I learned of conditions here, I demanded that my father free our laborers. The old man—he died a few months later—merely shrugged and declared they were free. "Their unending toil and inbreeding have made machines of them," he said. "They are helpless now. You must care for them, my son; you can never leave the island again lest they starve."

God help me, I tried my best to make men and women of them again. You will see what success I had. Try in your turn if you must. It will be useless, but the effort will permit you to sleep. The centuries have dug a rut too deep for the creatures to climb out of. They have become like my canaries, poor....

The letter ended as if the hand of death had snatched pen from paper.

For a long while Jonathan stared at the pages. The singing of the canaries—their cages occupied every corner of the bedroom—finally roused him.

"Tom!"

"Yes sir." The old man had been waiting outside the door.

"Turn all these damned birds loose."

"But you'll need them to test the air in the mine, sir; the gas gets bad at times."

"Turn them loose, I said. At once!"

"Yes sir." Quietly the Negro went about the room, opening cage doors. Jonathan followed his progress with growing horror. The birds, so long accustomed to captivity, refused freedom. A few came to the opened wickets, then retreated to their perches with frightened twitters.

"Yes sir. Anything else, sir?"

"Go down to the pier and tell Captain Parker to hold the steamer; we're sailing with him."

"But you can't do that, sir. You can't leave your people to starve." The whites of Tom's eyes glistened. "You have to send out shipments of stones and the ultramarine dye which is made at the factory; you have to distribute the food which comes in."

"Nonsense. I'll pay them off and arrange for a boat to pick them up if they want to leave the island. They'll get along...."

"You'd better see your people first." The servant pointed toward the cowering birds. "You don't understand."

"All right, 

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