THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1921

AND THE

YEARBOOK OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY

Edited by

EDWARD J. O'BRIEN

Editor of "The Best Short Stories of 1915""The Best Short Stories of 1916""The Best Short Stories of 1917""The Best Short Stories of 1918""The Best Short Stories of 1919""The Best Short Stories of 1920""The Great Modern English Stories, " Etc

BostonSmall, Maynard & CompanyPublishers

Copyright, 1920, by John T. Frederick, Charles J. Finger, The DialPublishing Company, Inc. , Charles Scribner's Sons, The InternationalMagazine Company, Harper & Brothers, and Smart Set Company, Inc. 

Copyright, 1921, by The Boston Transcript Company. 

Copyright, 1921, by B. W. Huebsch, The Century Company, John T. Frederick, George H. Doran Company, The Dial Publishing Company, Inc. , The Pictorial Review Company, The Curtis Publishing Company, The CrowellPublishing Company, Harper & Brothers, Charles Scribner's Sons, TheInternational Magazine Company, and Smart Set Company, Inc. 

Copyright, 1921, by Boni & Liveright, Inc. 

Copyright, 1922, by Maxwell Struthers Burt, George H. Doran Co. , LincolnColcord, Waldo Frank, Katharine Fullerton Gerould, Doubleday, Page &Co. , Glasgow, Susan Glaspell Cook, Richard Matthews Hallet, FrancesNoyes Hart, Fannie Hurst, Manuel Komroff, Frank Luther Mott, VincentO'Sullivan, Wilbur Daniel Steele, Harriet Maxon Thayer, Charles HansonTowne, and Mary Heaton Minor. 

Copyright, 1922, by Small, Maynard & Company, Inc. 

Printed in the United States of AmericaPress of the Murray Printing CompanyKendall Square, Cambridge

TO A. E. COPPARD

BY WAY OF ACKNOWLEDGMENT

Grateful acknowledgment for permission to include the stories and othermaterial in this volume is made to the following authors, editors andpublishers:

To the Editor of _The Century Magazine_, the Editor of _The Bookman_, the Editor of _The Dial_, the Editor of _The Pictorial Review_, theEditor of _The Saturday Evening Post_, the Editor of _The AmericanMagazine_, the Editor of _Scribner's Magazine_, the Editor of _GoodHousekeeping_, the Editor of _Harper's Magazine_, the Editor of _TheCosmopolitan_, the Editors of _The Smart Set_, The Editor of _TheMidland_, Boni & Liveright, Inc. , George H. Doran Co. , B. W. Huebsch, Doubleday, Page & Co. , Sherwood Anderson, Konrad Bercovici, MaxwellStruthers Burt, Irvin S. Cobb, Lincoln Colcord, Charles J. Finger, WaldoFrank, Katharine Fullerton Gerould, Ellen Glasgow, Susan Glaspell, Richard Matthews Hallet, Frances Noyes Hart, Fannie Hurst, ManuelKomroff, Frank Luther Mott, Vincent O'Sullivan, Wilbur Daniel Steele, Harriet Maxon Thayer, Charles Hanson Towne, and Mary Heaton Vorse. 

Acknowledgments are specially due to _The Boston Evening Transcript_ forpermission to reprint the large body of material previously published inits pages. 

I shall be grateful to my readers for corrections, and particularly forsuggestions leading to the wider usefulness of this annual volume. Inparticular, I shall welcome the receipt, from authors, editors, andpublishers, of stories printed during the period between October, 1921and September, 1922 inclusive, which have qualities of distinction andyet are not printed in periodicals falling under my regular notice. Suchcommunications may be addressed to me at _Forest Hill, Oxfordshire, England_. 

E. J. O. 

CONTENTS[1]

 PAGE

INTRODUCTION. By the Editor. Xii

BROTHERS. By Sherwood Anderson. 3 (From _The Bookman_)

FANUTZA. By Konrad Bercovici. 13 (From _The Dial_)

EXPERIMENT. By Maxwell Struthers Burt. 28 (From _The Pictorial Review_)

DARKNESS. By Irvin S. Cobb. 52 (From _The Saturday Evening Post_)

AN INSTRUMENT OF THE GODS. By Lincoln Colcord. 82 (From _The American Magazine_)

THE LIZARD GOD. By Charles J. Finger. 109 (From _All's Well_)

UNDER THE DOME. By Waldo Frank. 130 (From _The Dial_)

FRENCH EVA. By Katharine Fullerton Gerould. 142 (From _Scribner's Magazine_)

THE PAST. By Ellen Glasgow. 168 (From _Good Housekeeping_)

HIS SMILE. By Susan Glaspell. 194 (From _The Pictorial Review_)

THE HARBOR MASTER. By Richard Matthews Hallet. 207 (From _Harper's Magazine_)

GREEN GARDENS. By Frances Noyes Hart. 240 (From _Scribner's Magazine_)

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. By Fannie Hurst. 253 (From _The Cosmopolitan_)

THE LITTLE MASTER OF THE SKY. By Manuel Komroff. 288 (From _The Dial_)

THE MAN WITH THE GOOD FACE. By Frank Luther Mott. 300 (From _The Midland_)

MASTER OF FALLEN YEARS. By Vincent O'Sullivan. 321 (From _The Smart Set_)

THE SHAME DANCE. By Wilbur Daniel Steele. 337 (From _Harper's Magazine_)

KINDRED. By Harriet Maxon Thayer. 362 (From _The Midland_)

SHELBY. By Charles Hanson Towne. 386 (From _The Smart Set_)

THE WALLOW OF THE SEA. By Mary Heaton Vorse. 401 (From _Harper's Magazine_)

THE YEARBOOK OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY, OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921 419

 Addresses of American and English Magazines Publishing Short Stories. 421

 The Biographical Roll of Honor of American Short Stories. 424

 The Roll of Honor of Foreign Short Stories in American Magazines. 428

 The Best Books of Short Stories: A Critical Summary. 430

 Volumes of Short Stories Published in the United States: An Index. 437

 Volumes of Short Stories Published in England and Ireland Only. 440

 Volumes of Short Stories Published in France. 442

 Articles on the Short Story: An Index. 443

 Index of Short Stories in Books. 457

 I. American Authors. 458

 II. English and Irish Authors. 461

 III. Translations. 463

 Magazine Averages. 466

 Index of Short Stories Published in American Magazines. 469

 I. American Authors. 471

 II. English and Irish Authors. 500

 III. Translations. 505

INTRODUCTION

I was talking the other day to Alfred Coppard, who has steered moresuccessfully than most English story writers away from the Scylla andCharybdis of the modern artist. He told me that he had been readingseveral new novels and volumes of short stories by contemporary Americanwriters with that awakened interest in the civilization we are framingwhich is so noticeable among English writers during the past threeyears. He asked me a remarkable question, and the answer which I gavehim suggested certain contrasts which seemed to me of basic importancefor us all. He said: "I have been reading books by Sherwood Anderson, Waldo Frank and Ben Hecht and Konrad Bercovici and Joseph Hergesheimer, and I can see that they are important books, but I feel that theessential point to which all this newly awakened literary consciousnessis tending has somehow subtly eluded me. American and English writersboth use the same language, and so do Scotch and Irish writers, but I amnot puzzled when I read Scotch and Irish books as I am when I read thesenew American books. Why is it?"

I had to think for a moment, and then the obvious answer occurred to me. I told him that I thought the reason for his moderate bewilderment wasdue to the fact that the Englishman or the Scotchman or the Irishmanliving at home was writing out of a background of racial memory andestablished tradition which was very much all of one piece, and that allsuch an artist's unspoken implications and subtleties could be easilytaken for granted by his readers, and more or less thoroughlyunderstood, because they were elements in harmony with a tolerably fixedand ordered world. 

I added that this was more or less true of the American writer up to adate roughly coinciding with that of the Chicago World's Fair in 1892. During the thirty years more or less which have elapsed since that date, there has been an ever widening seething maelstrom of cross currentsthrusting into more and more powerful conflict from year to year thecontributory elements brought to a new potential American culture by thedynamic creative energies, physical and spiritual, of many races. 

My suggestion to Mr. Coppard was that gradually the Anglo-Saxon, to takethe most readily understandable instance, was beginning to absorb largetracts of many other racial fields of memory, and to share theexperience of Scandinavian and Russian and German and Italian, of Polishand Irish and African and Asian members of the body politic, and thatall these widening tracts of remembered racial experience interactingupon one another under the tremendous pressure of our nervous, keen, andeager industrial civilization had set up a new chaos in many creativeminds. I said that Mr. Anderson and the others, half consciously andhalf unconsciously, were trying to create worlds out of each separatechaos, living dangerously, as Nietzsche advised, and fusing theirconceptions at a certain calculated temperature in artistic crucibles oftheir own devising. 

Mr. Coppard said that he quite saw that, but added that the particularmeaning in each case more or less escaped him. And then I ventured tosuggest that these meanings were more important for Americans at thepresent stage than for Europeans, because American minds would graspreadily at suggestions that harmonized with their own spiritual pasts, and seize instinctive relations and congruities which had previouslyescaped them in their experience, and so begin to formulate from thesebooks new intuitive laws. I suggested, moreover, that from the point ofview of the great artist these books were all more or less magnificentfailures which were creating, little by little, out of the shock ofconflict an ultimate harmony, out of which the great book for which weare all waiting in America might come ten years from now, or five years, or even tomorrow. 

To this he replied that he felt I had supplied the clue which hadbaffled him, and asked me if I did not discover a chaos of a differentsort in English life and literature since the armistice. I agreed that Idid discover such a chaos, but that it seemed to me a chaos which was anend rather than a beginning, a chaos in which the Tower of Babel hadfallen, and men had come to babble with more and more completedissociation of ideas, or else, on the other hand, were clingingdesperately to such literary and social traditions as had been left, while their work froze into a new Augustanism comparable to that of theearly years of the eighteenth century. 

Next year, in conjunction with John Cournos, I shall begin in a parallelseries of volumes with the present series, to present my annual study ofthe English case. Meanwhile, for the present, I deal once more with thatAmerican chaos in which I have unbounded and ultimate faith. From now onI should like to take as my motto almost the last paragraph written byWalt Whitman before he died: "The Highest said: Don't let us begin solow--isn't our range too coarse--too gross?--The Soul answer'd: No, notwhen we consider what it is all for--the end involved in Time andSpace. " Or, as the old Dutch flour-miller put it more briefly: "I neverbother myself what road the folks come--I only want good wheat and rye. "

To repeat what I have said in these pages in previous years, for thebenefit of the reader as yet unacquainted with my standards andprinciples of selection, I shall point out that I have set myself thetask of disengaging the essential human qualities in our contemporaryfiction which, when chronicled conscientiously by our literary artists, may fairly be called a criticism of life. I am not at all interested informulæ, and organized criticism at its best would be nothing more thandead criticism, as all dogmatic interpretation of life is always dead. What has interested me, to the exclusion of other things, is the fresh, living current which flows through the best American work, and thepsychological and imaginative reality which American writers haveconferred upon it. 

No substance is of importance in fiction, unless it is organicsubstance, that is to say, substance in which the pulse of life isbeating. Inorganic fiction has been our curse in the past, and bids fairto remain so, unless we exercise much greater artistic discriminationthan we display at present. 

The present record covers the period from October 1920, to September1921, inclusive. During this period, I have sought to select from thestories published in American magazines those which have rendered lifeimaginatively in organic substance and artistic form. Substance issomething achieved by the artist in every act of creation, rather thansomething already present, and accordingly a fact or group of facts in astory only attain substantial embodiment when the artist's power ofcompelling imaginative persuasion transforms them into a living truth. The first test of a short story, therefore, in any qualitative analysisis to report upon how vitally compelling the writer makes his selectedfacts or incidents. This test may be conveniently called the test ofsubstance. 

But a second test is necessary if the story is to take rank above otherstories. The true artist will seek to shape this living substance intothe most beautiful and satisfying form, by skilful selection andarrangement of his materials, and by the most direct and appealingpresentation of it in portrayal and characterization. 

The short stories which I have examined in this study, as in previousyears, have fallen naturally into four groups. The first consists ofthose stories which fail, in my opinion, to survive either the test ofsubstance or the test of form. These stories are listed in the year bookwithout comment or a qualifying asterisk. The second group consists ofthose stories which may fairly claim that they survive either the testof substance or the test of form. Each of these stories may claim topossess either distinction of technique alone, or more frequently, I amglad to say, a persuasive sense of life in them to which a readerresponds with some part of his own experience. Stories included in thisgroup are indicated in the yearbook index by a single asterisk prefixedto the title. 

The third group, which is composed of stories of still greaterdistinction, includes such narratives as may lay convincing claim to asecond reading, because each of them has survived both tests, the testof substance and the test of form. Stories included in this group areindicated in the yearbook index by two asterisks prefixed to the title. 

Finally, I have recorded the names of a small group of stories whichpossess, I believe, the even finer distinction of uniting genuinesubstance and artistic form in a closely woven pattern with suchsincerity that these stories may fairly claim a position in Americanliterature. If all of these stories by American authors wererepublished, they would not occupy more space than five novels ofaverage length. My selection of them does not imply the critical beliefthat they are great stories. A year which produced one great story wouldbe an exceptional one. It is simply to be taken as meaning that I havefound the equivalent of five volumes worthy of republication among allthe stories published during the period under consideration. Thesestories are indicated in the yearbook index by three asterisks prefixedto the title, and are listed in the special "Roll of Honor. " Incompiling these lists I have permitted no personal preference orprejudice to consciously influence my judgment. To the titles of certainstories, however, in the "Rolls of Honor, " an asterisk is prefixed, andthis asterisk, I must confess, reveals in some measure a personalpreference, for which, perhaps, I may be indulged. It is from this finalshort list that the stories reprinted in this volume have been selected. 

It has been a point of honor with me not to republish a story by anEnglish author or by any foreign author. I have also made it a rule notto include more than one story by an individual author in the volume. The general and particular results of my study will be found explainedand carefully detailed in the supplementary part of the volume. 

In past years it has been my pleasure and honor to dedicate the bestthat I have found in the American magazines as the fruit of my labors tothe American artist who, in my opinion, has made the finest imaginativecontribution to the short story during the period considered. I takepleasure in recalling the names of Benjamin Rosenblatt, Richard MatthewsHallet, Wilbur Daniel Steele, Arthur Johnson, Anzia Yezierska, andSherwood Anderson. In my opinion Sherwood Anderson has made this yearonce more the most permanent contribution to the American short story, but as last year's book is associated with his name, I am happy todedicate this year's offering to a new and distinguished English artist, A. E. Coppard, to whom the future offers in my opinion a rich harvest ofachievement. 

EDWARD J. O'BRIEN. 

Forest Hill, Oxon, England, November 23, 1921

THE BEST SHORT STORIES OF 1921

Note. --The order in which the stories in this volume are printed is notintended as an indication of their comparative excellence; thearrangement is alphabetical by authors. 

BROTHERS[2]

By SHERWOOD ANDERSON

(From _The Bookman_)

I am at my house in the country and it is late October. It rains. Backof my house is a forest and in front there is a road and beyond thatopen fields. The country is one of low hills, flattening suddenly intoplains. Some twenty miles away, across the flat country, lies the hugecity, Chicago. 

On this rainy day the leaves of the trees that line the road before mywindow are falling like rain, the yellow, red, and golden leaves fallstraight down heavily. The rain beats them brutally down. They aredenied a last golden flash across the sky. In October leaves should becarried away, out over the plains, in a wind. They should go dancingaway. 

Yesterday morning I arose at daybreak and went for a walk. There was aheavy fog and I lost myself in it. I went down into the plains andreturned to the hills and everywhere the fog was as a wall before me. Out of it trees sprang suddenly, grotesquely, as in a city street lateat night people come suddenly out of the darkness into the circle oflight under a street lamp. Above there was the light of day forcingitself slowly into the fog. The fog moved slowly. The tops of treesmoved slowly. Under the trees the fog was dense, purple. It was likesmoke lying in the streets of a factory town. 

An old man came up to me in the fog. I know him well. The people herecall him insane. "He is a little cracked, " they say. He lives alone in alittle house buried deep in the forest and has a small dog he carriesalways in his arms. On many mornings I have met him walking on the roadand he has told me of men and women who were his brothers and sisters, his cousins, aunts, uncles, brothers-in-law. The notion has possessionof him. He cannot draw close to people near at hand so he gets hold of aname out of a newspaper and his mind plays with it. One morning he toldme he was a cousin to the man named Cox who at the time when I write isa candidate for the presidency. On another morning he told me thatCaruso the singer had married a woman who was his sister-in-law. "She ismy wife's sister, " he said, holding the little dog closely. His graywatery eyes looked appealingly up to me. He wanted me to believe. "Mywife was a sweet slim girl, " he declared. "We lived together in a bighouse and in the morning walked about arm in arm. Now her sister hasmarried Caruso the singer. He is of my family now. " As some one had toldme the old man had never been married I went away wondering. 

One morning in early September I came upon him sitting under a treebeside a path near his house. The dog barked at me and then ran andcrept into his arms. At that time the Chicago newspapers were filledwith the story of a millionaire who had got into trouble with his wifebecause of an intimacy with an actress. The old man told me the actresswas his sister. He is sixty years old and the actress whose storyappeared in the newspapers is twenty, but he spoke of their childhoodtogether. "You would not realize it to see us now but we were poorthen, " he said. "It's true. We lived in a little house on the side of ahill. Once when there was a storm the wind nearly swept our house away. How the wind blew. Our father was a carpenter and he built strong housesfor other people but our own house he did not build very strongly. " Heshook his head sorrowfully. "My sister the actress has got into trouble. Our house is not built very strongly, " he said as I went away along thepath. 

For a month, two months, the Chicago newspapers, that are deliveredevery morning in our village, have been filled with the story of amurder. A man there has murdered his wife and there seems no reason forthe deed. The tale runs something like this--

The man, who is now on trial in the courts and will no doubt be hanged, worked in a bicycle factory where he was a foreman, and lived with hiswife and his wife's mother in an apartment in Thirty-Second Street. Heloved a girl who worked in the office of the factory where he wasemployed. She came from a town in Iowa and when she first came to thecity lived with her aunt who has since died. To the foreman, a heavystolid-looking man with gray eyes, she seemed the most beautiful womanin the world. Her desk was by a window at an angle of the factory, asort of wing of the building, and the foreman, down in the shop, had adesk by another window. He sat at his desk making out sheets containingthe record of the work done by each man in his department. When helooked up he could see the girl sitting at work at her desk. The notiongot into his head that she was peculiarly lovely. He did not think oftrying to draw close to her or of winning her love. He looked at her asone might look at a star or across a country of low hills in Octoberwhen the leaves of the trees are all red and yellow gold. "She is apure, virginal thing, " he thought vaguely. "What can she be thinkingabout as she sits there by the window at work?"

In fancy the foreman took the girl from Iowa home with him to hisapartment in Thirty-Second Street and into the presence of his wife andhis mother-in-law. All day in the shop and during the evening at home hecarried her figure about with him in his mind. As he stood by a windowin his apartment and looked out toward the Illinois Central railroadtracks and beyond the tracks to the lake, the girl was there beside him. Down below women walked in the street and in every woman he saw therewas something of the Iowa girl. One woman walked as she did, anothermade a gesture with her hand that reminded of her. All the women he sawexcept only his wife and his mother-in-law were like the girl he hadtaken inside himself. 

The two women in his own house puzzled and confused him. They becamesuddenly unlovely and commonplace. His wife in particular was like somestrange unlovely growth that had attached itself to his body. 

In the evening after the day at the factory he went home to his ownplace and had dinner. He had always been a silent man and when he didnot talk no one minded. After dinner he, with his wife, went to apicture show. When they came home his wife's mother sat under anelectric light reading. There were two children and his wife expectedanother. They came into the apartment and sat down. The climb up twoflights of stairs had wearied his wife. She sat in a chair beside hermother groaning with weariness. 

The mother-in-law was the soul of goodness. She took the place of aservant in the home and got no pay. When her daughter wanted to go to apicture show she waved her hand and smiled. "Go on, " she said. "I don'twant to go. I'd rather sit here. " She got a book and sat reading. Thelittle boy of nine awoke and cried. He wanted to sit on the po-po. Themother-in-law attended to that. 

After the man and his wife came home the three people sat in silence foran hour or two before bedtime. The man pretended to read a newspaper. Helooked at his hands. Although he had washed them carefully grease fromthe bicycle frames left dark stains under the nails. He thought of theIowa girl and of her white quick hands playing over the keys of atypewriter. He felt dirty and uncomfortable. 

The girl at the factory knew the foreman had fallen in love with her andthe thought excited her a little. Since her aunt's death she had gone tolive in a rooming house and had nothing to do in the evening. Althoughthe foreman meant nothing to her she could in a way use him. To her hebecame a symbol. Sometimes he came into the office and stood for amoment by the door. His large hands were covered with black grease. Shelooked at him without seeing. In his place in her imagination stood atall slender young man. Of the foreman she saw only the gray eyes thatbegan to burn with a strange fire. The eyes expressed eagerness, ahumble and devout eagerness. In the presence of a man with such eyes shefelt she need not be afraid. 

She wanted a lover who would come to her with such a look in his eyes. Occasionally, perhaps once in two weeks, she stayed a little late at theoffice, pretending to have work that must be finished. Through thewindow she could see the foreman, waiting. When every one had gone sheclosed her desk and went into the street. At the same moment the foremancame out at the factory door. 

They walked together along the street, a half-dozen blocks, to where shegot aboard her car. The factory was in a place called South Chicago andas they went along evening was coming on. The streets were lined withsmall unpainted frame houses and dirty-faced children ran screaming inthe dusty roadway. They crossed over a bridge. Two abandoned coal bargeslay rotting in the stream. 

He went along by her side walking heavily, striving to conceal hishands. He had scrubbed them carefully before leaving the factory butthey seemed to him like heavy dirty pieces of waste matter hanging athis side. Their walking together happened but a few times and during onesummer. "It's hot, " he said. He never spoke to her of anything but theweather. "It's hot, " he said; "I think it may rain. "

She dreamed of the lover who would some time come, a tall fair youngman, a rich man owning houses and lands. The workingman who walkedbeside her had nothing to do with her conception of love. She walkedwith him, stayed at the office until the others had gone to walkunobserved with him, because of his eyes, because of the eager thing inhis eyes that was at the same time humble, that bowed down to her. Inhis presence there was no danger, could be no danger. He would neverattempt to approach too closely, to touch her with his hands. She wassafe with him. 

In his apartment in the evening the man sat under the electric lightwith his wife and his mother-in-law. In the next room his two childrenwere asleep. In a short time his wife would have another child. He hadbeen with her to a picture show and presently they would get into bedtogether. 

He would lie awake thinking, would hear the creaking of the springs of abed from where, in another room, his mother-in-law was crawling underthe sheets. Life was too intimate. He would lie awake eager, expectant--expecting what?

Nothing. Presently one of the children would cry. It wanted to get outof bed and sit on the po-po. Nothing strange or unusual or lovely wouldor could happen. Life was too close, intimate. Nothing that could happenin the apartment could in any way stir him. The things his wife mightsay, her occasional half-hearted outbursts of passion, the goodness ofhis stout mother-in-law who did the work of a servant without pay--

He sat in the apartment under the electric light pretending to read anewspaper--thinking. He looked at his hands. They were large, shapeless, a workingman's hands. 

The figure of the girl from Iowa walked about the room. With her he wentout of the apartment and walked in silence through miles of streets. Itwas not necessary to say words. He walked with her by a sea, along thecrest of a mountain. The night was clear and silent and the stars shone. She also was a star. It was not necessary to say words. 

