He had made
a burnt offering of his dreams, and the sacrifice had been an
unforgivable hurt to Mary. All that was left for him was the work
he had not chosen, but at least he would not fail in that, though
it was indeed no more than "dust in his mouth." If there had been
anything "to work for--"
He went to the window, raised it, and let in the uproar of the streets
below. He looked down at the blurred, hurrying swarms and he looked
across, over the roofs with their panting jets of vapor, into the
vast, foggy heart of the smoke. Dizzy traceries of steel were rising
dimly against it, chattering with steel on steel, and screeching in
steam, while tiny figures of men walked on threads in the dull sky.
Buildings would overtop the Sheridan. Bigness was being served.
But what for? The old question came to Bibbs with a new despair.
Here, where his eyes fell, had once been green fields and running
brooks, and how had the kind earth been despoiled and disfigured!
The pioneers had begun the work, but in their old age their orators
had said for them that they had toiled and risked and sacrificed that
their posterity might live in peace and wisdom, enjoying the fruits
of the earth.
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