throat, and, in marked contrast to the derelict figure which she once had known, struck an attitude suggestive of an affluent member of the House of Commons, well bathed, well fed, well groomed, and about to address the benches. “Fraud!” said he again, twirling his eyeglasses on a black silken cord. “What induced you, my dear Miss Alexieff, in the midst of this triumph of conviction, to speak of fraud?”

He spoke of undeniable facts. First, there had

By Richard Washburn Child Illustrated by W.T. Benda

“Anything to avoid personal responsibility.” Here is to-day's attitude, and one reason why fakers flourish, Dr. Claveloux's keen-eyed father said to Nara. A business man works without the aid of a fortune teller. But it often happens that, in a crisis, instinct leads him to some one to whom he has never before turned. When the great doctor came to Nara, he needed help. But he did not expect to ask it, nor to say, as finally he did: “There is something. You have the power”

been Pascal Yorke—an old hawk of a man, with his millions, like a brooding, dried-up spider in a web, and surrounded by concentric rings of secretaries and detectives so that just how Connor Lee had ever reached him had long been a mystery to Nara. “We have had eleven cases,” Connor Lee went on. “They have netted us a small fortune. Has any but that of Mrs. Drake failed? There was Eleanor Tatum Brady. Did she not almost pick up her bed and walk? There was the Marcus Lowell child? Did she not go back to Bryn Mawr all well? There was the Alleyn Stott case, and so on. I have chosen our patients, to be sure. That is necessary. But you have appeared

“That I of all men should come begging for your help!” “No, no!” Nara exclaimed. “Don’t ask that! I cannot help you!”

The Hands of Nara

to them as ‘The Presence,” and they have recovered life and vitality. How can you speak of fraud?” Nara found it difficult to answer him. She said: “Why is it necessary to indulge in so much mystery and caution?” He came and sat beside her, exuding, as he could at times, a kindliness and wealth of affection which made him lovable. “My dear one,” he said, “you are still young. You wished to remain living in your garret. How could you? The Miller family had spread it about the neighborhood that you were sent by God to heal the sick—that you had raised their child from the dead. In another ten hours there would have been reporters from the press and a mob of the poor begging for the touch of your hand.” “But I care nothing for money,” she argued. He looked into her eyes. “Was not old Dr. Johnson right when he said: “This mournful truth is everywhere confessed: Slow rises worth by poverty depressed"? No, Nara, even the great genius is made to measure his contribution by what the world pays for it. Balzac and Scott, writing to pay creditors; Rafael and Michelangelo, creating the grandeur that is Rome, were measuring their creative powers in these despised terms of currency.” He saw that his argument had failed, and added quickly: “But that is not all. If we had done as you wished, we would have been investigated by the police. We would have been hounded as if we were criminals. We would have been defenseless. That is why our first years must be spent among the rich and powerful. That is why our patients are pledged to secrecy. That is why we live in affluence—not because we love comfort—though I do love it—but because here we are safe!” She smiled at Connor Lee as she got up. A keen observer would have said that it was difficult to say

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