Her eyes were like stars and her lips were like soft hills rising out ofdim, star-lit plains. "She is unattainable, she is far off like thestars, " he thought. "She is unattainable like the stars but unlike thestars she breathes, she lives, like myself she has being. "

One evening, some six weeks ago, the man who worked as foreman in thebicycle factory killed his wife and he is now in the courts being triedfor murder. Every day the newspapers are filled with the story. On theevening of the murder he had taken his wife as usual to a picture showand they started home at nine. In Thirty-Second Street, at a corner neartheir apartment building, the figure of a man darted suddenly out of analleyway and then darted back again. That incident may have put theidea of killing his wife into the man's head. 

They got to the entrance to the apartment building and stepped into adark hallway. Then quite suddenly and apparently without thought the mantook a knife out of his pocket. "Suppose that man who darted into thealleyway had intended to kill us, " he thought. Opening the knife hewhirled about and struck his wife. He struck twice, a dozentimes--madly. There was a scream and his wife's body fell. 

The janitor had neglected to light the gas in the lower hallway. Afterward, the foreman decided that was the reason he did it, that andthe fact that the dark slinking figure of a man darted out of analleyway and then darted back again. "Surely, " he told himself, "I couldnever have done it had the gas been lighted. "

He stood in the hallway thinking. His wife was dead and with her haddied her unborn child. There was a sound of doors opening in theapartments above. For several minutes nothing happened. His wife and herunborn child were dead--that was all. 

He ran upstairs thinking quickly. In the darkness on the lower stairwayhe had put the knife back into his pocket and, as it turned out later, there was no blood on his hands or on his clothes. The knife he laterwashed carefully in the bathroom, when the excitement had died down alittle. He told everyone the same story. "There has been a holdup, " heexplained. "A man came slinking out of an alleyway and followed me andmy wife home. He followed us into the hallway of the building and therewas no light. " The janitor had neglected to light the gas. Well therehad been a struggle and in the darkness his wife had been killed. Hecould not tell how it had happened. "There was no light. The janitor hadneglected to light the gas, " he kept saying. 

For a day or two they did not question him specially and he had time toget rid of the knife. He took a long walk and threw it away into theriver in South Chicago where the two abandoned coal barges lay rottingunder the bridge, the bridge he had crossed when on the summer eveningshe walked to the street car with the girl who was virginal and pure, whowas far off and unattainable, like a star and yet not like a star. 

And then he was arrested and right away he confessed--told everything. He said he did not know why he had killed his wife and was careful tosay nothing of the girl at the office. The newspapers tried to discoverthe motive for the crime. They are still trying. Some one had seen himon the few evenings when he walked with the girl and she was draggedinto the affair and had her picture printed in the paper. That has beenannoying for her, as of course she has been able to prove she hadnothing to do with the man. 

 * * * * *

Yesterday morning a heavy fog lay over our village here at the edge ofthe city and I went for a long walk in the early morning. As I returnedout of the lowlands into our hill country I met the old man whose familyhas so many and such strange ramifications. For a time he walked besideme holding the little dog in his arms. It was cold and the dog whinedand shivered. In the fog the old man's face was indistinct. It movedslowly back and forth with the fog banks of the upper air and with thetops of trees. He spoke of the man who has killed his wife and whosename is being shouted in the pages of the city newspapers that come toour village each morning. As he walked beside me he launched into a longtale concerning a life he and his brother, who had now become amurderer, had once lived together. "He is my brother, " he said over andover, shaking his head. He seemed afraid I would not believe. There wasa fact that must be established. "We were boys together, that man andI, " he began again. "You see we played together in a barn back of ourfather's house. Our father went away to sea in a ship. That is the wayour names became confused. You understand that. We have different namesbut we are brothers. We had the same father. We played together in abarn back of our father's house. All day we lay together in the hay inthe barn and it was warm there. "

In the fog the slender body of the old man became like a little gnarledtree. Then it became a thing suspended in air. It swung back and forthlike a body hanging on the gallows. The face beseeched me to believe thestory the lips were trying to tell. In my mind everything concerning therelationship of men and women became confused, a muddle. The spirit ofthe man who had killed his wife came into the body of the little old manthere by the roadside. It was striving to tell me the story it wouldnever be able to tell in the courtroom in the city, in the presence ofthe judge. The whole story of mankind's loneliness, of the effort toreach out to unattainable beauty tried to get itself expressed from thelips of a mumbling old man, crazed with loneliness, who stood by theside of a country road on a foggy morning holding a little dog in hisarms. 

The arms of the old man held the dog so closely that it began to whinewith pain. A sort of convulsion shook his body. The soul seemed strivingto wrench itself out of the body, to fly away through the fog downacross the plain to the city, to the singer, the politician, themillionaire, the murderer, to its brothers, cousins, sisters, down inthe city. The intensity of the old man's desire was terrible and insympathy my body began to tremble. His arms tightened about the body ofthe little dog so that it screamed with pain. I stepped forward and torethe arms away and the dog fell to the ground and lay whining. No doubtit had been injured. Perhaps ribs had been crushed. The old man staredat the dog lying at his feet as in the hallway of the apartment buildingthe worker from the bicycle factory had stared at his dead wife. "We arebrothers, " he said again. "We have different names but we are brothers. Our father you understand went off to sea. "

 * * * * *

I am sitting in my house in the country and it rains. Before my eyes thehills fall suddenly away and there are the flat plains and beyond theplains the city. An hour ago the old man of the house in the forest wentpast my door and the little dog was not with him. It may be that as wetalked in the fog he crushed the life out of his companion. It may bethat the dog like the workman's wife and her unborn child is now dead. The leaves of the trees that line the road before my window are fallinglike rain--the yellow, red, and golden leaves fall straight down, heavily. The rain beats them brutally down. They are denied a lastgolden flash across the sky. In October leaves should be carried away, out over the plains, in a wind. They should go dancing away. 

FANUTZA[3]

By KONRAD BERCOVICI

(From _The Dial_)

Light and soft, as though the wind were blowing the dust off the silverclouds that floated overhead, the first snow was falling over the barrenlands stretching between the Danube and the Black Sea. A lowland wind, which had already hardened and tightened the marshes, was blowing thesnow skywards. The fine silvery dust, caught between the two aircurrents, danced lustily, blown hither and thither until it took hold offolds and rifts in the frozen land and began to form rugged white ridgesthat stretched in soft silvery curves to meet other growing mountains ofsnow. The lowland wind, at first a mere breeze playfully teasing thenorth wind, like a child that kicks the bed-sheets before fallingasleep, increased its force and swiftness, and scattered huge mountainsof snow, but the steadily rising drone of the north wind soon masteredthe situation. Like silver grain strewn by an unseen hand the snow fellobliquely in steady streams over the land. A great calm followed. Thelong Dobrudgean winter had started. In the dim steady light, in the wakeof the great calm, travelling towards the Danube from the Black Sea, the"marea Neagra, " four gipsy wagons, each drawn by four small horses, appeared on the frozen plains. The caravan was brought to a standstillwithin sight of the slowly moving river. The canvas-covered wagonsranged themselves, broadwise, in a straight line with the wind. Betweenthe wagons enough space was allowed to stable the horses. Then, whenthat part of the business had been done, a dozen men, in furs from headto toe, quickly threw a canvas that roofed the temporary quarters of theanimals and gave an additional overhead protection from the snow andwind to the dwellers of the wheeled homes. 

While the unharnessing and quartering of the horses and the stretchingof the canvas roof proceeded, a number of youngsters jumped down fromthe wagons, yelling and screaming with all the power of their lustylungs. They threw snowballs at one another as they ran, some in searchof firewood and others, with wooden pails dangling from ends of curvedsticks over the left shoulder, in search of water for the horses and forthe cooking pots of their mothers. 

Soon afterwards, from little crooked black chimneys that pointeddownwards over the roofs of the wagons, thick black smoke told that thefires were already started. The youngsters came back; those with thefull water pails marching erectly with legs well apart; the ones withbundles of firewood strapped to their shoulders leaning forward onknotted sticks so as not to fall under the heavy burden. 

When everything had been done, Marcu, the tall gray-bearded chief, inspected the work. A few of the ropes needed tightening. He did ithimself, shaking his head in disapproval of the way in which it had beendone. Then he listened carefully to the blowing of the wind and measuredits velocity and intensity. He called to his men. When they hadsurrounded him, he spoke a few words. With shovels and axes they setenergetically to work at his direction, packing a wall of snow and woodfrom the ground up over the axles of the wheels all around the wagons soas to give greater solidity to the whole and to prevent the cold windfrom blowing underneath. 

By the time the early night settled over the marshes, the camp was quietand dark. Even the dogs had curled up near the tired horses and had goneto sleep. 

Early the following morning the whole thing could not be distinguishedfrom one of the hundreds of mountains of snow that had formed overnight. After the horses had been fed and watered, Marcu, accompanied byhis daughter, Fanutza, left the camp and went riverward, in search ofthe hut of the Tartar whose flat-bottomed boat was moored on the shore. Marcu knew every inch of the ground. He had camped there with his tribetwenty winters in succession. He sometimes arrived before, and at othertimes after, the first snow of the year. But every time he had gone toMehmet Ali's hut and asked the Tartar to row him across the Danube, onthe old Roumanian side, to buy there fodder for the horses and the men;enough to last until after the river was frozen tight and could becrossed securely with horses and wagon. He had always come alone toMehmet's hut, therefore, the Tartar, after greeting Marcu and offeringto do what his friend desired, inquired why the girl was beside the oldchief. 

"But this is my daughter, Fanutza, Mehmet Ali, " Marcu informed. 

"Who, Fanutza? She who was born here fourteen winters ago on the plainshere?"

"The same, the same, my friend, " Marcu answered as he smilinglyappraised his daughter. 

Mehmet Ali looked at the girl in frank astonishment at her size and fulldevelopment; then he said as he took the oars from the corner of thehut: "And I, who thought that my friend had taken a new wife to himself!Allah, Allah! How fast these youngsters grow! And why do you take heralong to the Giaour side, to the heathen side, of the river, friend?" hecontinued talking as he put heavy boots on his feet and measured Fanutzawith his eyes as he spoke. 

"For everything there is only one right time, say I, Marcu, " the chiefexplained, in measured solemn voice. "And so now is the time for mydaughter to get married. I have chosen her a husband from amongst thesons of my men, a husband who will become the chief when I am no longerhere to come to your hut at the beginning of every winter. She shallmarry him in the spring. I now go with her to the bazaars to buy silksand linens which the women of my tribe will fashion into new clothes forboth. And may Allah be good to them. "

"_Allah il Allah_, " Mehmet assured Marcu. "And who is he whom you havechosen from amongst your men?"

"I am old, Mehmet, I would otherwise have chosen a younger man for mydaughter; but because I fear that this or the following winter will bethe last one, I have chosen Stan, whose orphaned daughter is Fanutza'sown age. He is good and true and strong. Young men never make carefulchiefs. "

"That be right and wise, " remarked Mehmet, who was by that time readyfor the trip. During the whole conversation the young gipsy girl hadbeen looking to her father when he spoke and sidewise when Mehmetanswered. 

At fourteen Fanutza was a full-grown woman. Her hair, braided intresses, was hanging from underneath a black fur cap she wore well overher forehead. Her eyes were large and brown, the long eyebrows were coalblack. Her nose was straight and thin and the mouth full and red. Withalshe was of a somewhat lighter hue than her father or the rest of thegipsy tribe. Yet there was something of a darker grain than the grain inher people that lurked beneath her skin. And she was light on her feet. Even trudging in the deep snow, she seemed more to float, to skim ontop, than to walk. 

Unconcerned she had listened to the conversation that had gone onbetween her father and the Tartar in the hut of the boatman. She hadhardly been interested in the whole affair, yet, when Mehmet Alimentioned casually as soon as he was outdoors that he knew a man whowould pay twenty pieces of gold for such a wife as Fanutza was, shebecame interested in the conversation. 

"I sell horses only, " Marcu answered quietly. 

"Yet my friend and others from his tribe have bought wives. Rememberthat beautiful Circassian girl?" the Tartar continued without raising orlowering his voice. 

"Yes, Mehmet, we buy wives but we don't sell them. "

"Which is not fair, " Mehmet reflected aloud still in the same voice. 

By that time they had reached the river shore. Mehmet, after rollingtogether the oil cloth that had covered the boat, helped the gipsy chiefand his daughter to the stern. With one strong push of the oar on theshore rock, the Tartar slid his boat a hundred feet towards the middleof the stream. Then he seated himself, face towards his passengers, androwed steadily without saying a single word. The gipsy chief lit hisshort pipe and looked over his friend's head, trying to distinguish theother shore from behind the curtain of falling snow. The boat glidedslowly over the thickening waters of the Danube. A heavy snowstorm, theheaviest of the year, lashed the river. When Mehmet had finally mooredhis boat to the Roumanian side of the Danube, he turned around to thegipsy chief and said:

"Be back before sundown. It shall be my last crossing of the year. Forwhen the sun rises the waters will be frozen still. The gale blows fromthe land of the Russians. "

"As you tell me, friend, " answered Marcu while helping his daughter outof the boat. 

When the two had gone a short distance Fanutza turned her head. MehmetAli was leaning on an oar and looking after them. A little later, ahundred paces further, she caught fragments of a Tartar song thatreached her ears in spite of the shrill noises of the wind. 

Marcu and his daughter entered the inn that stood a few hundred feetfrom the shore. The innkeeper, an old fat greasy Greek, ChiriaAnastasidis, welcomed the gipsy chief. Not knowing the relationshipbetween the old man and the girl, he feared to antagonize his customerby talking to the young woman. He pushed a white pine table near the bigstove in the middle of the room and after putting two empty glasses onthe table he inquired "White or red?"

"Red wine, Chiria. It warms quicker. I am getting old. "

"Old!" exclaimed the Greek as he brought a small pitcher of wine. "Old!Why, Marcu, you are as young as you were twenty years ago. "

"This is my daughter, Fanutza, Chiria, and not my wife. "

"A fine daughter you have. Your daughter, eh?"

"Yes, and she is about to marry, too. "

After they had clinked glasses and wished one another health and longyears the innkeeper inquired:

"All your men healthy?"

"All. Only one-eyed Jancu died. You remember him. He was well along inyears. "

"_Bogdaproste. _ Let not a younger man than he was die, " answeredAnastasidis as he crossed himself. 

After Marcu had declared himself warmed back to life by the fine wine heinquired of Anastasidis the price of oats and straw and hay. Theinnkeeper's store and his warehouse contained everything from a needleto an oxcart. The shelves were full of dry goods, socks, shirts, silks, belts, fur caps, coats, and trousers. Overhead, hanging from theceiling, were heavy leather boots, shoes, saddles, harness of all kinds, fishers' nets, and even a red painted sleigh that swung on heavy chains. In one corner of the store blankets were piled high, while all over thefloor were bags of dry beans and peas and corn and oats. At the doorwere bales of straw and hay, and outside, already half covered withsnow, iron ploughs hobnobbed with small anchors, harrows, and bundles ofscythes that leaned on the wall. 

"Oats you wanted? Oats are very high this year, Marcu. "

And the bargaining began. Fanutza sat listlessly on her chair and lookedthrough the window. A few minutes later, the two men called one anotherthief and swindler and a hundred other names. Yet each time the bargainwas concluded on a certain article they shook hands and repeated thatthey were the best friends on earth. 

"Now that we have finished with the oats, Chiria, let's hear your pricefor corn? What? Three francs a hundred kilo? No. I call off the bargainon the oats. You are the biggest thief this side of the Danube. "

"And you, you lowborn Tzigane, are the cheapest swindler on earth. "

Quarrelling and shaking hands alternately and drinking wine Marcu andthe Greek went on for hours. The gipsy chief had already bought all thefood for his men and horses and a few extra blankets and had ordered itall carted to the moored boat where Mehmet Ali was waiting, whenFanutza reminded her father of the silks and linen he wanted to buy. 

"I have not forgotten, daughter, I have not forgotten. " Fanutzaapproached the counter behind which the Greek stood ready to serve hiscustomers. 

"Show us some silks, " she asked. 

He emptied a whole shelf on the counter. 

The old gipsy stood aside watching his daughter as she fingered thedifferent pieces of coloured silk, which the shopkeeper praised as hehimself touched the goods with thumb and forefinger in keen appreciationof the quality he offered. After she had selected all the colours shewanted and picked out the linen and neckerchiefs and ear-rings and triedon a pair of beautiful patent leather boots that reached over the kneesand had stripes of red leather sewed on with yellow silk on the softvamps, Fanutza declared that she had chosen everything she wanted. Thebargaining between the Greek and the gipsy was about to start anew whenMarcu looked outdoors thoughtfully, stroked his beard and said to theinnkeeper:

"Put away the things my daughter has selected. I shall come again, alone, to bargain for them. "

"If my friend fears he has not enough money--" suavely intervenedAnastasidis, as he placed a friendly hand on the gipsy's arm. 

"When Marcu has no money he does not ask his women to select silk, "haughtily interrupted the gipsy. "It will be as I said it will be. Icome alone in a day if the river has frozen. In a day or a week. I comealone. "

"Shall I, then, not take all these beautiful things along with me, now?"asked Fanutza in a plaintive yet reproachful tone. "There is Marcia whowaits to see them. I have selected the same silk _basma_ for her. Haveyou not promised me, even this morning--?"

"A woman must learn to keep her mouth shut, " shouted Marcu as he angrilystamped his right foot on the floor. He looked at his daughter as he hadnever looked at her before. Only a few hours ago she was his littlegirl, a child! He was marrying her off so soon to Stan, although it wasthe customary age for gipsies, against his desire, but because of hiswill to see her in good hands and to give to Stan the succession to theleadership of his tribe. 

Only a few hours ago! What had brought about the change? Was it in himor in her? That cursed Tartar, Mehmet Ali, with his silly offer oftwenty gold pieces! He, he had done it. Marcu looked again at hisdaughter. Her eyelids trembled nervously and there was a littlerepressed twitch about her mouth. She returned his glance at first, butlowered her eyes under her father's steady gaze. "Already a shamelesscreature, " thought the old gipsy. But he could not bear to think thatway about his little daughter, about his Fanutza. He also feared thatshe could feel his thoughts. He was ashamed of what passed through hismind. Rapidly enough in self-defense he turned against her the sharpedge of the argument. Why had she given him all those ugly thoughts?

"It will be as I said, Anastasidis. In a day or a week. When the riverhas frozen, I come alone. And now, Fanutza, we go. Night is coming closebehind us. Come, you shall have all your silks. "

The Greek accompanied them to the door. The cart that had brought themerchandise to the boat of the waiting Mehmet was returning. 

"The water is thickening, " the driver greeted the gipsy and hisdaughter. 

They found Mehmet Ali seated in the boat expecting his passengers. 

"Have you bought everything you intended?" the Tartar inquired as heslid the oars into the hoops. 

"Everything, " Marcu answered as he watched his daughter from the cornerof an eye. 

Vigorously Mehmet Ali rowed till well out into the wide river withoutsaying another word. His manner was so detached that the gipsy chiefthought the Tartar had already forgotten what had passed between them inthe morning. Sure enough. Why! He was an old man, Mehmet Ali. It waspossible he had been commissioned by some Dobrudgean Tartar chief to buyhim a wife. He had been refused and now he was no longer thinking abouther. He will look somewhere else, where his offer might not be scorned. That offer of Mehmet had upset him. He had never thought of Fanutzaother than as a child. Of course he was marrying her to Stan--but it wasmore like giving her a second father!

Suddenly the old gipsy looked at the Tartar who had lifted his oars fromthe water and brought the boat to an abrupt standstill. Mehmet Ali laidthe paddles across the width of the boat and looking steadily into theeyes of Marcu, he said:

"As I said this morning, Marcu, it is not fair that you should buy wivesfrom us when you like our women and not sell us yours when we likethem. "

"It is as it is, " countered the gipsy savagely. 

"But it is not fair, " argued Mehmet, slyly watching every movement ofhis old friend. 

"If Mehmet is tired my arms are strong enough to help if he wishes, "remarked Marcu. 

"No, I am not tired, but I should like my friend to know that I think itis not fair. "

There was a long silence during which the boat was carried downstreamalthough it was kept in the middle of the river by skilful littlemovements of the boatman. 

Fanutza looked at the Tartar. He was about the same age as Stan was. Only he was stronger, taller, broader, swifter. When he chanced to lookat her his small bead-like eyes bored through her like gimlets. No manhad ever looked at her that way. Stan's eyes were much like her ownfather's eyes. The Tartar's face was much darker than her own. His nosewas flat and his upper lip curled too much noseward and the lower onechinward, and his bulletlike head rose from between the shoulders. Therewas no neck. No, he was not beautiful to look at. But he was sodifferent from Stan! So different from any of the other men she had seenevery day since she was born. Why! Stan--Stan was like her father. Theywere all like him in her tribe!

"And, as I said, " Mehmet continued after a while, "as I said, it is notfair. My friend must see that. It is not fair. So I offer you twentygold pieces for the girl. Is it a bargain?"

"She is not for sale, " yelled Marcu, understanding too well the meaningof the oars out of the water. 

"No?" wondered Mehmet, "not for twenty pieces of gold? Well, then Ishall offer five more. Sure twenty-five is more than any of your peopleever paid to us for a wife. It would shame my ancestors were I to offermore for a gipsy girl than they ever received for one of our women. "

"She is not for sale, " roared the gipsy at the top of his voice. 

By that time the Tartar knew that Marcu was not armed. He knew the chieftoo well not to know that a knife or a pistol would have been the answerto his second offer and the implied insult to the race of gipsies. 

Twenty-five gold pieces! thought Fanutza. Twenty-five gold piecesoffered for her by a Tartar at a second bid. She knew what that meant. She had been raised in the noise of continual bargaining between Tartarsand gipsies and Greeks. It meant much less than a quarter of theultimate sum the Tartar was willing to pay. Would Stan ever have offeredthat for her? No, surely not. She looked at the Tartar and felt thepassion that radiated from him. How lukewarm Stan was! And here was aman. Stopped the boat midstream and bargained for her, fought to possessher. Endangered his life for her. For it was a dangerous thing to dowhat he did and facing her father. Yet--she will have to marry Stanbecause her father bids it. 

"I don't mean to offend you, " the boatman spoke again, "but you are veryslow in deciding whether you accept my bargain or not. Night is closingupon us. "

Marcu did not answer immediately. The boat was carried downstream veryrapidly. They were at least two miles too far down by now. Mehmet lookedat Fanutza and found such lively interest in her eyes that he wasencouraged to offer another five gold pieces for her. 

It was a proud moment for the girl. So men were willing to pay so muchfor her! But her heart almost sank when her father pulled out his pursefrom his pocket and said:

"Mehmet Ali, who is my best friend, has been so good to me these twentyyears that I have thought to give him twenty gold pieces that he mightbuy himself a wife to keep his hut warm during the long winter. What sayhe to my friendship?"

"That is wonderful! Only now, he is not concerned about that, but aboutthe fairness of his friend who does not want to sell wives to the menwhose women he buys. I offer five more gold pieces which makesthirty-five in all. And I do that not for Marcu but for his daughterthat she may know that I will not harm her and will for ever keep herwell fed and buy her silks and jewels. "

"Silks!" It occurred to the gipsy chief to look at his daughter at thatmoment. She turned her head away from his and looked at the Tartar, fromunder her brows. How had he known?

"A bargain is a bargain only when two men agree on something, says theKoran, " the gipsy chief reminded the Tartar boatman. "I don't want tosell her. "

"So we will travel downstream for a while, " answered Mehmet Ali andcrossed his arms. 

After a while the gipsy chief who had reckoned that they must be fullyfive miles away from his home across the water made a new offer. 

"A woman, Mehmet Ali, is a woman. They are all alike after you haveknown them. So I offer you thirty-five pieces of gold with which you canbuy for yourself any other woman you please whenever you want. "

Fanutza looked at the Tartar. Though it was getting dark she could seethe play of every muscle of his face. Hardly had her father finishedmaking his offer, when Mehmet, after one look at the girl, said:

"I offer fifty gold pieces for the girl. Is it a bargain?"

Fanutza's eyes met the eyes of her father. She looked at himentreatingly, "Don't give in to the Tartar, " her eyes spoke clearly, andMarcu refused the offer. 

"I offer you fifty instead that you buy yourself another woman than mydaughter. "

"No, " answered the Tartar, "but I offer sixty for this one, here. "

Quick as a flash Fanutza changed the encouraging glance she had thrownto the passionate man to a pleading look towards her father. "Poor, poorgirl!" thought Marcu. "How she fears to lose me! How she fears I mightaccept the money and sell her to the Tartar!"

"A hundred gold pieces to row us across, " he yelled, for the night wasclosing in upon them and the boat was being carried swiftly downstream. There was danger ahead of them. Marcu knew it. 

"A hundred gold pieces is a great sum, " mused Mehmet, "a great sum! Ithas taken twenty years of my life to save such a sum--yet, instead ofaccepting your offer, I will give you the same sum for the woman Iwant. "

"Fool, a woman is only a woman. They are all alike, " roared the gipsy. 

"Not to me!" answered Mehmet Ali quietly. "I shall not say anotherword. "

"Fool, fool, fool, " roared the gipsy as he still tried to catchFanutza's eye. It was already too dark. 

"Not to me. " The Tartar's words echoed in the girl's heart. "Not to me. "Twenty years he had worked to save such a great sum. And now he refusedan equal amount and was willing to pay it all for her. Would Stan havedone that? Would anybody else have done that? Why should she becompelled to marry whom her father chose when men were willing to pay ahundred gold pieces for her? The old women of the camp had taught her tocook and to mend and to wash and to weave. She must know all that to beworthy of Stan, they had told her. And here was a man who did not knowwhether she knew any of these things who staked his life for her andoffered a hundred gold pieces in the bargain! Twenty years of savings. Twenty years of work. It was not every day one met such a man. Surely, with one strong push of his arms he could throw her father overboard. Hedid not do it because he did not want to hurt her feelings. And as thesilence continued Fanutza thought her father, too, was a fine man. Itwas fine of him to offer a hundred gold pieces for her liberty. Thatwas in itself a great thing. But did he do it only for her sake orwasn't it because of Stan, because of himself? And as she thought againof Mehmet's "Not to me, " she remembered the fierce bitterness in herfather's voice when he had yelled, "All women are alike. " That was nottrue. If it were true why would Mehmet Ali want her and her only afterhaving seen her only once? Then, too, all men must be alike! It was notso at all! Why! Mehmet Ali was not at all like Stan. And he offered ahundred pieces of gold. No. Stan was of the kind who think all women arealike. That was it. All her people were thinking all women were alike. That was it. Surely all the men in the tribe were alike in that. All herfather had ever been to her, his kindness, his love was wiped away whenhe said those few words. The last few words of Mehmet Ali, "Not to me, "were the sweetest music she had ever heard. 

Marcu waited until it was dark enough for the Tartar not to see, whenpressing significantly his daughter's foot, he said:

"So be it as you said. Row us across. "

"It is not one minute too soon, " Mehmet answered. "Only a short distancefrom here, where the river splits in three forks, is a great rock. Shakehands. Here. Now here is one oar. Pull as I count, _Bir, icki, outch, dort_. Again, _Bir, icki, outch, dort_. Lift your oar. Pull again. Two counts only. _Bir, icki. _ So, now we row nearer to the shore. Seethat light there? Row towards it. Good. Marcu, your arm is still strongand steady and you can drive a good bargain. "

Again and again the gipsy pressed the foot of his daughter as he bentover the oar. She should know of course that he never intended to keephis end of the bargain. He gave in only when he saw that the Tartarmeant to wreck them all on the rocks ahead of them. Why had he, old andexperienced as he was, having dealt with those devils of Tartars for somany years, not known better than to return to the boat after he hadheard Mehmet say, "It is not fair!" And after he had reflected on theTartar's words, why, after he had refused to buy all the silks andlinen on that reflection, not a very clear one at first, why had he nottold Mehmet to row across alone and deliver the fodder and food. Hecould have passed the night in Anastasidis' inn and hired another boatthe following morning if the river had not frozen meanwhile! He shouldhave known, he who knew these passionate beasts so well. It was all thesame with them; whether they set their eyes on a horse that capturedtheir fancy or a woman. They were willing to kill or be killed in thefight for what they wanted. A hundred gold pieces for a woman! Twentyyears' work for a woman!

The two men rowed in silence, each one planning how to outwit the otherand each one knowing that the other was planning likewise. According toTartar ethics the bargain was a bargain. When the boat had been pulledout of danger Mehmet hastened to fulfil his end. With one jerk heloosened a heavy belt underneath his coat and pulled out a leather pursewhich he threw to Marcu. As he did so he met Fanutza's proud eye. 

"Here. Count it. Just one hundred. "

"That's good enough, " the gipsy chief answered as he put the purse inhis pocket without even looking at it. "Row, I am cold. I am anxious tobe home. "

"It will not be before daylight, chief, " remarked Mehmet Ali as he bentagain over his oars and counted aloud, "_Bir, icki, Bir, icki_. "An hour later, Fanutza had fallen asleep on the bags of fodder and wascovered by the heavy fur coat of the Tartar. The two men rowed the wholenight upstream against the current in the slushy heavy waters of theDanube. A hundred times floating pieces of ice had bent back the flat ofthe oar Marcu was handling, and every time Mehmet had saved it frombreaking by a deft stroke of his own oar or by some other similarmovement. He was a waterman and knew the ways of the water as well asMarcu himself knew the murky roads of the marshes. The gipsy could nothelp but admire the powerful quick movements of the Tartar--yet--to beforced into selling his daughter--that was another thing. 

At daylight they were within sight of Mehmet's hut on the shore. Thestorm had abated. Standing up on the bags of fodder Marcu saw the blacksmoke that rose from his camp. His people must be waiting on the shore. They were a dozen men. Mehmet was one alone. He will unload the goodsfirst; then, when his men will be near enough, he will tell Fanutza torun towards them. Let Mehmet come to take her if he dare!

A violent jerk woke the gipsy girl from her sleep. She looked at the twomen but said nothing. When the boat was moored, the whole tribe ofgipsies, who had already mourned their chief yet hoped against hope andwatched the length of the shore, surrounded the two men and the woman. There was a noisy welcome. While some of the men helped unload the boata boy came running with a sleigh cart. 

When all the bags were loaded on the sleigh Marcu threw the heavy purseMehmet had given him to the Tartar's feet and grabbed the arm of hisFanutza. 

"Here is your money, Mehmet. I take my daughter. "

But before he knew what had happened, Fanutza shook off his grip andpicking up the purse she threw it at her father, saying:

"Take it. Give it to Stan that he should buy with the gold anotherwoman. To him all women are alike. But not to Mehmet Ali. So I shallstay with him. A bargain is a bargain. He staked his life for me. "

Marcu knew it was the end. "All women are alike, " he whined to Stan ashe handed him the purse. "Take it. All women are alike, " he repeatedwith bitterness as he made a savage movement towards his daughter. 

"All, save the ones with blood of Chans in their veins, " said Mehmet Aliwho had put himself between the girl and the whole of her tribe. And theTartar's words served as a reminder to Marcu that Fanutza's own motherhad been the daughter of a Tartar chief and a white woman. 

EXPERIMENT[4]

By MAXWELL STRUTHERS BURT

(From _The Pictorial Review_)

When she had reached that point of detachment where she could regard thematter more or less objectively, Mrs. Ennis, recalling memories of aninterrupted but lifelong friendship, realized that Burnaby's behavior, outrageous or justifiable or whatever you choose to call it, at allevents aberrational, was exactly what might have been expected of him, given an occasion when his instincts for liking or disliking had beensufficiently aroused. Moreover, there was about him always, sheremembered, this additional exceptional quality: the rare and fortunateknowledge that socially he was independent; was not, that is, subject toretaliation. He led too roving a life to be moved by the threat ofunpopularity; a grandfather had bequeathed him a small but unshakableinheritance. 

As much, therefore, as any one can be in this world he was a free agent;and the assurance of this makes a man very brave for either kindness orunkindness, and, of course, extremely dangerous for either good or evil. You will see, after a while, what I am driving at. Meanwhile, withoutfurther comment, we can come directly to Mrs. Ennis, where she sat inher drawing room, and to the night on which the incident occurred. 

Mrs. Ennis, small and blond, and in a white evening gown of satin andsilver sequins that made her look like a lovely and fashionable mermaid, sat in her drawing room and stretched her feet out to the flames of agentle woodfire. It was seven o'clock of a late April night, andthrough an open window to her left came, from the little park beyond thehouse, a faint breeze that stirred lazily the curtains and brought tothe jonquils, scattered about in numerous metal and crystal bowls, wordof their brothers in the dusk without. The room was quiet, save for thehissing of the logs; remote, delicately lighted, filled with the subtleodor of books and flowers; reminiscent of the suave personalities ofthose who frequented it. On the diminutive piano in one corner, a largesilver frame, holding the photograph of a man in French uniform, caughthere and there on its surface high lights from the shaded wall-lampabove. In the shelter of white bookcases, the backs of volumes in redand tawny and brown gave the effect of tapestry cunningly woven. Mrs. Ennis stared at the logs and smiled. 

It was an odd smile, reflective, yet anticipatory; amused, absent-minded, barely disturbing the lines of her beautifully modeledred lips. Had any of Mrs. Ennis's enemies, and they were not few innumber, seen it, they would have surmised mischief afoot; had any of herfriends, and there were even more of these than enemies, been present, they would have been on the alert for events of interest. It alldepended, you see, upon whether you considered a taste for amateurpsychology, indulged in, a wickedness or not. Mrs. Ennis herself wouldnot have given her favorite amusement so stately a name; she was awaremerely that she found herself possessed of a great curiosity concerningpeople, particularly those of forcible and widely differentcharacteristics, and that she liked, whenever possible, to gather themtogether, and then see what would happen. Usually something did--happen, that is. 

With the innocence of a child playing with fire-crackers (and it wasn'taltogether innocent, either), in her rôle of the god in the machine shehad been responsible for many things; several comedies, perhaps atragedy or two. Ordinarily her parties were dull enough; complacentWashington parties; diplomats, long-haired Senators from the West, short-bearded Senators from the East, sleek young men and women, all ofwhom sat about discussing grave nonsense concerning a country with whichthey had utterly lost touch, if ever they had had any; but every now andthen, out of the incalculable shufflings of fate, appeared a combinationthat seemed to offer more excitement. Tonight such a combination was athand. Mrs. Ennis was contented, in the manner of a blithe and beautifulspider. 

Burnaby, undoubtedly, was the principal source of this contentment, forhe was a young man--he wasn't really young, but you always thought ofhim as young--of infinite potentialities; Burnaby, just back from someesoteric work in Roumania, whither he had gone after the War, and inWashington for the night and greatly pleased to accept an invitation fordinner; but essential as he was, Burnaby was only part of the tableauarranged. To meet him, Mrs. Ennis had asked her best, for the timebeing, friend, Mimi de Rochefort--Mary was her right name--and Mimi deRochefort's best, for the time being, friend, Robert Pollen. NowadaysPollen came when Madame de Rochefort came; one expected his presence. Hehad been a habit in this respect for over six months; in fact, almostfrom the time Madame de Rochefort (she was so young that to call herMadame seemed absurdly quaint), married these five years to a Frenchman, had set foot once more upon her native land. 

In the meeting of Pollen and Burnaby and Mary Rochefort, Mrs. Ennisforesaw contingencies; just what these contingencies were likely to beshe did not know, but that an excellent chance for them existed she hadno doubt, even if in the end they proved to be no more than the humor tobe extracted from the reflection that a supposedly rational divinity hadspent his time creating three people so utterly unalike. 

The gilt clock on the mantelpiece chimed half-past seven. The jonquilson the piano shone in the polished mahogany like yellow water-lilies ina pool. Into the silence of the room penetrated, on noiseless feet, afresh-colored man servant. Despite such days as the present, Mrs. Ennishad a way, irritating to her acquaintances, of obtaining faithfulattendance. Even servants seemed to be glad to wait upon her. Herhusband, dead these six years, had been unfailingly precise in allmatters save the one of drink. 

"Mr. Burnaby!" announced the man servant. 

Burnaby strode close on his heels. Mrs. Ennis had arisen and wasstanding with her back to the fireplace. She had the impression that acurrent of air followed the entrance of the two men. She remembered nowthat she had always felt that way with Burnaby; she had always felt asif he were bringing news of pine forests and big empty countries she hadnever seen but could dimly imagine. It was very exciting. 

Burnaby paused and looked about the room doubtfully, then he chuckledand came forward. "I haven't seen anything like this for three years, "he said. "Roumanian palaces are furnished in the very latest bad taste. "

He took Mrs. Ennis's outstretched hand and peered down at her withnarrowed eyelids. She received the further impression, an impression shehad almost forgotten in the intervening years, of height and leanness, of dark eyes, and dark, crisp hair; a vibrant impression; something likea chord of music struck sharply. Unconsciously she let her hand rest inhis for a moment, then she drew it away hastily. He was smiling andtalking to her. 

"Rhoda! You ought to begin to look a bit older! You're thirty-six, ifyou're a day! How do you do it? You look like a wise and rather naughtylittle girl. "

"Hush!" said Mrs. Ennis. "I wear my hair parted on one side like adebutante to give me a head-start on all the knowing and subtle andwicked people I have to put up with. While they are trying to break theice with an ingenue, I'm sizing them up. "

Burnaby laughed. "Well, I'm not subtle, " he said. He sank down into abig chair across the fireplace from her. "I'm only awfully glad to beback; and I'm good and simple and amenable, and willing to do nearlyanything any good American tells me to do. I love Americans. "

"You won't for very long, " Mrs. Ennis assured him dryly. "Particularlyif you stay in Washington more than a day. " She was wondering how evenfor a moment she had been able to forget Burnaby's vividness. 

"No, " laughed Burnaby, "I suppose not. But while the mood is on me, don't disillusion me. "

Mrs. Ennis looked across at him with a smile. "You'll meet two veryattractive people tonight, anyway, " she said. 

"Oh, yes!" He leaned forward. "I had forgotten--who are they?"

Mrs. Ennis spread her arms out along the chair. "There's MaryRochefort, " she answered, "and there's Robert Pollen, who's supposed tobe the most alluring man alive. "

"Is it doing him any good?"

"Well--" Mrs. Ennis looked up with a laugh. 

"You don't like him? Or perhaps you do?"

Mrs. Ennis knit her brows in thought, her blue eyes dark withconjecture. "I don't know, " she said at length. "Sometimes I think I do, and sometimes I think I don't. He's very good-looking in a tall, blond, pliable way, and he can be very amusing when he wants to be. I don'tknow. "

"Why not?"

Mrs. Ennis wrinkled her nose in the manner of one who is being pushed toexplanation. 

"I am not so sure, " she confided, "that I admire professionalphilanderers as much as I did. Although, so long as they leave mealone--"

"Oh, he's that, is he?"

Mrs. Ennis corrected herself hastily. "Oh, no, " she protested. "Ishouldn't talk that way, should I? Now you'll have an initial prejudice, and that isn't fair--only--" she hesitated "I rather wish he wouldconfine his talents to his own equals and not conjure young marriedwomen at their most vulnerable period. "

"Which is?"

"Just when, " said Mrs. Ennis, "they're not sure whether they want tofall in love again with their own husbands or not. " Then she stoppedabruptly. She was surprised that she had told Burnaby these things;even more surprised at the growing incisiveness of her voice. She wasnot accustomed to taking the amatory excursions of her friends too muchto heart; she had a theory that it was none of her business, thatperhaps some day she might want charity herself. But now she foundherself perceptibly indignant. She wondered if it wasn't Burnaby'spresence that was making her so. Sitting across from her, he made herthink of directness and dependability and other traits she wasaccustomed to refer to as "primitive virtues. " She liked his black, heavily ribbed evening stockings. Somehow they were like him. It madeher angry with herself and with Burnaby that she should feel this way;be so moved by "primitive virtues. " She detested puritanism greatly, andrighteously, but so much so that she frequently mistook the mostinnocent fastidiousness for an unforgivable rigidity. "If they once do, "she concluded, "once do fall in love with their husbands again, they'resafe, you know, for all time. "

She looked up and drew in her breath sharply. Burnaby was sittingforward in his chair, staring at her with the curious, far-sighted stareshe remembered was characteristic of him when his interest was suddenlyand thoroughly aroused. It was as if he were looking through the personto whom he was talking to some horizon beyond. It was a trifle uncanny, unless you were accustomed to the trick. 

"What's the matter?" she asked. She had the feeling that back of hersome one she could not see was standing. 

Burnaby smiled. "Nothing, " he said. He sank back into his chair. "That'san odd name--the name of this alluring fellow of yours, isn't it? Whatdid you say it was--Pollen?"

"Yes. Robert Pollen. Why, do you know him?"

"No. " Burnaby shook his head. He leaned over and lit a cigarette. "Youdon't mind, do you?" he asked. He raised his eyes. "So he's conjuringthis Madame de Rochefort, is he?" he concluded. 

Mrs. Ennis flushed. "I never said anything of the kind!" she protested. "It's none of our business, anyway. "

Burnaby smiled calmly. "I quite agree with you, " he said. "I imaginethat a Frenchwoman, married for a while, is much better able to conducther life in this respect than even the most experienced of us. "

"She isn't French, " said Mrs. Ennis; "she's American. And she's onlybeen married five years. She's just a child--twenty-six. "

"Oh!" ejaculated Burnaby. "One of those hard-faced children! Iunderstand--Newport, Palm Beach, cocktails--"

His voice was cut across by Mrs. Ennis's indignant retort. "You don't inthe least!" she said. "She's not one of those hard-faced children; she'slovely--and I've come to the conclusion that she's pathetic. I'mbeginning to rather hate this man Pollen. Back of it all are subtletiesof personality difficult to fathom. You should know Blais Rochefort. Iimagine a woman going about things the wrong way could break her hearton him like waves on a crystal rock. I think it has been a question offire meeting crystal, and, when it finds that the crystal is difficultto warm, turning back upon itself. I said waves, didn't I? Well, I don'tcare if my metaphors are mixed. It's tragic, anyhow. And the principaltragedy is that Blais Rochefort isn't really cold--at least, I don'tthink he would be if properly approached--he is merely beautifully lucidand intelligent and exacting in a way no American understands, least ofall a petted girl who has no family and who is very rich. He expects, you see, an equal lucidity from his wife. He's not to be won over by thefumbling and rather selfish and pretty little tricks that are all mostof us know. But Mary, I think, would have learned if she had only heldon. Now, I'm afraid, she's losing heart. Hard-faced child!" Mrs. Ennisgrew indignant again. "Be careful my friend; even you might find herdangerously pathetic. "

Burnaby's eyes were placidly amused. "Thanks, " he observed. "You've toldme all I wanted to know. "

Mrs. Ennis waved toward the piano. "There's Blais Rochefort'sphotograph, " she retorted in tones of good-humored exasperation. "Goover and look at it. "

"I will. "

Burnaby's black shoulders, bent above the photograph, were for a momentthe object of a pensive regard. Mrs. Ennis sighed. "Your presence makesme puritanical, " she observed. "I have always felt that the best way forany one to get over Pollens was to go through with them and forgetthem. "

Burnaby spoke without turning his head. 

"He's good-looking. "

"Very. "

"A real man. "

"Decidedly! Very brave and very cultivated. "

"He waxes his mustache. "

"Yes, even brave men do that occasionally. "

"I should think, " said Burnaby thoughtfully, putting the photographdown, "that he might be worth a woman's hanging on to. "

Mrs. Ennis got up, crossed over to the piano, and leaned an elbow uponit, resting her cheek in the palm of her upturned hand and smiling atBurnaby. 

"Don't let's be so serious, " she said. "What business is it of ours?"She turned her head away and began to play with the petals of a near-byjonquil. "Spring is a restless time, isn't it?"

It seemed to her that the most curious little silence followed thisspeech of hers, and yet she knew that in actual time it was nothing, andfelt that it existed probably only in her own heart. She heard the clockon the mantelpiece across the room ticking; far off, the rattle of ataxicab. The air coming through the open window bore the damp, stirringsmell of early grass. 

"Madame De Rochefort and Mr. Pollen!" announced a voice. 

Mrs. Ennis had once said that her young friend, Mimi de Rochefort, responded to night more brilliantly than almost any other woman sheknew. The description was apt. Possibly by day there was a pallor toolifeless, a nose a trifle too short and arrogant, lips, possibly, toofull; but by night these discrepancies blended into something very nearperfection, and back of them as well was a delicate illumination as oflanterns hung in trees beneath stars; an illumination due to youth, andto very large dark eyes, and to dark, soft hair and red lips. Nor withthis beauty went any of the coolness or abrupt languor with which themodern young hide their eagerness. 

Mary Rochefort was quite simple beneath her habitual reserve; frank andappealing and even humorous at times, as if startled out of her usualmood of reflective quiet by some bit of wit, slowly apprehended, toogood to be overlooked. Mrs. Ennis watched with a sidelong glance theeffect of her entrance upon Burnaby. Madame de Rochefort! How absurd! Tocall this white, tall, slim child madame! She admired rather enviouslythe gown of shimmering dark blue, the impeccability of adolescence. Overthe girl's white shoulder, too much displayed, Pollen peered at Burnabywith the vague, hostile smile of the guest not yet introduced to a guestof similar sex. 

"Late as usual!" he announced. "Mimi kept me!" His manner was subtlydomestic. 

"You're really on the stroke of the clock, " said Mrs. Ennis. "Madame deRochefort--Mr. Burnaby--Mr. Pollen. " She laughed abruptly, as if athought had just occurred to her. "Mr. Burnaby, " she explained to thegirl, "is the last surviving specimen of the American male--he has allthe ancient national virtues. Preserved, I suppose, because he spendsmost of his time in Alaska, or wherever it is. I particularly wanted youto meet him. "

Burnaby flushed and laughed uncertainly. "I object--" he began. 

The fresh-colored man servant entered with a tray of cocktails. Madamede Rochefort exclaimed delightedly. "I'm so glad, " she said. "Nowadaysone fatigues oneself before dinner by wondering whether there will beanything to drink or not. How absurd!" The careful choice of words, theprecision of the young, worldly voice were in amusing contrast to theyouthfulness of appearance. Standing before the fireplace in her bluegown, she resembled a tapering lily growing from the indigo shadows of anoon orchard. 

"Rhoda'll have cocktails when there aren't any more left in thecountry, " said Pollen. "Trust Rhoda!"

Mary Rochefort laughed. "I always do, " she said, "with reservations. "She turned to Burnaby. "Where are you just back from?" she asked. "Iunderstand you are always just back from some place, or on the verge ofgoing. "

"Usually on the verge, " answered Burnaby. He looked at her deliberately, a smile in his dark eyes; then he looked at Pollen. 

"Where were you--the War?"

"Yes--by way of Roumania in the end. "

"The War!" Mary Rochefort's lips became petulant. One noticed for thefirst time the possibility of considerable petulance back of the shiningself-control. "How sick of it I grew--all of us living over there! I'dlike to sleep for a thousand years in a field filled with daffodils. "

"They've plenty scattered about this room, " observed Pollen. "Why don'tyou start now?"

The fresh-colored man servant announced dinner. "Shall we go down?"said Mrs. Ennis. 

They left the little drawing-room, with its jonquils and warm shadows, and went along a short hall, and then down three steps and across alanding to the dining-room beyond. It, like the drawing-room, was small, white-paneled to the ceiling, with a few rich prints of Constablelandscapes on the walls, and velvet-dark sideboards and tables thatcaught the light of the candles. In the center was a table of snowydrapery and silver and red roses. 

Mrs. Ennis sank into her chair and looked about her with content. Sheloved small dinners beautifully thought out, and even more she lovedthem when, as on this night, they were composed of people who interestedher. She stole a glance at Burnaby. How clean and brown and alert hewas! The white table-cloth accentuated his look of fitness and muscularcontrol. What an amusing contrast he presented to the rather languid, gesturing Pollen, who sat opposite him! And yet Pollen was considerableof a man in his own way; very conquering in the affairs of life;immensely clever in his profession of architecture. Famous, Mrs. Ennishad heard. 

But Mrs. Ennis, despite her feminine approval of success, couldn'timagine herself being as much interested in him--dangerouslyinterested--as she knew her friend Mary Rochefort to be. How odd! Fromall the world to pick out a tall, blond, willowy man like Pollen! On theverge of middle age, too! Perhaps it was this very willowiness, thisapparent placidity that made him attractive. This child, Mary Rochefort, quite alone in the world, largely untrained, adrift, imperiouslydemanding from an imperious husband something to which she had not asyet found the key, might very naturally gravitate toward any onepresenting Pollen's appearance of security; his attitude of complacencein the face of feminine authority. But was he complacent? Mrs. Ennis hadher doubts. He was very vain; underneath his urbanity there might be anelastic hardness. 

There were, moreover, at times indications of a rather contemptuousattitude toward a world less highly trained than himself. She turned toPollen, trying to recollect what for the last few moments he had beensaying to her. He perceived her more scrutinizing attention and facedtoward her. From under lowered eyelids he had been watching, with amoody furtiveness, Mary Rochefort and Burnaby, who were oblivious to theother two in the manner of people who are glad they have met. 

Mrs. Ennis found herself annoyed, her sense of good manners shocked. Shehad not suspected that Pollen could be guilty of such clumsiness; shequestioned if matters had reached a point where such an attitude on hispart would be justifiable under any circumstances. At all events, herdoubts concerning his complacency had been answered. It occurred to Mrs. Ennis that her dinner-party was composed of more inflammable material, presented more dramatic possibilities, than even she had divined. Sheembraced Pollen with her smile. 

"What have you been doing with yourself?" she asked. 

He lifted long eyebrows and smiled faintly. 

"Working very hard, " he said. 

"Building behemoths for billionaires?"

"Yes. "

"And the rest of the time?"

"Rather drearily going about. "

She surveyed him with wicked innocence. 

"Why don't you fall in love?" she suggested. 

His expression remained unmoved. "It is so difficult, " he retorted, "tofind the proper subject. A man of my experience frightens theinexperienced: the experienced frighten me. "

"You mean--?"

"That I have reached the age where the innocence no longer possible tome seems the only thing worth while. "

Mrs. Ennis wrinkled her nose daintily. "Nonsense!" she observed, andhelped herself to the dish the servant was holding out to her. "What youhave said, " she resumed, "is the last word of the sentimentalist. If Ithought you really meant it, I would know at once that you were verycold and very cruel and rather silly. "

"Thanks!"

"Oh, I'm talking more or less abstractly. "

"Well, possibly I am all of those things. "

"But you want me to be personal?"

Pollen laughed. "Of course! Doesn't everybody want _you_ to bepersonal?"

For an instant Mrs. Ennis looked again at Burnaby and Mary Rochefort, and a slightly rueful smile stirred in her eyes. It was amusing thatshe, who detested large dinners and adored general conversation, shouldat the moment be so engrossed in preventing the very type ofconversation she preferred. She returned to Pollen. What a horrid man hereally was! Unangled and amorphous, and underneath, cold! He had a wayof framing the woman to whom he was talking and then stepping back outof the picture. One felt like a model in all manner of dress andundress. She laughed softly. "Don't, " she begged, "be so mysteriousabout yourself! Tell me--" she held him with eyes of ingratiatingsapphire--"I've always been interested in finding out just what youare, anyway. "

Far back in Pollen's own eyes of golden brown a little spark slowlyburst into flame. It was exactly as if a gnome had lighted a lantern atthe back of an unknown cave. Mrs. Ennis inwardly shuddered, butoutwardly was gay. 

How interminably men talked when once they were launched upon thatfavorite topic, themselves! Pollen showed every indication of reaching apoint of intellectual intoxication where his voice would becomeantiphonal. His objective self was taking turns in standing off andadmiring his subjective self. Mrs. Ennis wondered at her own kindness ofheart. Why did she permit herself to suffer so for her friends; in thepresent instance, a friend who would probably--rather the contrary--byno means thank her for her pains? She wanted to talk to Burnaby. She wasmissing most of his visit. She wanted to talk to Burnaby so greatly thatthe thought made her cheeks burn faintly. She began to hate Pollen. MaryRochefort's cool, young voice broke the spell. 

"You told me, " she said accusingly, "that this man--this Mr. Burnaby, has all the primitive virtues; he is the wickedest man I have ever met. "

"Good gracious!" said Mrs. Ennis. 

"The very wickedest!"

Pollen's mouth twisted under his mustache. "I wouldn't have suspectedit, " he observed, surveying Burnaby with ironic amusement. There wasjust a hint of hidden condescension in his voice. 

Burnaby's eyes drifted past him with a look of quiet speculation intheir depths, before he smiled at Mrs. Ennis. 

"Roumania has changed you, " she exclaimed. 

He chuckled. "Not in the least! I was simply trying to prove to Madamede Rochefort that hot-bloodedness, coolly conceived, is the onlypossible road to success. Like most innately moral people, she believesjust the opposite--in cool-bloodedness, hotly conceived. "

"I moral?" said Mary Rochefort, as if the thought had not occurred toher before. 

"Why, of course, " said Burnaby. "It's a question of attitude, not ofactual performance. The most moral man I ever knew was a habitualdrunkard. His life was spent between debauch and disgust. Not, ofcourse, that I am implying that with you--"

"Tell us what you meant in the first place, " commanded Mrs. Ennis. 

"Something, " said Burnaby slowly, "totally un-American--in short, whole-heartedness. " He clasped his sinewy, brown hands on thetable-cloth. "I mean, " he continued, "if, after due thought--neverforget the due thought--you believe it to be the best thing to do toelope with another man's wife, elope; only don't look back. In the sameway, if you decide to become, after much question, an ironmonger, be anironmonger. Love passionately what you've chosen. In other words, life'slike fox-hunting; choose your line, choose it slowly and carefully, thenfollow it 'hell-for-leather. '

"You see, the trouble with Americans is that they are the greatestwanters of cake after they've eaten it the world has ever seen. Ourblood isn't half as mixed as our point of view. We want to be good andwe want to be bad; we want to be a dozen utterly incompatible things allat the same time. Of course, all human beings are that way, but otherhuman beings make their choices and then try to eradicate theincompatibilities. The only whole-hearted people we possess are ourbusiness men, and even they, once they succeed, usually spoil thepicture by astounding open scandals with chorus-girls. "

Mrs. Ennis shook her head with amused bewilderment. "Do you mean, " sheasked, "that a man or woman can have only one thing in his or her life?"

"Only one very outwardly important thing--publicly, " retorted Burnaby. "You may be a very great banker with a very great background as ahusband, but you can't be a very great banker and at the same time whatis known as a 'very great lover. ' In Europe, where they arrange theirlives better, one chooses either banking or 'loving'. " He smiled withfrank good humor at Pollen; the first time, Mrs. Ennis reflected, he haddone so that night. A suspicion that Burnaby was not altogetheringenuous crossed her mind. But why wasn't he?

"You're a man, Pollen, " he said; "tell them it's true. "

Pollen, absorbed apparently in thoughts of his own stammered slightly. "Why--why, yes, " he agreed hastily. 

Mrs. Ennis sighed ruefully and looked at Burnaby with large, humorouslyreproachful eyes. "You have changed, " she observed, "or else you're notsaying but half of what you really think--and part of it you don't thinkat all. "

"Oh, yes, " laughed Burnaby, "you misunderstand me. " He picked up a forkand tapped the table-cloth with it thoughtfully; then he raised hishead. "I was thinking of a story I might tell you, " he said, "but onsecond thoughts I don't think I will. "

"Don't be foolish!" admonished Mrs. Ennis. "Your stories are alwaysinteresting. First finish your dessert. "

Pollen smiled languidly. "Yes, " he commented, "go on. It's interesting, decidedly. I thought people had given up this sort of conversation longago. "

For the third time Burnaby turned slowly toward him, only now his eyes, instead of resting upon the bland countenance for a fraction of asecond, surveyed it lingeringly with the detached, absent-minded stareMrs. Ennis remembered so well. "Perhaps I will tell it, after all, " hesaid, in the manner of a man who has definitely changed his mind. "Wouldyou like to hear it?" he asked, turning to Mary Rochefort. 

"Certainly!" she laughed. "Is it very immoral?"

"Extremely, " vouchsafed Burnaby, "from the accepted point of view. "

"Tell it in the other room, " suggested Mrs. Ennis. "We'll sit before thefire and tell ghost stories. "

There was a trace of grimness in Burnaby's answering smile. "Curiouslyenough, it is a ghost story, " he said. 

They had arisen to their feet; above the candles their heads andshoulders were indistinct. For a moment Mrs. Ennis hesitated and lookedat Burnaby with a new bewilderment in her eyes. 

"If it's very immoral, " interposed Pollen, "I'm certain to like it. "

Burnaby bowed to him with a curious old-fashioned courtesy. "I am sure, "he observed, "it will interest you immensely. "

Mrs. Ennis suddenly stared through the soft obscurity. "Good gracious, "she said to herself, "what is he up to?"

In the little drawing room to which they returned, the jonquils seemedto have received fresh vigor from their hour of loneliness; theirshining gold possessed the shadows. Mary Rochefort paused by the openwindow and peered into the perfumed night. "How ridiculously young theworld gets every spring!" she said. 

Mrs. Ennis arranged herself before the fire. "Now, " she said to Burnaby, "you sit directly opposite. And you"--she indicated Pollen--"sit here. And Mimi, you there. So!" She nodded to Burnaby. "Begin!"

He laughed deprecatingly. "You make it portentous, " he objected. "Itisn't much of a story; it's--it's really only a parable. "

"It's going to be a moral story, after all, " interjected Mrs. Ennistriumphantly. 

Burnaby chuckled and puffed at his cigarette. "Well, " he said finally, "it's about a fellow named Mackintosh. "

Pollen, drowsily smoking a cigar, suddenly stirred uneasily. 

"Who?" he asked, leaning forward. 

"Mackintosh--James Mackintosh! What are you looking for? An ash-tray?Here's one. " Burnaby passed it over. 

"Thanks!" said Pollen, relaxing. "Yes--go on!"

Burnaby resumed his narrative calmly. "I knew him--Mackintosh, thatis--fifteen, no, it was fourteen years ago in Arizona, when I wasranching there, and for the next three years I saw him constantly. Hehad a place ten miles down the river from me. He was about four yearsolder than I was--a tall, slim, sandy-haired, freckled fellow, preternaturally quiet; a trusty, if there ever was one. Unlike mostpreternaturally quiet people, however, it wasn't dulness that made himthat way; he wasn't dull a bit. Stir him up on anything and you foundthat he had thought about it a lot. But he never told me anything abouthimself until I had known him almost two years, and then it came outquite accidentally one night--we were on a spring round-up--when the twoof us were sitting up by the fire, smoking and staring at the desertstars. All the rest were asleep. " Burnaby paused. "Is this boring you?"he asked. 

"Oh, no!" said Mrs. Ennis; she was watching intently Pollen'shalf-averted face. 

Burnaby threw away his cigarette. "At first, " he said, "it seemed to melike the most ordinary of stories--the usual fixed idea that therejected lover carries around with him for a year or so until he forgetsit; the idea that the girl will regret her choice and one day kick overthe traces and hunt him up. 

"But it wasn't the ordinary story--not by a long shot. You'll see. Itseems he had fallen in love with a girl--had been in love with her foryears--before he had left the East; a very young girl, nineteen, and ofan aspiring family. The family, naturally, didn't look upon him with anyfavor whatsoever; he was poor and he didn't show the slightestinclination to engage in any of the pursuits they considered proper tothe ambitions of a worthy young man. Rather a dreamer, I imagine, untilhe had found the thing he wanted to do. Not a very impressive figure inthe eyes of whitespatted fatherhood. Moreover, he himself was shy abouttrying to marry a rich girl while she was still so young. 

"'She was brought up all wrong, ' he said. 'What could you expect? Lifewill have to teach her. She will have to get over her idea, as one getsover the measles, that money and houses and possessions are the mainthings. ' But he knew she would get over it; he was sure that at thebottom of her heart was a well of honesty and directness. 'Some day, ' hesaid, 'she'll be out here. '

"Apparently the upshot of the matter was that he went to the girl andtold her--all these ideas of his; quit, came West; left the road open tothe other man. Oh, yes, there was another man, of course; onethoroughly approved of by the family. Quaint, wasn't it? Perhaps alittle overly judicial. But then that was his way. Slow-moving and sure. He saw the girl at dusk in the garden of her family's country place;near a sun-dial, or some other appropriately romantic spot. She kissedhim nobly on the forehead, I suppose--the young girl gesture; and toldhim she wasn't worthy of him and to forget her. 

"'Oh, no, I won't, ' he said. 'Not for a minute! And in five years--orten--you'll come to me. You'll find out. ' And then he added somethingelse: 'Whenever things have reached their limit, ' he said, 'think of mewith all your might. Think hard! There's something in that sort ofstuff, you know, where two people love each other. Think hard!' Then hewent away. "

A log snapped and fell with a soft thud to the ashes beneath. Burnabywas silent for a moment, staring at the fire. 

When he spoke again, it was with a slow precision as if he were tryingwith extreme care to find the right words. 

"You see, " he said, "he had as an added foundation for hisfaith--perhaps as the main foundation for it--his knowledge of the otherman's character; the character of the man the girl married. It was"--hespoke more hastily and, suddenly raising his head, looked at MaryRochefort, who, sunk back in her chair, was gazing straight ahead ofher--"an especial kind of character. I must dwell on it for a moment, and you must mark well what I say, for on it my parable largely depends. It was a character of the sort that to any but an odalisk means eventualshame; to any woman of pride, you understand, eventually of necessity abroken heart. It was a queer character, but not uncommon. Outwardly veryattractive. Mackintosh described it succinctly, shortly, as we sat thereby the fire. He spoke between his teeth--the faint wind stirring thedesert sand sounded rather like his voice. " Burnaby paused again andreached over for a cigarette and lit it deliberately. 

"He was a man, " he continued, "who apparently had the faculty of makingmost women love him and, in the end, the faculty of making all womenhate him. I imagine to have known him very well would have been to leaveone with a mental shudder such as follows the touching of anguilliformmaterial; snake-like texture. It would leave one ashamed and broken, forfundamentally he was contemptuous of the dignity of personality, particularly of the personalities of women. He was a collector, youunderstand, a collector of beauty, and women, and incidents--amorousincidents. He carried into his personal relationships the coldobjectiveness of the artist. But he wasn't a very great artist, or hewouldn't have done so; he would have had the discrimination to controlthe artist's greatest peril. It's a flame, this cold objectiveness, buta flame so powerful that it must be properly shaded for intimate use. Otherwise it kills like violet rays. Women wore out their hearts on him, not like waves breaking on a crystal rock, but like rain breaking into agutter. "

"Good Lord!" murmured Mrs. Ennis involuntarily. 

Burnaby caught her exclamation. "Bad, wasn't it?" he smiled. "Butremember I am only repeating what Mackintosh told me. Well, there he wasthen--Mackintosh--hard at work all day trying to build himself up aranch, and he was succeeding, too, and, at night, sitting on his porch, smoking and listening to the river, and apparently expecting everymoment the girl to appear. It was rather eerie. He had such a convincingway; he was himself so convinced. You half expected yourself to see hercome around the corner of the log house in the moonlight. There wasabout it all the impression that here was something that had a touch ofthe inevitability of the Greek idea of fate; something more arrangedthan the usual course of human events. Meanwhile, back in the East, wasthe girl, learning something about life. "

He interrupted himself. "Want a cigarette?" he said to Pollen. "Herethey are. " He handed over the box. "What is it? A match? Wait a moment;I'll strike it for you. Keep the end of the thing steady, will you? Allright. " He resumed the thread of his narrative. 

"In four years she had learned a lot, " he said; "she had becomeapparently almost a woman. On a certain hot evening in July--about seveno'clock, I imagine--she became one entirely; at least, for the moment, and, at least, her sort of woman. I am not defending what she did, remember; I am simply saying that she did it. 

"It was very hot; even now when dusk was approaching. The girl had beenfeeling rather ill all day; feverish. She had not been able to get awayto her country place as yet. Into the semidarkness of the room where shewas came her husband. That night she had determined, as women will, upona final test. She knew where he expected to dine; she asked him if hewould dine with her. 

"'I can't, ' he said. 'I'm sorry--'

"Possibly nothing immediate would have happened had he not added anunspeakable flourish to his portrait. He reached out his arms and drewthe girl to him and tried to kiss her condescendingly; but I suppose hishands found her, in her clinging gown, soft to their touch. At allevents, they tightened upon her in an unmistakable way. She pulledherself away. 'Let me pass!' she said. 'You--you--!'--she could think ofno words to suit him. You see, she understood him completely, now. Hewas a collector, but a collector so despicable that he was evenunwilling to trade one article for another. He wanted to keep on hisshelves, as it were, all the accumulation of his life, and take downfrom time to time whatever part of it suited his sudden fancy. 

"The girl went up to her own room, and very carefully, not knowingprecisely what she did, changed into a black street dress and removedall marks of identification. Her eyes swam with feverishness. While shewas dressing, she bathed in hot water her arms where her husband's handshad been. She concluded that it was not what he had done--had constantlydone--but what he was that made life unbearable. When she was throughshe went downstairs, and out of the front door, and walked slowly towardthe center of the town and the railway station. "

"And is that all?" asked Mary Rochefort, after a while. 

"Oh, no, " said Burnaby; "it's only the beginning. Mackintosh was in thehills beyond his ranch, hunting horses. He was camped in a little valleyby himself. On this particular day he had been out since sun-up and didnot get back until just about dusk. He picketed the horse he had beenriding, and built a small fire, and began to cook his supper. All aroundhim, brooding and unreal, was the light you get in high mountain places. The fire shone like a tiny ruby set in topaz. Mackintosh raised his headand saw a woman coming out of the spur of aspen trees across the creekfrom him. He wasn't surprised; he knew right away who it was; he knew itwas the girl. He watched her for a moment, and then he went over to her, and took her hand, and led her to the fire. They didn't speak at all. "

"And you mean, " asked Mrs. Ennis, "that she did that? That she came allthe way out to him, like that?"

"No, " retorted Burnaby, "of course not. How could she? She wasn't evensure where he was living. At the moment she was in a hospital out of herhead. You see, I didn't know whether to believe Mackintosh or not whenhe said he saw her that night, although I am sure he believed hedid--such things are beyond human proof--but what I do know is that hecame straight down from the hills, and boarded a train, and went East, and found the girl, and, after a while, came back with her. " He lookedat the fire. "They were the most completely happy people I have everseen, " he continued. "They were so calm and determined about themselves. Everything immaterial had been burned away. They knew they were playingon the side of fate. And so, " he concluded, "that's the end of myparable. What do you make of it?"

The curtains, stirred by the breeze, tip-tapped softly; in the silencethe fire hissed gently. Pollen spoke first, but with some difficulty, asif in the long period of listening on his part his throat had becomedry. "It's very interesting, " he said; "very! But what's it all about?And you certainly don't believe it, do you?"

"Of course I do, " answered Burnaby calmly. "You should, too; it's true. "

Mary Rochefort looked up with an exclamation. "Gracious!" she said. "Ihad no idea it was so late! My motor must be waiting. " She got to herfeet. She looked very white and her eyes were tired; the translucentquality of the earlier hours was gone. "I'm worn out, " she explained. "I've been going about too much. I must rest. " She held her hand out toMrs. Ennis; over her shoulder she spoke to Pollen. "No, " she said. "Don't bother. I'll take myself home, thanks. "

"I'll see you to your car, " he stammered. 

She turned to Burnaby. "Good night!" she said. Her voice was lifeless, disinterested; her eyes met his for an instant and were withdrawn. 

"Good night, " he said. 

Mrs. Ennis stood by the door for a moment before she walked slowly backto the fireplace. From the street outside came the whirring of a motorand the sound of Mary Rochefort's voice saying good-by to Pollen. 

Mrs. Ennis rested an arm on the mantelpiece and kicked a logthoughtfully with a white-slippered foot; then she faced about onBurnaby. 

"I suppose, " she said, "you realize that you have spoiled my party?"

"I?" said Burnaby. 

"Yes, you!" Her small, charming face was a study in ruefulness, andindecision whether to be angry or not, and, one might almost haveimagined, a certain amused tenderness as well. "Don't you suppose thosepeople knew of whom you were talking?"

Burnaby, peering down at her, narrowed his eyes and then opened themvery wide. "They couldn't very well have helped it, " he said, "couldthey? For, you see"--he paused--"the girl who came West was Mrs. Pollen. "

Mrs. Ennis gasped in the manner of a person who is hearing too much. "Mrs. Pollen?"

"Yes. You knew he had been divorced, didn't you? Years ago. "

"I'd heard it, but forgotten. " Mrs. Ennis clasped her jeweled hand. "Andyou dared, " she demanded, "to tell his story before him in that way?"

"Why not? It was rather a complete revenge upon him of fate, wasn't it?You see, he couldn't very well give himself away, could he? His onechance was to keep quiet. " Burnaby paused and smiled doubtfully at Mrs. Ennis. "I hope I made his character clear enough, " he said. "That, afterall, was the point of the story. "

"How did you know it was this Pollen?" she asked, "and how, anyway, would Mary Rochefort know of whom you were talking?"

Burnaby grinned. "I took a chance, " he said. "And as to the second, Itold Madame de Rochefort at dinner--merely as a coincidence; at least, Ilet her think so--that I had once known in the West a Mrs. Pollen with acurious history. Perhaps I wouldn't have told it if Pollen hadn't beenso witty. " He picked up a silver dish from the mantelpiece and examinedit carefully. 

"One oughtn't to have such a curious name if one is going to lead acurious life, ought one?" he asked. He sighed. "You're right, " heconcluded; "your friend Mary Rochefort is a child. "

Mrs. Ennis looked up at him with searching eyes. 

"Why don't you stay longer in Washington?" she asked softly. "Just now, of course, Mary Rochefort hates you; but she won't for long--I think shewas beginning to have doubts about Pollen, anyway. "

Burnaby suddenly looked grave and disconcerted. "Oh, no!" he said, hastily. "Oh, no! I must be off tomorrow. " He laughed. "My dear Rhoda, "he said, "you have the quaintest ideas. I don't like philandering; I'mafraid I have a crude habit of really falling in love. "

Mrs. Ennis's own eyes were veiled. "If you're going away so soon, sitdown, " she said, "and stay. You needn't go--oh, for hours!"

"I must, " he answered. "I'm off so early. "

She sighed. "For years?"

"One--perhaps two. " His voice became gay and bantering again. "My dearRhoda, " he said, "I'm extremely sorry if I really spoiled your party, but I don't believe I did--not altogether, anyhow. Underneath, I thinkyou enjoyed it. " He took her small hand in his; he wondered why it wasso cold and listless. 

At the door leading into the hall he paused and looked back "Oh, " hesaid, "there was one thing I forgot to tell you! You see, part of mystory wasn't altogether true. Mrs. Pollen--or rather, Mrs. Mackintosh--left Mackintosh after five years or so. She's in themovies--doing very well, I understand. She would; wouldn't she? Ofcourse, she was no good to begin with. But that didn't spoil the pointof my story, did it? Good-by, Rhoda, my dear. " He was gone. 

Mrs. Ennis did not move until she heard the street door close; shewaited even a little longer, following the sound of Burnaby's footstepsas they died away into the night; finally she walked over to the piano, and, sitting down, raised her hands as if to strike the keys. Instead, she suddenly put both her arms on the little shelf before the music-rackand buried her head in them. The curtains tip-tapped on the window-sill;the room was entirely quiet. 

DARKNESS[5]

By IRVIN S. COBB

(From _The Saturday Evening Post_)

There was a house in this town where always by night lights burned. Inone of its rooms many lights burned; in each of the other rooms at leastone light. It stood on Clay Street, on a treeless plot among flowerbeds, a small dull-looking house; and when late on dark nights all theother houses on Clay Street were black blockings lifting from the lesserblackness of their background, the lights in this house patterned itswindows with squares of brilliancy so that it suggested a grid set onedge before hot flames. Once a newcomer to the town, a transient guestat Mrs. Otterbuck's boarding house, spoke about it to old Squire Jonas, who lived next door to where the lights blazed of nights, and the answerhe got makes a fitting enough beginning for this account. 

This stranger came along Clay Street one morning and Squire Jonas, whowas leaning over his gate contemplating the world as it passed inreview, nodded to him and remarked that it was a fine morning; and thestranger was emboldened to stop and pass the time of day, as the sayinggoes. 

"I'm here going over the books of the Bernheimer Distilling Company, " hesaid when they had spoken of this and that, "and you know, when achartered accountant gets on a job he's supposed to keep right at ituntil he's done. Well, my work keeps me busy till pretty late. And thelast three nights, passing that place yonder adjoining yours, I'venoticed she was all lit up like as if for a wedding or a christening ora party or something. But I didn't see anybody going in or coming out, or hear anybody stirring in there, and it struck me as blamed curious. Last night--or this morning, rather, I should say--it must have beenclose on to half-past two o'clock when I passed by, and there she was, all as quiet as the tomb and still the lights going from top to bottom. So I got to wondering to myself. Tell me, sir, is there somebody sickover there next door?"

"Yes, suh, " stated the squire, "I figure you might say there is somebodysick there. He's been sick a powerful long time too. But it's not hisbody that's sick; it's his soul. "

"I don't know as I get you, sir, " said the other man in a puzzled sortof way. 

"Son, " stated the squire, "I reckin you've been hearin' 'em, haven'tyou, singin' this here new song that's goin' 'round about, 'I'm Afraidto Go Home in the Dark'? Well, probably the man who wrote that theresong never was down here in these parts in his life; probably he justmade the idea of it up out of his own head. But he might 'a' had thecase of my neighbor in his mind when he done so. Only his song is kindof comical and this case here is about the most uncomic one you'd belikely to run acrost. The man who lives here alongside of me is not onlyafraid to go home in the dark but he's actually feared to stay in thedark after he gets home. Once he killed a man and he come clear of thekillin' all right enough, but seems like he ain't never got over it; andthe sayin' in this town is that he's studied it out that ef ever he getsin the dark, either by himself or in company, he'll see the face of thatthere man he killed. So that's why, son, you've been seein' them lightsa-blazin'. I've been seein' 'em myself fur goin' on twenty year or more, I reckin 'tis by now, and I've got used to 'em. But I ain't never gotover wonderin' whut kind of thoughts he must have over there all aloneby himself at night with everything lit up bright as day around him, when by rights things should be dark. But I ain't ever asted him, andwhut's more, I never will. He ain't the kind you could go to him astin'him personal questions about his own private affairs. We-all here intown just accept him fur whut he is and sort of let him be. He's whutyou might call a town character. His name is Mr. Dudley Stackpole. "

In all respects save one, Squire Jonas, telling the inquiring strangerthe tale, had the rights of it. There were town characters aplenty hemight have described. A long-settled community with traditions behind itand a reasonable antiquity seems to breed curious types of men and womenas a musty closet breeds mice and moths. This town of ours had its townmysteries and its town eccentrics--its freaks, if one wished to put thematter bluntly; and it had its champion story-teller and its championliar and its champion guesser of the weight of livestock on the hoof. 

There was crazy Saul Vance, the butt of cruel small boys, who deportedhimself as any rational creature might so long as he walked a straightcourse; but so surely as he came to where the road forked or two streetscrossed he could not decide which turning to take and for hours angledback and forth and to and fro, now taking the short cut to regain thepath he just had quitted, now retracing his way over the long one, forall the world like a geometric spider spinning its web. There was oldDaddy Hannah, the black root-and-yarb doctor, who could throw spells andweave charms and invoke conjures. He wore a pair of shoes which had beenworn by a man who was hanged, and these shoes, as is well known, leaveno tracks which a dog will nose after or a witch follow, or a ha'nt. Small boys did not gibe at Daddy Hannah, you bet you! There was MajorBurnley, who lived for years and years in the same house with the wifewith whom he had quarreled and never spoke a word to her or she to him. But the list is overlong for calling. With us, in that day and time, town characters abounded freely. But Mr. Dudley Stackpole was more thana town character. He was that, it is true, but he was something elsebesides; something which tabbed him a mortal set apart from his fellowmortals. He was the town's chief figure of tragedy. 

If you had ever seen him once you could shut your eyes and see him overagain. Yet about him there was nothing impressive, nothing in his portor his manner to catch and to hold a stranger's gaze. With him, physically, it was quite the other way about. He was a short spare man, very gentle in his movements, a toneless sort of man of a palish graycast, who always wore sad-colored clothing. He would make you think of aman molded out of a fog; almost he was like a man made of smoke. Hismode of living might testify that a gnawing remorse abode ever with him, but his hair had not turned white in a single night, as the heads ofthose suddenly stricken by a great shock or a great grief or any greatlyupsetting and disordering emotion sometimes are reputed to turn. Neitherin his youth nor when age came to him was his hair white. But for so farback as any now remembered it had been a dullish gray, suggesting at adistance dead lichens. 

The color of his skin was a color to match in with the rest of him. Itwas not pale, nor was it pasty. People with a taste for comparisons werehard put to it to describe just what it was the hue of his face didremind them of, until one day a man brought in from the woods theabandoned nest of a brood of black hornets, still clinging to thependent twig from which the insect artificers had swung it. Darkies usedto collect these nests in the fall of the year when the vicious swarmshad deserted them. Their shredded parchments made ideal wadding formuzzle-loading scatter-guns, and sufferers from asthma tore them down, too, and burned them slowly and stood over the smoldering mass andinhaled the fumes and the smoke which arose, because the countrywiseacres preached that no boughten stuff out of a drug store gave suchrelief from asthma as this hornet's-nest treatment. But it remained forthis man to find a third use for such a thing. He brought it into theoffice of Gafford's wagon yard, where some other men were sitting aboutthe fire, and he held it up before them and he said:

"Who does this here hornet's nest put you fellers in mind of--this graycolor all over it, and all these here fine lines runnin' back and forthand every which-a-way like wrinkles? Think, now--it's somebody you allknow. "

And when they had given it up as a puzzle too hard for them to guess hesaid:

"Why, ain't it got percisely the same color and the same look about itas Mr. Dudley Stackpole's face? Why, it's a perfect imitation of him!That's whut I said to myself all in a flash when I first seen itbouncin' on the end of this here black birch limb out yonder in theflats. "

"By gum, if you ain't right!" exclaimed one of the audience. "Say, cometo think about it, I wonder if spendin' all his nights with brightlights burnin' round him is whut's give that old man that gray colorhe's got, the same as this wasp's nest has got it, and all them puckerylines round his eyes. Pore old devil, with the hags furever ridin' him!Well, they tell me he's toler'ble well fixed in this world's goods, butpoor as I am, and him well off, I wouldn't trade places with him fur anyamount of money. I've got my peace of mind if I ain't got anything elseto speak of. Say, you'd 'a' thought in all these years a man would getover broodin' over havin' killed another feller, and specially havin'killed him in fair fight. Let's see, now, whut was the name of thefeller he killed that time out there at Cache Creek Crossin's? Iactually disremember. I've heard it a thousand times, too, I reckin, ifI've heard it oncet. "

For a fact, the memory of the man slain so long before only enduredbecause the slayer walked abroad as a living reminder of the taking offof one who by all accounts had been of small value to mankind in his dayand generation. Save for the daily presence of the one, the veryidentity even of the other might before now have been forgotten. Forthis very reason, seeking to enlarge the merits of the controversy whichhad led to the death of one Jesse Tatum at the hands of DudleyStackpole, people sometimes referred to it as the Tatum-Stackpole feudand sought to liken it to the Faxon-Fleming feud. But that was a realfeud with fence-corner ambuscades and a sizable mortality list andnight-time assassinations and all; whereas this lesser thing, which nowbriefly is to be dealt with on its merits, had been no more than aneighborhood falling out, having but a solitary homicide for itsclimatic upshot. So far as that went, it really was not so much thedeath of the victim as the survival of his destroyer--and his fashionof living afterwards--which made warp and woof for the fabric of thetragedy. 

With the passage of time the actuating causes were somewhat blurred inperspective. The main facts stood forth clear enough, but the underlyingdetails were misty and uncertain, like some half-obliterated scribble ona badly rubbed slate upon which a more important sum has been overlaid. One rendition had it that the firm of Stackpole Brothers sued the twoTatums--Harve and Jess--for an account long overdue, and won judgment inthe courts, but won with it the murderous enmity of the defendant pair. Another account would have it that a dispute over a boundary fencemarching between the Tatum homestead on Cache Creek and one of theStackpole farm holdings ripened into a prime quarrel by reasons ofStackpole stubbornness on the one hand and Tatum malignity on the other. By yet a third account the lawsuit and the line-fence matter wereconfusingly twisted together to form a cause for disputation. 

Never mind that part though. The incontrovertible part was that thingscame to a decisive pass on a July day in the late '80's when the twoTatums sent word to the two Stackpoles that at or about six o'clock ofthat evening they would come down the side road from their place a mileaway to Stackpole Brothers' gristmill above the big riffle in CacheCreek prepared to fight it out man to man. The warning was explicitenough--the Tatums would shoot on sight. The message was meant for two, but only one brother heard it; for Jeffrey Stackpole, the senior memberof the firm, was sick abed with heart disease at the Stackpole house onClay Street in town, and Dudley, the junior, was running the businessand keeping bachelor's hall, as the phrase runs, in the living room ofthe mill; and it was Dudley who received notice. 

Now the younger Stackpole was known for a law-abiding and awell-disposed man, which reputation stood him in stead subsequently; butalso he was no coward. He might crave peace, but he would not flee fromtrouble moving toward him. He would not advance a step to meet it, neither would he give back a step to avoid it. If it occurred to him tohurry in to the county seat and have his enemies put under bonds tokeep the peace he pushed the thought from him. This, in those days, wasnot the popular course for one threatened with violence by another; nor, generally speaking, was it regarded exactly as the manly one to follow. So he bided that day where he was. Moreover, it was not of record thathe told any one at all of what impended. He knew little of the use offirearms, but there was a loaded pistol in the cash drawer of the milloffice. He put it in a pocket of his coat and through the afternoon hewaited, outwardly quiet and composed, for the appointed hour whensingle-handed he would defend his honor and his brother's against theunequal odds of a brace of bullies, both of them quick on the trigger, both smart and clever in the handling of weapons. 

But if Stackpole told no one, some one else told some one. Probably themessenger of the Tatums talked. He currently was reputed to have a leakytongue to go with his jimberjaws; a born trouble maker, doubtless, elsehe would not have loaned his service to such employment in the firstplace. Up and down the road ran the report that before night there wouldbe a clash at the Stackpole mill. Peg-Leg Foster, who ran the generalstore below the bridge and within sight of the big riffle, saw fit toshut up shop early and go to town for the evening. Perhaps he did notwant to be a witness, or possibly he desired to be out of the way ofstray lead flying about. So the only known witness to what happened, other than the parties engaged in it, was a negro woman. She, at least, was one who had not heard the rumor which since early forenoon had beenspreading through the sparsely settled neighborhood. When six o'clockcame she was grubbing out a sorghum patch in front of her cabin justnorth of where the creek cut under the Blandsville gravel pike. 

One gets a picture of the scene: The thin and deficient shadowsstretching themselves across the parched bottom lands as the sun sliddown behind the trees of Eden's swamp lot; the heat waves of ablistering hot day still dancing their devil's dance down the road likewriggling circumflexes to accent a false promise of coolness off therein the distance; the ominous emptiness of the landscape; the broodingquiet, cut through only by the frogs and the dry flies tuning up fortheir evening concert; the bandannaed negress wrangling at the weedswith her hoe blade inside the rail fence; and, half sheltered within thelintels of the office doorway of his mill, Dudley Stackpole, a slim, still figure, watching up the crossroad for the coming of hisadversaries. 

But the adversaries did not come from up the road as they had advertisedthey would. That declaration on their part had been a trick and device, cockered up in the hope of taking the foe by surprise and from the rear. In a canvas-covered wagon--moving wagons, we used to call them in RedGravel County--they left their house half an hour or so before the timeset by them for the meeting, and they cut through by a wood lane whichmet the pike south of Foster's store; and then very slowly they rode upthe pike toward the mill, being minded to attack from behind, with theadded advantage of unexpectedness on their side. 

Chance, though, spoiled their strategy and made these terms of primitivedueling more equal. Mark how: The woman in the sorghum patch saw ithappen. She saw the wagon pass her and saw it brought to standstill justbeyond where she was; saw Jess Tatum slide stealthily down from underthe overhanging hood of the wagon and, sheltered behind it, draw arevolver and cock it, all the while peeping out, searching the front andthe nearer side of the gristmill with his eager eyes. She saw HarveTatum, the elder brother, set the wheel chock and wrap the lines aboutthe sheathed whipstock, and then as he swung off the seat catch a bootheel on the rim of the wagon box and fall to the road with a jar whichknocked him cold, for he was a gross and heavy man and struck squarelyon his head. With popped eyes she saw Jess throw up his pistol and fireonce from his ambush behind the wagon, and then--the startled teamhaving snatched the wagon from before him--saw him advance into the opentoward the mill, shooting again as he advanced. 

All now in the same breath and in a jumble of shock and terror she sawDudley Stackpole emerge into full sight, and standing clear a pace fromhis doorway return the fire; saw the thudding frantic hoofs of the nighhorse spurn Harve Tatum's body aside--the kick broke his right leg, itturned out--saw Jess Tatum suddenly halt and stagger back as thoughjerked by an unseen hand; saw him drop his weapon and straighten again, and with both hands clutched to his throat run forward, head thrown backand feet drumming; heard him give one strange bubbling, strangledscream--it was the blood in his throat made this outcry sound thus--andsaw him fall on his face, twitching and wriggling, not thirty feet fromwhere Dudley Stackpole stood, his pistol upraised and ready for morefiring. 

As to how many shots, all told, were fired the woman never could saywith certainty. There might have been four or five or six, or evenseven, she thought. After the opening shot they rang together in almosta continuous volley, she said. Three empty chambers in Tatum's gun andtwo in Stackpole's seemed conclusive evidence to the sheriff and thecoroner that night and to the coroner's jurors next day that five shotshad been fired. 

On one point, though, for all her fright, the woman was positive, and tothis she stuck in the face of questions and cross-questions. After Tatumstopped as though jolted to a standstill, and dropped his weapon, Stackpole flung the barrel of his revolver upward and did not againoffer to fire, either as his disarmed and stricken enemy advanced uponhim or after he had fallen. As she put it, he stood there like a manfrozen stiff. 

Having seen and heard this much, the witness, now all possible peril forher was passed, suddenly became mad with fear. She ran into her cabinand scrouged behind the headboard of a bed. When at length shetimorously withdrew from hiding and came trembling forth, alreadypersons out of the neighborhood, drawn by the sounds of the fusillade, were hurrying up. They seemed to spring, as it were, out of the ground. Into the mill these newcomers carried the two Tatums, Jess beingstone-dead and Harve still senseless, with a leg dangling where thebones were snapped below the knee, and a great cut in his scalp; andthey laid the two of them side by side on the floor in the gritty dustof the meal tailings and the flour grindings. This done, some ran toharness and hitch and to go to fetch doctors and law officers, spreadingthe news as they went; and some stayed on to work over Harve Tatum andto give such comfort as they might to Dudley Stackpole, he sitting dumbin his little, cluttered office awaiting the coming of constable orsheriff or deputy so that he might surrender himself into custody. 

While they waited and while they worked to bring Harve Tatum back to hissenses, the men marveled at two amazing things. The first wonder wasthat Jess Tatum, finished marksman as he was, and the main instigatorand central figure of sundry violent encounters in the past, should havefailed to hit the mark at which he fired with his first shot or with hissecond or with his third; and the second, a still greater wonder, wasthat Dudley Stackpole, who perhaps never in his life had had for atarget a living thing, should have sped a bullet so squarely into theheart of his victim at twenty yards or more. The first phenomenon mightperhaps be explained, they agreed, on the hypothesis that the mishap tohis brother, coming at the very moment of the fight's beginning, unnerved Jess and threw him out of stride, so to speak. But the secondwas not in anywise to be explained excepting on the theory of sheerchance. The fact remained that it was so, and the fact remained that itwas strange. 

By form of law Dudley Stackpole spent two days under arrest; but thiswas a form, a legal fiction only. Actually he was at liberty from thetime he reached the courthouse that night, riding in the sheriff's buggywith the sheriff and carrying poised on his knees a lighted lantern. Afterwards it was to be recalled that when, alongside the sheriff, hecame out of his mill technically a prisoner he carried in his hand thislantern, all trimmed of wick and burning, and that he held fast to itthrough the six-mile ride to town. Afterwards, too, the circumstance wasto be coupled with multiplying circumstances to establish a state offacts; but at the moment, in the excited state of mind of those present, it passed unremarked and almost unnoticed. And he still held it in hishand when, having been released under nominal bond and attended bycertain sympathizing friends, he walked across town from the countybuilding to his home in Clay Street. That fact, too, was subsequentlyremembered and added to other details to make a finished sum ofdeductive reasoning. 

Already it was a foregone conclusion that the finding at the coroner'sinquest, to be held the next day, would absolve him; foregone, also, that no prosecutor would press for his arraignment on charges and thatno grand jury would indict. So, soon all the evidence in hand wasconclusively on his side. He had been forced into a fight not of his ownchoosing; an effort, which had failed, had been made to take himunfairly from behind; he had fired in self-defense after having firstbeen fired upon; save for a quirk of fate operating in his favor, heshould have faced odds of two deadly antagonists instead of facing one. What else then than his prompt and honorable discharge? And to top all, the popular verdict was that the killing off of Jess Tatum was so muchgood riddance of so much sorry rubbish; a pity, though, Harve hadescaped his just deserts. 

Helpless for the time being, and in the estimation of his fellows evenmore thoroughly discredited than he had been before, Harve Tatum herevanishes out of our recital. So, too, does Jeffrey Stackpole, heretoforementioned once by name, for within a week he was dead of the same heartattack which had kept him out of the affair at Cache Creek. The rest ofthe narrative largely appertains to the one conspicuous survivor, thisDudley Stackpole already described. 

Tradition ever afterwards had it that on the night of the killing heslept--if he slept at all--in the full-lighted room of a house which wasall aglare with lights from cellar to roof line. From its every openingthe house blazed as for a celebration. At the first, so the tale of itran, people were of two different minds to account for this. This onerather thought Stackpole feared punitive reprisals under cover of nightby vengeful kinsmen of the Tatums, they being, root and branch, sproutand limb, a belligerent and an ill-conditioned breed. That one suggestedthat maybe he took this method of letting all and sundry know he felt noregret for having gunned the life out of a dangerous brawler; thatperhaps thereby he sought to advertise his satisfaction at the outcomeof that day's affair. But this latter theory was not to be credited. Forso sensitive and so well-disposed a man as Dudley Stackpole to joy inhis own deadly act, however justifiable in the sight of law and man thatact might have been--why, the bare notion of it was preposterous! Therepute and the prior conduct of the man robbed the suggestion of allplausibility. And then soon, when night after night the lights stillflared in his house, and when on top of this evidence accumulated toconfirm a belief already crystallizing in the public mind, the town cameto sense the truth, which was that Mr. Dudley Stackpole now feared thedark as a timid child might fear it. It was not authentically chronicledthat he confessed his fears to any living creature. But his fellowtownsmen knew the state of his mind as though he had shouted of it fromthe housetops. They had heard, most of them, of such cases before. Theyagreed among themselves that he shunned darkness because he feared thatout of that darkness might return the vision of his deed, bloodied andshocking and hideous. And they were right. He did so fear, and he fearedmightily, constantly and unendingly. 

That fear, along with the behavior which became from that nightthenceforward part and parcel of him, made Dudley Stackpole as one setover and put apart from his fellows. Neither by daytime nor bynight-time was he thereafter to know darkness. Never again was he to seethe twilight fall or face the blackness which comes before the dawningor take his rest in the cloaking, kindly void and nothingness of themidnight. Before the dusk of evening came, in midafternoon sometimes, ofstormy and briefened winter days, or in the full radiance of the sun'ssinking in the summertime, he was within doors lighting the lights whichwould keep the darkness beyond his portals and hold at bay a gatheringgloom into which from window or door he would not look and dared notlook. 

There were trees about his house, cottonwoods and sycamores and onenoble elm branching like a lyre. He chopped them all down and had theroots grubbed out. The vines which covered his porch were shorn away. Tothese things many were witnesses. What transformations he worked withinthe walls were largely known by hearsay through the medium of AuntKassie, the old negress who served him as cook and chambermaid and washis only house servant. To half-fearsome, half-fascinated audiences ofher own color, whose members in time communicated what she told to theirwhite employers, she related how with his own hands, bringing a crudecarpentry into play, her master ripped out certain dark closets andabolished a secluded and gloomy recess beneath a hall staircase, and howprivily he called in men who strung his ceilings with electric lights, although already the building was piped for gas; and how, for finaltouches, he placed in various parts of his bedroom tallow dips and oillamps to be lit before twilight and to burn all night, so that thoughthe gas sometime should fail and the electric bulbs blink out therestill would be abundant lighting about him. His became the house whichharbored no single shadow save only the shadow of morbid dread whichlived within its owner's bosom. An orthodox haunted house should byrights be deserted and dark. This house, haunted if ever one was, differed from the orthodox conception. It was tenanted and it shone withlights. 

The man's abiding obsession--if we may call his besetment thus--changedin practically all essential regards the manners and the practices ofhis daily life. After the shooting he never returned to his mill. Hecould not bring himself to endure the ordeal of revisiting the scene ofthe killing. So the mill stood empty and silent, just as he left it thatnight when he rode to town with the sheriff, until after his brother'sdeath; and then with all possible dispatch he sold it, its fixtures, contents and goodwill, for what the property would fetch at quick sale, and he gave up business. He had sufficient to stay him in his needs. TheStackpoles had the name of being a canny and a provident family, livingquietly and saving of their substance. The homestead where he lived, which his father before him had built, was free of debt. He had fundsin the bank and money out at interest. He had not been one to make closefriends. Now those who had counted themselves his friends became ratherhis distant acquaintances, among whom he neither received nor bestowedconfidences. 

In the broader hours of daylight his ways were such as any man ofreserved and diffident ways, having no fixed employment, might follow ina smallish community. He sat upon his porch and read in books. He workedin his flower beds. With flowers he had a cunning touch, almost like awoman's. He loved them, and they responded to his love and bloomed andbore for him. He walked downtown to the business district, always alone, a shy and unimpressive figure, and sat brooding and aloof in one of thetilted-back cane chairs under the portico of the old Richland House, facing the river. He took long solitary walks on side streets andbyways; but it was noted that, reaching the outer outskirts, heinvariably turned back. In all those dragging years it is doubtful ifonce he set foot past the corporate limits into the open country. Dunhued, unobtrusive, withdrawn, he aged slowly, almost imperceptibly. Menand women of his own generation used to say that save for the wrinklesever multiplying in close cross-hatchings about his puckered eyes, andsave for the enhancing of that dead gray pallor--the wasp's-nestovercasting of his skin--he still looked to them exactly as he hadlooked when he was a much younger man. 

It was not so much the appearance or the customary demeanor of therecluse that made strangers turn about to stare at him as he passed, andthat made them remember how he looked when he was gone from their sight. The one was commonplace enough--I mean his appearance--and his conduct, unless one knew the underlying motives, was merely that of anunobtrusive, rather melancholy seeming gentleman of quiet tastes andhabits. It was the feeling and the sense of a dismal exhalation fromhim, an unhealthy and unnatural mental effluvium that served soindelibly to fix the bodily image of him in the brainpans of casual anduninformed passers-by. The brand of Cain was not on his brow. By everylocal standard of human morality it did not belong there. But built upof morbid elements within his own conscience, it looked out from hiseyes and breathed out from his person. 

So year by year, until the tally of the years rolled up to more thanthirty, he went his lone unhappy way. He was in the life of the town, toan extent, but not of it. Always, though it was the daylit life of thetown which knew him. Excepting once only. Of this exceptional instance astory was so often repeated that in time it became permanently embalmedin the unwritten history of the place. 

On a summer's afternoon, sultry and close, the heavens suddenly went allblack, and quick gusts smote the earth with threats of a greatwindstorm. The sun vanished magically; a close thick gloaming fell outof the clouds. It was as though nightfall had descended hours before itsordained time. At the city power house the city electrician turned onthe street lights. As the first great fat drops of rain fell, splashingin the dust like veritable clots, citizens scurrying indoors andcitizens seeing to flapping awnings and slamming window blinds haltedwhere they were to peer through the murk at the sight of Mr. DudleyStackpole fleeing to the shelter of home like a man hunted by a terriblepursuer. But with all his desperate need for haste he ran nostraightaway course. The manner of his flight was what gave addedstrangeness to the spectacle of him. He would dart headlong, on a sharpoblique from the right-hand corner of a street intersection to a pointmidway of the block--or square, to give it its local name--then goslanting back again to the right-hand corner of the next streetcrossing, so that his path was in the pattern of one acutely slantedzigzag after another. He was keeping, as well as he could within thecircles of radiance thrown out by the municipal arc lights as he madefor his house, there in his bedchamber to fortify himself about, likeone beset and besieged, with the ample and protecting rays of all themethods of artificial illumination at his command--with incandescentbulbs thrown on by switches, with the flare of lighted gas jets, withthe tallow dip's slim digit of flame, and with the kerosene wick'sthree-finger breadth of greasy brilliance. As he fumbled, in a verypanic and spasm of fear, with the latchets of his front gate SquireJonas' wife heard him screaming to Aunt Kassie, his servant, to turn onthe lights--all of them. 

That once was all, though--the only time he found the dark taking himunawares and threatening to envelop him in thirty years and more thanthirty. Then a time came when in a hospital in Oklahoma an elderly mannamed A. Hamilton Bledsoe lay on his deathbed and on the day before hedied told the physician who attended him and the clergyman who hadcalled to pray for him that he had a confession to make. He desired thatit be taken down by a stenographer just as he uttered it, andtranscribed; then he would sign it as his solemn dying declaration, andwhen he had died they were to send the signed copy back to the town fromwhence he had in the year 1889 moved West, and there it was to bepublished broadcast. All of which, in due course of time and inaccordance with the signatory's wishes, was done. 

With the beginning of the statement as it appeared in the _Daily EveningNews_, as with Editor Tompkins' introductory paragraphs preceding it, weneed have no interest. That which really matters began two-thirds of theway down the first column and ran as follows:

"How I came to know there was likely to be trouble that evening at thebig-riffle crossing was this way"--it is the dying Bledsoe, of course, who is being quoted. "The man they sent to the mill with the message dida lot of loose talking on his way back after he gave in the message, andin this roundabout way the word got to me at my house on the Eden'sSwamp road soon after dinnertime. Now I had always got along fine withboth of the Stackpoles, and had only friendly feelings toward them; butmaybe there's some people still alive back there in that county who canremember what the reason was why I should naturally hate and despiseboth the Tatums, and especially this Jess Tatum, him being if anythingthe more low-down one of the two, although the youngest. At this lateday I don't aim to drag the name of any one else into this, especially awoman's name, and her now dead and gone and in her grave; but I willjust say that if ever a man had a just cause for craving to see JessTatum stretched out in his blood it was me. At the same time I willstate that it was not good judgment for a man who expected to go onliving to start out after one of the Tatums without he kept on till hehad cleaned up the both of them, and maybe some of their cousins aswell. I will not admit that I acted cowardly, but will state that I usedmy best judgment. 

"Therefore and accordingly, no sooner did I hear the news about the darewhich the Tatums had sent to the Stackpoles than I said to myself thatit looked like here was my fitting chance to even up my grudge with JessTatum and yet at the same time not run the prospect of being known to bemixed up in the matter and maybe getting arrested, or waylaid afterwardsby members of the Tatum family or things of such a nature. Likewise Ifigured that with a general amount of shooting going on, as seemedlikely to be the case, one shot more or less would not be noticed, especially as I aimed to keep out of sight at all times and do my workfrom under safe cover, which it all of it turned out practically exactlyas I had expected. So I took a rifle which I owned and which I was agood shot with and I privately went down through the bottoms and cameout on the creek bank in the deep cut right behind Stackpole Brothers'gristmill. I should say offhand this was then about three o'clock in theevening. I was ahead of time, but I wished to be there and geteverything fixed up the way I had mapped it out in my mind, withoutbeing hurried or rushed. 

"The back door of the mill was not locked, and I got in without beingseen, and I went upstairs to the loft over the mill and I went to awindow just above the front door, which was where they hoisted up grainwhen brought in wagons, and I propped the wooden shutter of the windowopen a little ways. But I only propped it open about two or threeinches; just enough for me to see out of it up the road good. And I mademe a kind of pallet out of meal sacks and I laid down there and Iwaited. I knew the mill had shut down for the week, and I didn't figureon any of the hands being round the mill or anybody finding out I wasup there. So I waited, not hearing anybody stirring about downstairs atall, until just about three minutes past six, when all of a sudden camethe first shot. 

"What threw me off was expecting the Tatums to come afoot from up theroad, but when they did come it was in a wagon from down the mainBlandsville pike clear round in the other direction. So at this firstshot I swung and peeped out and I seen Harve Tatum down in the dustseemingly right under the wheels of his wagon, and I seen Jess Tatumjump out from behind the wagon and shoot, and I seen Dudley Stackpolecome out of the mill door right directly under me and start shootingback at him. There was no sign of his brother Jeffrey. I did not knowthen that Jeffrey was home sick in bed. 

"Being thrown off the way I had been, it took me maybe one or twoseconds to draw myself around and get the barrel of my rifle swung roundto where I wanted it, and while I was doing this the shooting was goingon. All in a flash it had come to me that it would be fairer than everfor me to take part in this thing, because in the first place the Tatumswould be two against one if Harve should get back upon his feet and getinto the fight; and in the second place Dudley Stackpole didn't know thefirst thing about shooting a pistol. Why, all in that same second, whileI was righting myself and getting the bead onto Jess Tatum's breast, Iseen his first shot--Stackpole's I mean--kick up the dust not twentyfeet in front of him and less than halfway to where Tatum was. I was ascool as I am now, and I seen this quite plain. 

"So with that, just as Stackpole fired wild again, I let Jess Tatum haveit right through the chest, and as I did so I knew from the way he actedthat he was done and through. He let loose of his pistol and acted likehe was going to fall, and then he sort of rallied up and did a strangething. He ran straight on ahead toward the mill, with his neck cranedback and him running on tiptoe; and he ran this way quite a little waysbefore he dropped flat, face down. Somebody else, seeing him do that, might have thought he had the idea to tear into Dudley Stackpole withhis bare hands, but I had done enough shooting at wild game in my timeto know that he was acting like a partridge sometimes does, or a wildduck when it is shot through the heart or in the head; only in such acase a bird flies straight up in the air. Towering is what you call itwhen done by a partridge. I do not know what you would call it when doneby a man. 

"So then I closed the window shutter and I waited for quite a littlewhile to make sure everything was all right for me, and then I hid myrifle under the meal sacks, where it stayed until I got it privately twodays later; and then I slipped downstairs and went out by the back doorand came round in front, running and breathing hard as though I had justheard the shooting whilst up in the swamp. By that time there wereseveral others had arrived, and there was also a negro woman cryinground and carrying on and saying she seen Jess Tatum fire the first shotand seen Dudley Stackpole shoot back and seen Tatum fall. But she couldnot say for sure how many shots there were fired in all. So I saw thateverything was all right so far as I was concerned, and that nobody, noteven Stackpole, suspicioned but that he himself had killed Jess Tatum;and as I knew he would have no trouble with the law to amount toanything on account of it, I felt that there was no need for me toworry, and I did not--not worry then nor later. But for some time past Ihad been figuring on moving out here on account of this new countryopening up. So I hurried up things, and inside of a week I had sold outmy place and had shipped my household plunder on ahead; and I moved outhere with my family, which they have all died off since, leaving onlyme. And now I am about to die, and so I wish to make this statementbefore I do so. 

"But if they had thought to cut into Jess Tatum's body after he wasdead, or to probe for the bullet in him, they would have known that itwas not Dudley Stackpole who really shot him, but somebody else; andthen I suppose suspicion might have fell upon me, although I doubt it. Because they would have found that the bullet which killed him was firedout of a forty-five-seventy shell, and Dudley Stackpole had done all ofthe shooting he done with a thirty-eight caliber pistol, which wouldthrow a different-size bullet. But they never thought to do so. "

Question by the physician, Doctor Davis: "You mean to say that noautopsy was performed upon the body of the deceased?"

Answer by Bledsoe: "If you mean by performing an autopsy that theyprobed into him or cut in to find the bullet I will answer no, sir, theydid not. They did not seem to think to do so, because it seemed toeverybody such a plain open-and-shut case that Dudley Stackpole hadkilled him. "

Question by the Reverend Mr. Hewlitt: "I take it that you are makingthis confession of your own free will and in order to clear the name ofan innocent party from blame and to purge your own soul?"

Answer: "In reply to that I will say yes and no. If Dudley Stackpole isstill alive, which I doubt, he is by now getting to be an old man; butif alive yet I would like for him to know that he did not fire the shotwhich killed Jess Tatum on that occasion. He was not a bloodthirsty man, and doubtless the matter may have preyed upon his mind. So on the barechance of him being still alive is why I make this dying statement toyou gentlemen in the presence of witnesses. But I am not ashamed, andnever was, at having done what I did do. I killed Jess Tatum with my ownhands, and I have never regretted it. I would not regard killing him asa crime any more than you gentlemen here would regard it as a crimekilling a rattlesnake or a moccasin snake. Only, until now, I did notthink it advisable for me to admit it; which, on Dudley Stackpole'saccount solely, is the only reason why I am now making this statement. "

And so on and so forth for the better part of a second column, with abrief summary in Editor Tompkins' best style--which was a very dramaticand moving style indeed--of the circumstances, as recalled by oldresidents, of the ancient tragedy, and a short sketch of the deceasedBledsoe, the facts regarding him being drawn from the same veracioussources; and at the end of the article was a somewhat guarded butaltogether sympathetic reference to the distressful recollections bornefor so long and so patiently by an esteemed townsman, with a concludingparagraph to the effect that though the gentleman in question haddeclined to make a public statement touching on the remarkabledisclosures now added thus strangely as a final chapter to the annals ofan event long since occurred, the writer felt no hesitancy in sayingthat appreciating, as they must, the motives which prompted him tosilence, his fellow citizens would one and all join the editor of the_Daily Evening News_ in congratulating him upon the lifting of thiscloud from his life. 

"I only wish I had the language to express the way that old man lookedwhen I showed him the galley proofs of Bledsoe's confession, " saidEditor Tompkins to a little interested group gathered in his sanctumafter the paper was on the streets that evening. "If I had such a powerI'd have this Frenchman Balzac clear off the boards when it came todescribing things. Gentlemen, let me tell you--I've been in thisbusiness all my life, and I've seen lots of things, but I never sawanything that was the beat of this thing. 

"Just as soon as this statement came to me in the mails this morningfrom that place out in Oklahoma I rushed it into type, and I had a setof galley proofs pulled and I stuck 'em in my pocket and I put out forthe Stackpole place out on Clay Street. I didn't want to trust either ofthe reporters with this job. They're both good, smart, likely boys; but, at that, they're only boys, and I didn't know how they'd go at thisthing; and, anyway, it looked like it was my job. 

"He was sitting on his porch reading, just a little old gray shell of aman, all hunched up, and I walked up to him and I says: 'You'll pardonme, Mr. Stackpole, but I've come to ask you a question and then to showyou something. Did you, ' I says, 'ever know a man named A. HamiltonBledsoe?'

"He sort of winced. He got up and made as if to go into the housewithout answering me. I suppose it'd been so long since he had anybodycalling on him he hardly knew how to act. And then that question comingout of a clear sky, as you might say, and rousing up bittermemories--not probably that his bitter memories needed any rousing, being always with him, anyway--may have jolted him pretty hard. But ifhe aimed to go inside he changed his mind when he got to the door. Heturned round and came back. 

"'Yes, ' he says, as though the words were being dragged out of himagainst his will, 'I did once know a man of that name. He was commonlycalled Ham Bledsoe. He lived near where'--he checked himself up, here--'he lived, ' he says, 'in this county at one time. I knew himthen. '

"'That being so, ' I says, 'I judge the proper thing to do is to ask youto read these galley proofs, ' and I handed them over and he read themthrough without a word. Without a word, mind you, and yet if he'd spokena volume he couldn't have told me any clearer what was passing throughhis mind when he came to the main facts than the way he did tell me justby the look that came into his face. Gentlemen, when you sit and watch aman sixty-odd years old being born again; when you see hope and lifecome back to him all in a minute; when you see his soul being remade ina flash, you'll find you can't describe it afterwards, but you're nevergoing to forget it. And another thing you'll find is that there isnothing for you to say to him, nothing that you can say, nor nothingthat you want to say. 

"I did manage, when he was through, to ask him whether or not he wishedto make a statement. That was all from me, mind you, and yet I'd goneout there with the idea in my head of getting material for a long newsypiece out of him--what we call in this business heart-interest stuff. All he said, though, as he handed me back the slips was, 'No, sir; but Ithank you--from the bottom of my heart I thank you. ' And then he shookhands with me--shook hands with me like a man who's forgotten almost how'twas done--and he walked in his house and shut the door behind him, andI came on away feeling exactly as though I had seen a funeral turnedinto a resurrection. "

Editor Tompkins thought he had that day written the final chapter, buthe hadn't. The final chapter he was to write the next day, followinghard upon a denouement, which to Mr. Tompkins, he with his own eyeshaving seen what he had seen, was so profound a puzzle that everthereafter he mentally catalogued it under one of his favoriteheadlining phrases: "Deplorable Affair Shrouded in Mystery. "

Let us go back a few hours. For a fact, Mr. Tompkins had been witness toa spirit's resurrection. It was as he had borne testimony--a life hadbeen reborn before his eyes. Even so, he, the sole spectator to andchronicler of the glory of it, could not know the depth and the sweepand the swing of the great heartening swell of joyous relief whichuplifted Dudley Stackpole at the reading of the dead Bledsoe's words. None save Dudley Stackpole himself was ever to have a true appreciationof the utter sweetness of that cleansing flood, nor he for long. 

As he closed his door upon the editor, plans, aspirations, ambitionsalready were flowing to his brain, borne there upon that ground swell ofsudden happiness. Into the back spaces of his mind long-buried desireswent riding like chips upon a torrent. The substance of his patientlyendured self-martyrdom was lifted all in a second, and with it theshadow of it. He would be thenceforth as other men, living as theylived, taking, as they did, an active share and hand in communal life. He was getting old. The good news had come late but not too late. Thatday would mark the total disappearance of the morbid lonely recluse andthe rejuvenation of the normal-thinking, normal-habited citizen. Thatvery day he would make a beginning of the new order of things. 

And that very day he did; at least he tried. He put on his hat and hetook his cane in his hand and as he started down the street he sought toput smartness and springiness into his gait. If the attempt was a sorryfailure, he, for one, did not appreciate the completeness of thefailure. He meant, anyhow, that his step no longer should be purposelessand mechanical; that his walk should hereafter have intent in it. And ashe came down the porch steps he looked about him, but dully, with sickand uninforming eyes, but with a livened interest in all familiar homelythings. 

Coming to his gate he saw, near at hand, Squire Jonas, now a gnarled butstill sprightly octogenarian, leaning upon a fence post surveying theuniverse at large, as was the squire's daily custom. He called out agood morning and waved his stick in greeting toward the squire with agesture which he endeavored to make natural. His aging muscles, staledby thirty-odd years of lack of practice at such tricks, merely made itjerky and forced. Still, the friendly design was there, plainly to bedivined; and the neighborly tone of his voice. But the squire, ordinarily the most courteous of persons, and certainly one of the mosttalkative, did not return the salutation. Astonishment congealed hisfaculties, tied his tongue and paralyzed his biceps. He stared dumbly amoment, and then, having regained coherent powers, he jammed hisbrown-varnished straw hat firmly upon his ancient poll and wentscrambling up his gravel walk as fast as two rheumatic underpinningswould take him, and on into his house like a man bearing incredible andunbelievable tidings. 

Mr. Stackpole opened his gate and passed out and started down thesidewalk. Midway of the next square he overtook a man he knew--anelderly watchmaker, a Swiss by birth, who worked at Nagel's jewelrystore. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of times he had passed this man uponthe street. Always before he had passed him with averted eyes and astiff nod of recognition. Now, coming up behind the other, Mr. Stackpolebade him a cheerful good day. At the sound of the words the Swiss spunon his heel, then gulped audibly and backed away, flinching almost asthough a blow had been aimed at him. He muttered some meaninglesssomething, confusedly; he stared at Mr. Stackpole with widened eyes likeone who beholds an apparition in the broad of the day; he stepped on hisown feet and got in his own way as he shrank to the outer edge of thenarrow pavement. Mr. Stackpole was minded to fall into step alongsidethe Swiss, but the latter would not have it so. He stumbled along for afew yards, mute and plainly terribly embarrassed at finding himself inthis unexpected company, and then with a muttered sound which might beinterpreted as an apology or an explanation, or as a token of profoundsurprise on his part, or as combination of them all, he turned abruptlyoff into a grassed side lane which ran up into the old Enders orchardand ended nowhere at all in particular. Once his back was turned to Mr. Stackpole, he blessed himself fervently. On his face was the look of onewho would fend off what is evil and supernatural. 

Mr. Stackpole continued on his way. On a vacant lot at Franklin and ClayStreets four small boys were playing one-eyed-cat. Switching his cane atthe weed tops with strokes which he strove to make casual, he stopped towatch them, a half smile of approbation on his face. Pose and expressionshowed that he desired their approval for his approval of their skill. They stopped, too, when they saw him--stopped short. With one accordthey ceased their play, staring at him. Nervously the batsman withdrewto the farther side of the common, dragging his bat behind him. Thethree others followed, casting furtive looks backward over theirshoulders. Under a tree at the back of the lot they conferred together, all the while shooting quick diffident glances toward where he stood. Itwas plain something had put a blight upon their spirits; also, even atthis distance, they radiated a sort of inarticulate suspicion--asuspicion of which plainly he was the object. 

For long years Mr. Stackpole's faculties for observation of the motivesand actions of his fellows had been sheathed. Still, disuse had notaltogether dulled them. Constant introspection had not destroyed hisgift for speculation. It was rusted, but still workable. He had readaright Squire Jonas' stupefaction, the watchmaker's ludicrous alarm. Henow read aright the chill which the very sight of his alteredmien--cheerful and sprightly where they had expected grim aloofness--hadthrown upon the spirits of the ball players. Well, he could understandit all. The alteration in him, coming without prior warning, hadstartled them, frightened them, really. Well, that might have beenexpected. The way had not been paved properly for the transformation. Itwould be different when the _Daily Evening News_ came out. He would goback home--he would wait. When they had read what was in the paperpeople would not avoid him or flee from him. They would be coming intohis house to wish him well, to reëstablish old relations with him. Why, it would be almost like holding a reception. He would be to those of hisown age as a friend of their youth, returning after a long absence tohis people, with the dour stranger who had lived in his house while hewas away now driven out and gone forever. 

He turned about and he went back home and he waited. But for a whilenothing happened, except that in the middle of the afternoon Aunt Kassieunaccountably disappeared. She was gone when he left his seat on thefront porch and went back to the kitchen to give her some instructiontouching on supper. At dinnertime, entering his dining room, he hadwithout conscious intent whistled the bars of an old air, and at thatshe had dropped a plate of hot egg bread and vanished into the pantry, leaving the spilt fragments upon the floor. Nor had she returned. He hadmade his meal unattended. Now, while he looked for her, she was hurryingdown the alley, bound for the home of her preacher. She felt the need ofhis holy counsels and the reading of scriptural passages. She was usedto queerness in her master, but if he were going crazy all of a sudden, why that would be a different matter altogether. So presently she wasconfiding to her spiritual adviser. 

Mr. Stackpole returned to the porch and sat down again and waited forwhat was to be. Through the heat of the waning afternoon Clay Street wasalmost deserted; but toward sunset the thickening tides of pedestriantravel began flowing by his house as men returned homeward from work. Hehad a bowing acquaintance with most of those who passed. 

Two or three elderly men and women among them he had known fairly wellin years past. But no single one of those who came along turned in athis gate to offer him the congratulation he so eagerly desired; nosingle one, at sight of him, all poised and expectant, paused to callout kindly words across the palings of his fence. Yet they must haveheard the news. He knew that they had heard it--all of them--knew it bythe stares they cast toward the house front as they went by. There wasmore, though, in the staring than a quickened interest or a sharpenedcuriosity. 

Was he wrong, or was there also a sort of subtle resentment in it? Wasthere a sense vaguely conveyed that even these old acquaintances of hisfelt almost personally aggrieved that a town character should haveceased thus abruptly to be a town character--that they somehow felt asubtle injustice had been done to public opinion, an affront offered tocivic tradition, through this unexpected sloughing off by him of therôle he for so long had worn?

He was not wrong. There was an essence of a floating, formlessresentment there. Over the invisible tendons of mental telepathy it cameto him, registering emphatically. 

As he shrank back in his chair he summoned his philosophy to give himbalm and consolation for his disappointment. It would take time, ofcourse, for people to grow accustomed to the change in him--that wasonly natural. In a few days, now, when the shock of the sensation hadworn off, things would be different. They would forgive him for breakinga sort of unuttered communal law, but one hallowed, as it were, by roteand custom. He vaguely comprehended that there might be such a law forhis case--a canon of procedure which, unnatural in itself, had come withthe passage of the passing years to be quite naturally accepted. 

Well, perhaps the man who broke such a law, even though it wereoriginally of his own fashioning, must abide the consequences. Even so, though, things must be different when the minds of people hadreadjusted. This he told himself over and over again, seeking in itssteady repetition salve for his hurt, overwrought feelings. 

And his nights--surely they would be different! Therein, after all, laythe roots of the peace and the surcease which henceforth would be hisportion. At thought of this prospect, now imminent, he uplifted his soulin a silent pæan of thanksgiving. 

Having no one in whom he ever had confided, it followed naturally thatno one else knew what torture he had suffered through all the nights ofall those years stretching behind him in so terribly long a perspective. No one else knew how he had craved for the darkness which all the timehe had both feared and shunned. No one else knew how miserable atravesty on sleep his sleep had been, first reading until a heavyphysical weariness came, then lying in his bed through the latter hoursof the night, fitfully dozing, often rousing, while from either side ofhis bed, from the ceiling above, from the headboard behind him, and fromthe footboard, strong lights played full and flary upon his twitching, aching eyelids; and finally, towards dawn, with every nerve behind hiseyes taut with pain and strain, awakening unrefreshed to consciousnessof that nimbus of unrelieved false glare which encircled him, and thestench of melted tallow and the stale reek of burned kerosene foul inhis nose. That, now, had been the hardest of all to endure. Enduredunceasingly, it had been because of his dread of a thing infinitelyworse--the agonized, twisted, dying face of Jess Tatum leaping at himout of shadows. But now, thank God, that ghost of his own conjuring, that wraith never seen but always feared, was laid to rest forever. Never again would conscience put him, soul and body, upon the rack. Thisnight he would sleep--sleep as little children do in the all-enveloping, friendly, comforting dark. 

Scarcely could he wait till a proper bedtime hour came. He forgot thathe had had no supper; forgot in that delectable anticipation thedisillusionizing experiences of the day. Mechanically he had, as duskcame on, turned on the lights throughout the house, and force of habitstill operating, he left them all on when at eleven o'clock he quittedthe brilliantly illuminated porch and went to his bedroom on the secondfloor. He undressed and he put on him his night wear, becoming agrotesque shrunken figure, what with his meager naked legs and his asheneager face and thin dust-colored throat rising above the collarlessneckband of the garment. He blew out the flame of the oil lamp whichburned on a reading stand at the left side of his bed and extinguishedthe two candles which stood on a table at the right side. 

Then he got in the bed and stretched out his arms, one aloft, the otherbehind him, finding with the fingers of this hand the turncock of thegas burner which swung low from the ceiling at the end of a goose-neckediron pipe, finding with the fingers of that hand the wall switch whichcontrolled the battery of electric lights round about, and with along-drawn sigh of happy deliverance he turned off both gas andelectricity simultaneously and sank his head toward the pillow. 

The pæaned sigh turned to a shriek of mortal terror. Quaking in everylimb, crying out in a continuous frenzy of fright, he was up again onhis knees seeking with quivering hands for the switch; pawing about thenfor matches with which to relight the gas. For the blackness--thatblackness to which he had been stranger for more than half his life--hadcome upon him as an enemy smothering him, muffling his head in itsterrible black folds, stopping his nostrils with its black fingers, gripping his windpipe with black cords, so that his breathing stopped. 

That blackness for which he had craved with an unappeasable hopelesscraving through thirty years and more was become a horror and a devil. He had driven it from him. When he bade it return it returned not as afriend and a comforter but as a mocking fiend. 

For months and years past he had realized that his optic nerves, punished and preyed upon by constant and unwholesome brilliancy, werenearing the point of collapse, and that all the other nerves in hisbody, frayed and fretted, too, were all askew and jangled. Cognizant ofthis he still could see no hope of relief, since his fears were greaterthan his reasoning powers or his strength of will. With the fear liftedand eternally dissipated in a breath, he had thought to find solace andsoothing and restoration in the darkness. But now the darkness, forwhich his soul in its longing and his body in its stress had cried outunceasingly and vainly, was denied him too. He could face neither theone thing nor the other. 

Squatted there in the huddle of the bed coverings, he reasoned it allout, and presently he found the answer. And the answer was this: Naturefor a while forgets and forgives offenses against her, but there comesa time when Nature ceases to forgive the mistreatment of the body andthe mind, and sends then her law of atonement, to be visited upon thetransgressor with interest compounded a hundredfold. The user ofnarcotics knows it; the drunkard knows it; and this poor self-crucifiedvictim of his own imagination--he knew it too. The hint of it had thatday been reflected in the attitude of his neighbors, for they merely hadobeyed, without conscious realization or analysis on their part, a lawof the natural scheme of things. The direct proof of it was, by thisnight-time thing, revealed and made yet plainer. He stood convicted, achronic violator of the immutable rule. And he knew, likewise, there wasbut one way out of the coil--and took it, there in his bedroom, vividlyringed about by the obscene and indecent circle of his lights which keptaway the blessed, cursed darkness while the suicide's soul was passing. 

AN INSTRUMENT OF THE GODS[6]

By LINCOLN COLCORD

(From _The American Magazine_)

"You think the Chinese are prosaic, " said Nichols from the darkness ofhis corner. "I've listened to you closely. You fellows have beendiscussing only superficialities. At heart, you and the Oriental are thesame. The Chinese are romantic, I tell you; they are heroic. Yes, really. Let me tell you a tale. "

Suddenly he laughed. "You won't be convinced. But strip my friend Lee FuChang naked, forget about that long silken coat of his; dress him in acowboy's suit and locate him on the Western plains, and the game heplayed with Captain Wilbur won't seem so inappropriate. You merely won'texpect a mandarin Chinaman to play it. You'll feel that China is toocivilized for what he did. 

"Some of you fellows must remember the notorious case of Captain Wilburand the 'Speedwell;' but I'll briefly refresh your memories: He was awell-known shipmaster of the palmy days, and his vessel was one of thefinest clippers ever launched on the shores of New England. But she wasgrowing old; and Wilbur had suffered serious financial reverses, thoughthe fact wasn't generally known. 

"To make a long story short, he put the 'Speedwell' ashore in OmbayPass, on a voyage from Singapore to New York, and abandoned her as shelay. Within a month after sailing, he was back again in Singapore withhis ship's company in three long boats and a tale of a lost vessel. Nohint of scandal was raised against the affair. The insurance companiesstood the gaff, the business was closed up without a hitch, and the nameof the 'Speedwell' passed simultaneously from the 'Maritime Register'and from the books of her owners in America. 

"Wilbur went immediately to Batavia, and there hired a schooner and crewwith the proceeds of his personal holdings in the vessel. He sailed forOmbay Pass; after a period of magnificent sailorizing and superhumaneffort he floated the ship and patched her so that she would stayafloat. When he appeared off Batavia roadstead with the 'Speedwell'under topgallant-sails, it was the sensation of the port; and when ittranspired what he intended to do with her, the news flew like wildfireabout the China Sea. For he proposed to hold the ship as salvage; andnothing, apparently, could be done about it. He found men willing toadvance him credit, bought off his Lascar crew, took the 'Speedwell' toHong Kong and put her in dry dock, and soon was ready for business witha fine ship of his own. 

"I was off on a trading voyage while these events were taking place. Iheard them first from Lee Fu Chang. 

"'An extraordinary incident!' exclaimed Lee Fu in conclusion. 'I amdeeply interested. It is a crowning stroke that he has not seen fit tochange the name of the vessel. All is as it was before, when thewell-known and reputable Captain Wilbur commanded his fine ship, the"Speedwell, " on voyages to the East. '

"'Does the crowd have anything to do with him?' I asked. 

"'None of his old associates speak in passing. He goes about like a manafflicted with a pestilence. Apparently, he is not disturbed by thistreatment. He makes no protest, offers no excuse, takes no notice; inthe face of outrageous insult he maintains an air of dignity andreserve, like a man conscious of inner rectitude. '

"'Did you talk with him, Lee Fu?'

"'Oh, yes. In fact, I cultivated his acquaintance. It relieved, as itwere, the daily monotony of virtue. Do not think that he is a simpleman. His heart in this matter is unfathomable, and well worth sounding. '

"'By Jove, I believe you liked him!'

"'No, not that. ' Lee Fu folded his hands within the long sleeves of hisembroidered coat and laid them across his stomach in a characteristicattitude of meditation. 'No, quite the opposite. I abhorred him. Hefeels no remorse; he goes his way in peace from the betrayal of a sacredtrust. He is an arch-criminal. '

"'Aren't you laying it on a little thick?' I laughed. 

"Lee Fu smiled quietly, giving me a glance that was a mere flicker ofthe eyelids. 'Captain, let me tell you, murder is brave and honorablecompared to this. Consider what he did: Trained to the sea and ships, after a lifetime of service to his traditions, he suddenly forsakes themutterly. It is blasphemy which he has committed; blasphemy against thegods who guide and sustain us, and without whose aid we cannot live. SoI abhor him--and am fascinated. If you will believe me, Captain, I havenot in all my talk with him received a single flash of illumination; no, not one! There is no clue to his design. He speaks of his ship as othersdo; he is a big, red-faced man with frank glances and open speech. Iswear to you, his heart is untroubled. And that is horrible. '

"I was a little amused at my friend's moral fervor. 'Perhaps he'sinnocent, ' I said. 

"'You forget that he holds the vessel, ' Lee Fu reminded me. 'To one ofyour race, if no blood flows, then it is not so bad. But bear in mindthat a strong man within your circle has murdered the spirit--and waituntil the actual blood flows. '

"'What do you mean. Lee Fu?'

"'I mean that Captain Wilbur will bear watching. In the meantime, do notfail to study him when opportunity offers. Thus we learn of heaven andhell. '

"A few years went by, while the case of Captain Wilbur and the'Speedwell' was in its initial stages of being forgotten. Nothingsucceeds like success; the man was growing rich, and there were many towhom the possession of a fine vessel covered a multitude of sins. Someof his old friends were willing after a while to let bygones be bygones. Little by little, one began to see him again on the quarter-deck of anevening, among the fleet captains. When, in time, it became unwise tostart the story against him for fear of misconstruction of the motive, it was evident that he'd won his nefarious match against society. 

"I'd met him a number of times during this interval. Indeed, hecompelled attention. That perfect urbanity, that air of unfailingdignity and confidence, that aura of a commanding personality, of anable shipmaster among his brethren, of a man whose position in the worldwas secure beyond peradventure; these could spring only from a quietconscience or from a heart perfectly attuned to villainy. So unconsciouswas his poise that one often doubted the evidence of memory, and foundone's self going back over the record, only to fetch up point-blankagainst the incontestable fact that he had stolen his ship and hadbetrayed his profession. 

"'It is a triumph, a feat of character!' Lee Fu used to say, as wecompared notes on the case from time to time. 'I think that he has notbeen guilty of a single minor error. His correctness is diabolical. Itpresages disaster, like too much fair weather in the typhoon season. Mark my word, Captain, when the major error comes it will be a greattragedy. '

"'Must there be an error?' I asked, falling into the mood of Lee Fu'sexaggerated concern. 'He has carried it off so far with the greatestease. '

"'Yes, with the greatest ease, ' Lee Fu repeated thoughtfully. 'Yet Iwonder if he has been properly put to the test. See how the worldprotects him! But he is not invulnerable. Life will yet challengehim--it must be. Can a man escape the gods? I wonder. That is why Iconcern myself with him--to know his destiny. '

"'You admit, then, that he may be merely a stupid fool?' I chaffed. 

"'Not stupid, ' said Lee Fu. 'Yet, on the other hand, not superior tolife. Such faultless power of will is in itself no mean share ofability. He is, as you might say, self-centered--most accuratelyself-centered. But the challenge of the gods displaces the center ofall. He will be like a top that is done spinning. A little breath maytopple him. Wait and see. '

"Voyage followed voyage; and one time, when I had come in from Bangkokand was on my way to Lee Fu's office I passed Captain Wilbur on theopposite side of Queen's Road. It flashed across my mind that I hadn'tobserved the 'Speedwell' in harbor. 

"'The fact is, the successful Captain Wilbur has retired from activeservice on the sea, ' Lee Fu explained with a quizzical smile, when I putthe question. 'He is now a ship owner alone, and has favored Hong Kongabove all other ports as the seat of his retirement. He resides in afine house on Graham Terrace, and has chairmen in white livery edgedwith crimson. Captain Nichols, you should steal a ship. '

"'Who goes in the "Speedwell"?'

"'An old friend of ours, one Captain Turner, ' said Lee Fu slowly, without looking in my direction. 

"'Not Will Turner?'

"'The same. '

"I pursed up my mouth in a silent whistle. Will Turner in the'Speedwell!' Poor old chap, he must have lost another ship. Hard luckseemed to pursue him, gave him no rest on land or sea. A capable sailorand an honest man, yet life had afforded him nothing but a succession ofblack eyes and heavy falls. Death and sorrow, too; he had buried a wifeand child, swept off by cholera, in the Bay of Bengal. Turner and I hadlanded together in the China Sea; I knew his heart, his history, some ofhis secrets, and liked him tremendously for the man he was. 

"Watching Lee Fu in silence, I thought of the relationship between WillTurner and this extraordinary Chinaman. I won't go into the story, butthere were overwhelming reasons why they should think well of eachother; why Lee Fu should respect and honor Turner, and why Turner shouldhold Lee Fu as his best friend. 

"'I did not know of the plan until he had accepted, ' Lee Fu was saying. 'I did everything in my power to dissuade him. '

"'Didn't Wilbur do the right thing?'

"'Oh, yes. But it is unthinkable, Captain, that he should command the"Speedwell. " The jealous gods have not yet shown their hand. '

"'Nonsense, Lee Fu!' I exclaimed, a little irritated. 'Since the thingis done, hadn't we better try to be practical?'

"'Exactly, ' said Lee Fu. 'Let us be practical. Captain, is it impossiblefor the Caucasian to reason from cause to effect? There seems to be nologic in your design; which explains many curious facts of history. Ihave merely insisted that a man who would do one thing would do another, and that, sooner or later, life would present to him another thing todo. '

"'But I've known too many men to escape what you call destiny, ' I arguedpeevishly. 

"'Have you?' inquired Lee Fu. 

"That year I went into the Malay Archipelago for an extended cruise, wasgone seven months among the islands, and reached Hong Kong just ahead ofa bad blow. Typhoon signals were flying from the Peak as I came in; thesky to the eastward had lowered and darkened like a shutter, and thebreeze had begun to whip in vicious gusts across the harbor. I carriedimportant communications for Lee Fu, so went ashore at once. The outeroffice was full of gathering gloom, although it was still earlyafternoon. Sing Toy immediately took in my name; and soon I was usheredinto the familiar room, where my friend sat beside a shaded lamp, facinga teakwood desk inlaid with ivory, and invariably bare, save for apriceless Ming vase and an ornament of old green bronze. 

"'I am glad to see you, Captain, ' he said dispassionately. 'Sit down. Ihave bad news. '

"'Yes?' I queried, more than a little alarmed. 

"Folding his hands across his stomach and slightly bowing his head, hegazed at me with a level upturned glance that, without betrayingexpression, carried by its very immobility a hint of deep emotion. 'Itis as I told you, ' he said at last. 'Now, perhaps, you will believe. '

"'For heaven's sake, what are you talking about?' I demanded. 

"'We had another typhoon this season, a very early one. It was thistyphoon into whose face our late friend Captain Turner took his ship, the "Speedwell, " sailing from Hong Kong for New York some four monthsago. Three days after sailing, he met the typhoon and was blown upon alee shore two hundred miles along the China coast. In this predicament, he cut away his masts and came to anchor. But his ship would not float, and accordingly sunk at the anchors. '

"'Sunk at her anchors!' I exclaimed. 'How could that be? A tight shipnever did such a thing. '

"'Nevertheless, she sunk in the midst of the gale, and all on boardperished. Afterwards the news was reported from shore, and the hull wasdiscovered in ten fathoms of water. There has been talk of trying tosave the ship; and Captain Wilbur himself, in a diver's suit, hasinspected the wreck. Surely, he should know if it is possible to salveher! He says no, and it is reported that the insurance companies are inagreement with him. ' Lee Fu's voice dropped to a rasping tone. 'Thelives, of course, he cannot save. '

"I sat for some moments gazing at the green bronze dragon on the desk, stunned by what I had heard. Turner gone? Even between us, who had seeneach other seldom in late years, there had been a bond. Weren't we knownas the two Eastern wanderers?

"'That is not all, ' said Lee Fu suddenly. 'What more?' I asked. 

"'Listen, Captain, and pay close attention. Some weeks after the loss ofthe "Speedwell, " it came to my ears that a man had a tale worth hearing. He was brought; he proved to be a common coolie who had been employed inthe loading of the "Speedwell. " This coolie had been gambling during thedinner hour, and had lost the small sum that he should have taken homeas the result of several days' labor. Likewise, he feared his wife, andparticularly her mother, who was a shrew. In a moment of desperation, asthe lighter was preparing to leave for the night, he escaped andsecreted himself in the hold of the vessel. 

"'He had long been asleep that night when he was suddenly awakened by asound on the ladder leading from the upper deck. It was a sound ofcareful steps, mingled with a faint metallic rattling. A moment later afoot descended on the floor of the between-decks, and lantern wascautiously lighted. The coolie retreated quickly into the lower hold, and from his post among the bales of merchandise was able to see allthat went on. '

"Again Lee Fu paused, as if lingering over the scene. 'It seems thatthis late and secret comer into the hold of the "Speedwell" was noneother than her owner, Captain Wilbur, ' he slowly resumed. 'The coolieknew him by face, and had seen him come on board that afternoon. Afterwards, through my inquiries, I learned that Captain Turner hadspent that night on shore. It was Captain Wilbur's custom, it seems, frequently to sleep on board his ship when she lay in port. Have youever been in the lower hold of the "Speedwell, " Captain Nichols?'

"'No, I haven't. '

"'But you recall her famous ports?'

"'Yes, indeed. ' The incident at once came back to me in detail. The'Speedwell' once had carried a cargo of ironwood from Singapore for atemple up the Yangtse-kiang. In order to load the immense timbers, shehad been obliged to cut bow ports of extraordinary size, fifty inches indepth, they were, and nearly seven feet in width, according to myrecollection. 

"'It has been my privilege, ' said Lee Fu, 'to examine carefully theforepeak of this vessel. I had chartered her one time, and felt alarmedfor her safety until I had seen the interior fastenings of these greatwindows that looked out into the deep sea. But my alarm was groundless. There was a most ingenious device for strengthening the bows where theyhad been weakened by the cutting of the ports. Four or five timbers had, of course, been severed; but these were reproduced on the port itself, and the whole was fashioned like a massive door. It lifted upward onimmense wrought-iron hinges; when it was lowered in place gigantic barsof iron, fitted into brackets on the adjoining timbers, stretched acrossits face to hold it against the impact of the waves. Thus the port, whentightly caulked from without, became again an integral part of the hull;I was told that there had never keen a trace of leakage from her bows. And, most remarkable of all, I was told, when it became necessary toopen these ports for use, the task could easily be accomplished by twoor three men and a stout watch-tackle. This I am now prepared tobelieve. 

"'But, to resume the account of the coolie, ' Lee Fu went on withexasperating deliberation. 'This is what he saw: Our friend CaptainWilbur descended into the lower hold and forward to the forepeak, wherethere was little cargo. There he worked with great effort for severalhours. He had equipped himself with a short crowbar, and carried a lighttackle wrapped beneath his coat. The tackle he loosened and hung to ahook above the middle of the port; it was merely for the purpose oflowering the iron crossbars so that they would make no noise. Had onefallen--'

"'Good God, Lee Fu, what are you trying to tell me?'

"'Merely an incident of the night. So, with the crowbar, Captain Wilburpried loose the iron braces, slinging them in his tackle and droppingthem softly one by one into the ship's bottom. It was a heavy task; thecoolie said that sweat poured from the big man like rain. Last of all hecovered the bars with dunnage, and rolled against the bow several bulkybales of matting to conceal the work. Captain, when the "Speedwell"sailed from Hong Kong in command of our honored friend, one of her greatbow ports below the water hung on its hinges without internalfastenings, and held in place only by the tightness of the caulking. Thefirst heavy weather--'

"'Can this be possible?' I said through clenched teeth. 

"'Oh, yes, so easily possible that it happened, ' answered Lee Fu. 

"'But why should he do such a thing? Had he anything against Turner?'

"'Captain, you do not understand. He merely was tired of the vessel; andfreights are becoming very poor. He wanted his insurance. He had nothought of disaster so he now assures himself; what he had in mind wasfor the ship to sink discreetly in pleasant weather. Yet he was willingenough to run the chance of wholesale murder. '

"I got up and began pacing the floor; the damnable affair had made mesick at heart, and a little sick at the stomach. 

"'Thus the gods have struck, ' said Lee Fu behind me, in that changelessvoice that for a moment seemed to concentrate the echo of the ages. 'There is blood at last, Captain--twenty-seven lives, and among them onedear to us--enough even to convince one of your race that a crime hasbeen committed. But I was mistaken in much that I foresaw. The criminal, it seems, is destined not to suffer. He has escaped the gods. '

"Can't you bring him to a reckoning? Isn't there some way--'

"Lee Fu shook his head. 'No, Captain, he is amply protected. What couldI accomplish in your courts with this fantastic tale, and for witnessesa coolie and a sampan man?'

"I continued to pace the floor, thinking dark thoughts. There was a way, of course, between man and man; but such things are no longer done inthe heart of civilization, except in sudden passion or jealousy. 

"Pacing rapidly, and oblivious to everything but the four walls of theroom, I nearly ran into Sing Toy coming in with a message from the outeroffice. He whispered a word in Lee Fu's ear. 

"'Ah!' exclaimed Lee Fu sharply. I started, whirled around. His voicehad lost the level, passive tone; it had taken on the timbre of action. 

"'Send him in, ' he said in Chinese to Sing Toy. 

"'Who is it?' I asked breathlessly. 

"'The man we have been speaking of. '

"'Wilbur? What the devil does he want?'

"'Nothing, ' answered Lee Fu, speaking swiftly. 'He merely came to make acall. So he thinks; but I think otherwise. Beware of word or glance. This chanced by arrangement. We are on the threshold of the gods. '

"Lee Fu remained standing as Captain Wilbur entered the room. Hishurried admonition still rang in my ears: 'Keep silence--beware of wordor glance!' But I couldn't have spoken intelligibly just then. To bewareof glances was a different matter. I stood as if rooted to the floor, gazing point-blank at Wilbur with a stare that must have made him wonderas to my sanity. 

"'Good afternoon, Captain Wilbur, ' said Lee Fu blandly. 'I think you areacquainted with Captain Nichols, of the bark "Omega"?'

"'Oh, how-do, Nichols, ' said Wilbur, advancing down the room. 'I'vemissed you around town for a good while. Glad you're back. I suppose youhad the usual assortment of adventures?'

"I drew back to escape shaking his hand. 

"'No, ' I answered, 'nothing like the adventure that awaited me here. '

"He settled himself in a chair, directly in range of the light, smiled, and lifted his eyebrows. 'So? Well, I can believe you. This office, youknow, is the heart of all adventure. ' He bowed toward Lee Fu, who hadresumed his seat. 

"'You honor me, Captain, ' replied the Chinaman. 'Yet it is only lifewhich may be called the heart of adventure--life, with its amazingsecrets that one by one transpire into the day, and with its enormousburden of evil that weighs us down like slaves. '

"Wilbur laughed. 'Yes, that's it, no doubt. Good, too, Lee Fu, plenty ofgood. Don't be pessimistic. But I suppose you're right, in a way; theevil always does manage to be more romantic. '

"'Much more romantic, ' said Lee Fu. 'And the secrets are more romanticstill. Consider, for instance, the case of a dark secret, which bychance has already become known. How infinitely romantic! Though the manfeels secure, yet inevitably it will be disclosed. When, and how? Such acase would be well worth watching--as the great writer had in mind whenhe wrote, "Murder will out. "'

"The winged words made no impression on their mark. Wilbur met Lee Fu'sglance frankly, innocently, with interest. By Jove, he was wonderful!The damned rascal hadn't a nerve in his body. 

"I examined him closely. Above a trimmed brown beard his cheeks showedthe ruddy color of health and energy; his eyes were steady; his mouthwas strong and clean; a head of fine gray hair surmounted a highforehead; the whole aspect of his countenance was pleasing anddignified. Sitting at ease, dressed neatly in blue serge, with an armthrown over the chair back and one ankle resting on the other knee, hepresented a fine figure. 

"He gave a hearty laugh. 'For the Lord's sake, come out of the gloom!'he cried. 'I drop in for a chat, and find a couple of blue devils up totheir ears in the sins of humanity. Nichols over there has hardly openedhis mouth. '

"'It is the mood of the approaching storm, ' interposed Lee Fu quietly. 

"A fiercer squall than the last shook the building; it passed in amoment as if dropping us in mid-air. Wilbur was the first to speak. 'Yes, it's going to be a hummer, isn't it? A bad night to be on thewater, gentlemen. I wouldn't care to be threshing around outside, now, as poor old Turner was such a short while ago. '

"I could have struck him across the mouth for his callousness. 

"Lee Fu's voice fell like oil on a breaking sea. 'All signs point toanother severe typhoon. It happened, Captain, that we were discussingthe loss of the "Speedwell" when you came in. '

"'Too bad--too bad, ' said Wilbur slowly, with a shake of the head. 'Youwere away, Nichols, weren't you? It was a bad week here, I can tell you, after the news came in. I shall never forget it. Well, we take ourchances. '

"'Some of us do, and some of us don't, ' I snapped. 

"'That's just the way I feel about it, ' he said simply. 'It came homehard to me. ' My jaw fairly dropped as I listened. Was it possible thathe liked to talk about the affair?

"'We were wondering, ' observed Lee Fu, 'why it was that the "Speedwell"did not remain afloat. What is your opinion, Captain Wilbur?'

"'It isn't a matter of opinion, ' Wilbur answered. 'Haven't I seen yousince the inspection? Why, the starboard bow port is stove in. I'vealways been afraid of those big bow ports. When I heard the peculiarcircumstances, I knew in my heart what had happened. '

"'Did you?' inquired Lee Fu, with a slight hardening of the voice. 'Captain, have you collected your insurance?'

"Wilbur frowned and glanced up sharply, very properly offended. The nextmoment he had decided to pass it off as an instance of alien manners. 'I've just cleaned up today, ' he replied brusquely. 'Had my lastsettlement with Lloyd's this morning--and did a silly thing, if you'llbelieve me. They had a package of large denomination bank notes, crisp, wonderful looking fellows; I took a sudden fancy and asked for my moneyin this form. To tell the truth, I've got it on me now; must get to thebank, too, before it closes. '

"'What is the amount of the bank notes which you have in yourpossession?' asked Lee Fu in a level tone that carried its own insult. 

"Wilbur showed his astonishment. 'Amount? Well, if you want all thedetails, I've got about forty thousand dollars in my pocket. '

"Lee Fu turned and shot at me a blank stare full of meaning; it mighthave been a look of caution, or a glance of triumph. I knew that I wasexpected to understand something, to glimpse some pregnant purpose; butfor the life of me I couldn't catch on. 

"'I, also, knew in my heart what had happened, ' said Lee Fu slowly, staring at Wilbur with a steady gaze. As he looked, he reached out withhis right hand and opened the top drawer of the desk. Suddenly he stoodup. The hand held a revolver, pointed at Wilbur's breast. 

"'If you move from your chair, Captain, I will shoot you dead, and yourend will never be known, ' he said rapidly. 'It is time we came to anunderstanding for the day wanes. '

"Wilbur uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, and looked at Lee Funarrowly. 'What's the joke?' he asked. 

"'A joke that will be clear as time goes on--like one you played withbow ports on my friend. Captain, we are going on a journey. Will youjoin us, Captain Nichols, or will you remain on shore?'

"The question was perfunctory; Lee Fu knew well enough that my decisionwas in his hands. I stood up--for until now I had been chained to mychair by the amazing turn of the moment. 

"'Bow ports?' Wilbur was saying. 'Put that gun down! What in hell do youmean?' He started to rise. 

"'Sit down!' commanded Lee Fu. 'I mean that I will shoot. This is notplay. ' Wilbur sank back, angry and confused. 

"'Are you crazy, Lee Fu?' he demanded. 'What's the meaning of this, Nichols? Do you intend to rob me? Have both of you gone mad?'

"'Is it possible that you do not comprehend that I share your secret?'asked Lee Fu sternly. 'You were observed, Captain, that night in theforepeak of the "Speedwell;" and those details, also, are known to me. It is needless to dissemble. '

"'That night in the forepeak?--Lee Fu, for God's sake, what are youtalking about?'

"'Ah!' exclaimed Lee Fu with evident satisfaction. 'You are worthy ofthe occasion, Captain. That is well. It will be most interesting. '

"He slapped his left palm sharply on the desk; Sing Toy appeared at thedoor as if by a mechanical arrangement. 'Bring oilskin coats and hatsfor three, ' Lee Fu commanded. 'Also, send in haste to my cruisingsampan, with orders to prepare for an immediate trip. Have water andfood provided for a week. We come within the half hour and sail withoutdelay. '

"'Master!' protested Sing Toy. 'Master, the typhoon!'

"'I know, fool, ' answered Lee Fu. 'I am neither deaf nor blind. Have Inot ordered oilskin coats? Do as I have said. '

"He sat down, resting the gun on the corner of the desk, and resumed thebland tone of conversation. 'I am sorry, gentlemen, that the rain hasalready come; but there is water also below, as Captain Wilbur should beaware. Yes, it was destined from the first to be a wet journey. Yet itwill still be possible to breathe; and not so bad as solid water on allsides, where, after a grim struggle, one lies at rest, neither caringnor remembering--Captain Wilbur, listen to me. We go from this office tomy sampan, which lies moored at the bulkhead not far away. During thewalk, you will precede us. I will hold my revolver in my hand--and I aman excellent shot. If you attempt to escape, or to communicate with anypasser-by, you will immediately be dead. Do not think that I would fearthe consequences; we will pass through Chinese streets, where action ofmine would not be questioned. '

"'Damn you!' Wilbur burst out. 'What silly nonsense are you up to?Nichols, will you permit this? Where are you going to take me?'

"'Never mind, ' replied Lee Fu. 'As for Captain Nichols, he, also, is atmy mercy. Ah, here are the raincoats. Put one on, Captain Wilbur; youwill need it sorely before your return. Now we must hurry. I would beclear of the harbor before darkness entirely falls. '

"Issuing from the doorway, the gale caught us with a swirl that carriedus around the corner and down a side street. 'To the right!' Lee Fushouted. Wilbur, lurching ahead, obeyed sullenly. We came about and madefor the water front through the fringe of the Chinese quarter, the mostremarkable trio, perhaps, that had ever threaded those familiarthoroughfares. 

"Overhead, the sky had settled low on the slope of the Peak. Wefloundered on, enveloped in a gray gloom like that of an eclipse. Whenwe reached the water front the face of the bay had undergone a sinisterchange, its yellow-green waters lashed into sickly foam and shrouded byan unnatural gleaming darkness. A distant moaning sound ran through theupper air, vague yet distinctly audible. The center of the typhoon washeaded in our direction. 

"As we staggered along the quay, my thoughts worked rapidly. I saw theplan now, and recognized the dangerous nature of the undertaking onwhich we'd embarked. It was to be a game of bluff, in which we wouldhave to risk our lives if the other held his ground. 

"I edged toward Lee Fu. 'Will you go on the water?' I asked in his ear. 

"He nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on Wilbur ahead. 

"'But it can't be done, ' I told him. 'A boat won't live. '

"'There is always a definite alternative, ' he replied abruptly. 

"'Yes--that we sink. '

"'Exactly. '

"All at once, in a flash of enlightenment, the greatness of the occasioncame to me. By Jove! He had taken the matter in his own hands; he hadstepped in when the gods had failed. But he had observed the divineproprieties; had seen that if he presumed to act for the gods he mustthrow his own life, as well, into the balance. He must run every risk. It was for them, after all, to make the final choice. He was onlyforcing action on the gods. 

"I gazed at him in wonder. He advanced stiffly against the storm, walking like an automaton. Beneath the close pulled rim of a blacksou'wester his smooth oval countenance looked ridiculously vacant, likethe face of a placid moon. He was the only calm object on earth, sea orsky; against the lashing rain, the dancing boats, the scudding clouds, the hurried shadows of appearing and vanishing men, he stood outplainly, a different essence, a higher spirit, the embodiment of mindand will. 

"And how was it with Wilbur, off there in the lead? He, too, walkedstiffly, wrapped in thought. Once he turned, as if to come back andspeak to us; then whirled with a violent movement of decision andplunged on into the rain. He knew, now, what it was all about, if notwhat to expect. He knew that his crime had been discovered. Yet he hadmade no break; in no particular had he given himself away. What had hedecided? What had he been about to say? Would he confess, when he faceddeath on the water; or would he be confident enough to believe that hecould beat the game?

"Observing his broad back, his commanding figure, that looked thoroughlyat home in its oilskin coat and leaning against the storm, it came to methat he would put up a desperate defense before he succumbed. He, too, was a strong man, and no part of a coward; he, too, in a different way, was a superior being, the embodiment of mind and will. 

"Then, for a moment, my own spirit went slump with the realization ofwhat lay before us, and a great weakness overcame me. I edged againtoward Lee Fu. 

"'My God, what if the man really is innocent?' I cried. 'He hasn'tturned a hair. '

"Lee Fu gave me a flash of the moon face beneath the sou'wester, 'Haveno fear, my friend, ' he reassured me. 'I am completely satisfied, inregions where the soul dwells. '

"When we reached the sampan, lying under a weather shore beneath thebulkhead, we found a scene of consternation. Lee Fu's orders hadarrived, and had been executed; yet the men couldn't believe that heactually meant to sail. Gathered in a panic-stricken group on the foredeck of the sampan, they chattered like a flock of magpies; as theycaught sight of us, they swarmed across the bulkhead and fell at LeeFu's feet, begging for mercy. 

"'Up, dogs!' he cried. 'There is no danger. I shall steer, and it isnecessary that we go. If any would remain, let them depart now, with notale to tell. Let those who stay prepare at once for sea. '

"I found Wilbur beside me. 'What's this madness, Nichols?' he demandedfor the third and last time. 

"'I know no more about it than you do, ' I answered shortly. 'He has toldhis crew to prepare for sea. If he goes, we all go. '

"A moment later we stood on the quarter-deck of the cruising sampan. LeeFu took his station at the great tiller. The wind lulled, as the troughof a squall passed over; he gave a few sharp orders. Moorings were castoff, a pinch of sail was lifted forward. The big craft found her freedomwith a lurch and a stagger; then pulled herself together and left theland with a steady rush, skimming dead before the wind across the smoothupper reach of the harbor and quickly losing herself in the murk andspray that hung off Kowloon Point. Lee Fu somehow managed to avoid thefleet at anchor off Wanchi; straight down the length of the bay hestruck, and in an incredibly short time we had left the harbor behindand were whirling through the narrow gut of Lymoon Pass before aterrific squall, bound for the open sea. 

"I watched Captain Wilbur. He stood carelessly at the rail during ourrace down the harbor, scanning the boat and the water with an air ofconfidence and unconcern. A sneer curled his lip; he had made up hismind to see the nonsense through. The sailor in him had quicklyrecognized that the craft would stand the weather in smooth water; heprobably expected any minute that Lee Fu would call it quits and putinto some sheltered cove. 

"But when we shot through Lymoon Pass, I saw him turn and scrutinize theChinaman closely. Darkness was falling behind the murk, the real nightnow; and ahead of us lay a widening reach among the islands that openedabruptly on the main body of the China Sea. We were rapidly leaving theprotection of Victoria Island. Soon we would be unable to see our way. Ten miles outside a high sea was running. And with every blast of windthat held in the same quarter, the center of the typhoon was bearingdown on us with unerring aim. 

"These things were as patent to Wilbur as to any of us. In fact, hisknowledge was his undoing; had he been less of a sailor, or had he beenentirely ignorant of sea matters, he could have resigned himself to thesituation on the assumption that Lee Fu never would put himself inactual danger. Perhaps Lee Fu had foreseen this when he chose the sea asthe medium of justice; perhaps he had glimpsed the profound and subtletruth that Wilbur couldn't properly be broken save in his nativeenvironment. He knew the sea, had trifled with it; then let him face thesea. 

"The time came, just before we lost the loom of the land, when Wilburcould stand it no longer; as a sailor, used to responsibility andcommand, he had to speak his mind. 

"He dropped aft beside Lee Fu, and put his hand to his mouth. 'You'rerunning to your death!' he shouted. 'You've already lost Pootoy. If youcan't haul up and make the lee of the Lema Islands--'

"'I intend to pass nowhere near them, ' answered Lee Fu, keeping his eyeson the yawning bow of the sampan. 

"'There's nothing to the eastward--no shelter. '

"'Of that I am aware. '

"'Do you know what that means?' Wilbur pointed above the stern rail intothe face of the storm. 

"'I think we will get the center, Captain, by tomorrow noon. '

"Wilbur made a move as if to grasp the tiller. 'Haul up, you fool!'

"A stray gleam in the gathering darkness caught the barrel of therevolver, as Lee Fu steered for a moment with one hand. 

"'Beware, Captain! You are the fool; would you broach us to, and end itnow? One thing alone will send me to seek the last shelter; and for thatthing I think you are not ready. '

"'What?'

"'To say that you sunk the "Speedwell. "'

"Wilbur gathered his strength as if to strike; his face was distortedwith passion. 

"'You lie, you yellow hound!'

"'Exactly--Captain, be careful--come no nearer! Also, leave me alone. Ifyou value your life, you will keep silence and stay a little forward. Go, quickly! Here I could shoot you with the greatest impunity. '"

Nichols paused. "Maybe some of you fellows haven't seen Lee Fu'scruising sampan, " he remarked. "In reality, she's more of a junk than asampan, a sizable craft of over a hundred tons, and the best product ofthe Chinese shipyard. Lee Fu had her built for trips along the coast, and many of his own ideas, born of an expert knowledge of ships of everynationality entered into her construction. The result is distinctly aChinese creation, a craft that seems to reflect his personality, thatresponds to his touch and works with him. She's higher in the bows thanan ordinary junk, and lower in the stern; a broad, shallow hull thatneeds a centerboard on the wind. Of course she's completely decked overfor heavy weather. In charge of any of us, perhaps, she would beunmanageable; but in his hands, I can assure you, she's a sea boat ofremarkable attainments. 

"I had seen him handle her under difficult conditions, but never in sucha pass as this. How he did it was inconceivable to me. The last I saw ofhim that night he had called two men to help him at the tiller; and, sofar, he had kept the craft before the wind. 

"For many hours I was surrounded by pitch blackness and the storm. Iclung to a single stanchion, hardly changing my position during thenight, drenched by rain and spray, seeing nothing, hearing no word. Thegale roared above us with that peculiar tearing sound that accompaniesthe body of a typhoon; a sound suggestive of unearthly anger andviolence, as if elemental forces were ripping up the envelope of theuniverse. The wind gained steadily in volume; it picked up the sea insteep ridges of solid water that flung us like a chip from crest tocrest, or caught us, burst above us and swallowed us whole, as if we hadsuddenly sunk in a deep well. Every moment I expected would be our last. Yet, as time wore on, I felt through the sampan's frantic floundering ahand of guidance, a touch of mastery. Lee Fu steered, and she was stillin his control. A night to turn the hair gray, to shatter the mind. 

"But we came through, and saw the dawn. A pale watery light little bylittle crept into the east, disclosing a scene of terror beyonddescription. The face of the sea was livid with flying yellow foam; thetorn sky hung closely over it like the fringe of a mighty waterfall. Inthe midst of this churning cauldron our little craft seemed momently onthe point of disappearing, engulfed by the wrath of the elements. 

"In the lull of the storm my glance encountered Wilbur; for a long whileI'd forgotten him entirely. He hung to the rail a little fartherforward, gazing across the maelstrom with a fixed, exhausted expression. His face was haggard; the strain of the night had marked him with aruthless hand. As I watched him, his eye turned slowly in my direction;he gave me an anxious look, then crawled along the rail to a place by myside. 

"'Nichols, we're lost!' I heard him cry in my ear. The voice was almostplaintive; it suddenly made me angry, revived a few sparks of my owncourage. 

"'What of it?' I cried harshly. 'Turner was lost. '

"'You believe that, too?'

"I looked at him point-blank; his eyes shifted; he couldn't face me now. 'Yes, I do, ' I told him. 'Why don't you own up, before--?'

"He moved away hastily, as if offended to the heart. But the strong manhad gone, the air of perfect confidence had disappeared; he wasshattered and spent--but not yet broken. Pride is more tenacious thancourage; and men with hearts of water will continue to function throughself-esteem. 

"Looking above his head, where the sky and the sea met in a blanket offlying spume, I caught sight for an instant of something that resembledthe vague form of a headland. Watching closely, I soon saw itagain--unmistakably the shadow of land to port, well forward, of thebeam. Land! That meant that the wind had shifted to the southward, thatwe were being blown against the shore. 

"I worked my way cautiously aft, where Lee Fu stood like a man of ironat the tiller, lashed to the heavy cross-rail that must have beenconstructed for such occasions. He saw me coming, leaned toward me. 

"'Land!' I shouted, pointing on the port bow. 

"He nodded vigorously, to show me that he'd already seen it. 'Recognize--' The rest of the answer was blown away by the wind. 

"By pantomime, I called his attention to the shift of the storm. Againhe nodded--then ducked his head in Wilbur's direction, and shoutedsomething that I couldn't quite follow. 'Change our tactics--we mustchange our tactics--' was what I understood him to say. 

"He beckoned me to come closer; grasping the cross-rail, I swung downbeside him. 

"'I know our position, ' he cried in my ear. 'Have no alarm, my friend. There are two large islands, and a third, small like a button. Watchclosely the button, while I steer. When it touches the high headland, give me the news instantly. '

"He had hauled the junk a trifle to port, and with every opportunity wasedging toward the land. The tall headland that I'd first sighted grewplainer with every moment; soon I made out the island like a button andsaw it closing rapidly on the land behind. 

"'Now!' I shouted to Lee Fu, when the two had touched. 

"He swung the sampan a couple of points to starboard, discovering closebeneath our bows the tip of another reef that stretched toward the landdiagonally across the path of the wind. In a moment we were almostabreast this point of reef; a hundred yards away, its spray lashed ourdecks as the low-lying black rocks caught the broken wash of the storm. Another swing of the great tiller, and we had hauled up in the lee ofthe reef--in quiet water at last, but with the gale still screamingoverhead like a defeated demon. 

"It was like nothing but a return from hell. The wind held us in a solidblast; but to feel the deck grow quiet, to be able to speak, tohear--and then, to see the land close aboard. By Jove, we were saved!

"A voice spoke gruffly beside us. 'By God, I hope you're satisfied!' Weturned to see Wilbur at the head of the cross-rail. A twitching facebelied the nonchalance that he'd attempted to throw into the words. 

"'I don't know how we lived!' he snarled. 'What in the name of God madeyou try it? Nothing but luck--and now the typhoon's leaving us. We canwait here till the blow dies down. '

"'Is that all, Captain, that you have to say?' inquired Lee Fu, hisattention riveted on the course. 

"Wilbur clutched the rail as if he would tear it from its fastenings. 'Adamned sight more, you blackguard; but I'll save it for theauthorities!'

"'You feel no thanks for your escape--and there is nothing on yourmind?'

"'Nothing but sleep--why should there be? Let's wind up this farce andget to anchor somewhere; I'm fagged out. '

"'No, we are going on, ' said Lee Fu calmly, making no move to come intothe wind. 'No time for rest, Captain; the journey is not done. '

"'Going on?' He turned fiercely, and for a moment he and Lee Fu gazeddeep into each other's eyes in a grapple that gave no quarter. 

"'Yes, Captain!' cried Lee Fu sharply. 'We have not yet reached the spotwhere the "Speedwell" met her doom. Now go! I cannot waste time intalk. '

"Since this experience, I've many times examined the charts of theregion, " Nichols went on. "But they don't begin to show it all. Beyondthe middle island stretched a larger island, distant some five milesfrom the other; and between them lay the most intricate, extraordinaryand terrible nest of reefs ever devised by the mind of the Maker and thehand of geologic change. 

"The outlying fringe of reefs that had broken first approach ended atthe middle island; beyond that to windward lay clear water, and the nestof reefs that I've mentioned received the full force of the wind andsea. Five miles of water stretched in mad confusion, a solid whitenessof spouting foam that seemed to hold a hideous illumination. Beyond thepoint of the middle island the long wind-swept rollers burst in tallcolumns of spray that shut off the view like a curtain as we drew near, where the rocks began in an unbroken wall. 

"It was directly against this wall that Lee Fu was driving the sampan. The first lift of the outside swell had already caught us. I held mybreath, as moment by moment we cut down the margin of safety. No use tointerfere; perhaps he knew what he was doing; perhaps he actually hadgone mad under the terrific strain. As he steered, he seemed to bewatching intently for landmarks. Was it possible that he still knew hisbearings, that there was a way through?

"Wilbur, at Lee Fu's command, had left us without a word. He stood atthe rail, supporting himself by main strength, facing the frightful lineof the approaching reefs; and on his back was written the desperatestruggle he was having. It bent and twisted, sagging with suddenirresolution, writhing with stubborn obduracy, straightening and shakingitself at times in a wave of firmness and confidence, only to quail oncemore before the sight that met his eyes. He couldn't believe that Lee Fuwould hold the course. 'Only another moment!' he kept crying to himself. 'Hold on a little longer!' Yet his will had been sapped by the longhours of the night and the terror of the dawn; and courage, which withhim had rested only on the sands of ostentation, had crumbled long ago. 

"I turned away, overcome by a sickening sensation; I couldn't looklonger. Lee Fu waited tensely, peering ahead and to windward withlightning glances. A wave caught us, flung us forward. Suddenly I heardhim cry out at my side in exultation as he bore down on the tiller. Thecry was echoed from forward by a loud scream that shot like an arrowthrough the thunder. Wilbur had sunk beside the rail. The sampan felloff, carried high on the wave. 

"Then, in a moment like the coming of death, we plunged into the reef. Ihave no knowledge of what took place--and there are no words to tell thestory. Solid water swamped us; the thunder of the surf stopped the mind. But we didn't touch, there was a way through, we had crossed the outermargin of the reef. We ran the terrible gauntlet of the reef, surroundedon every hand by towering breakers, lost in the appalling roar of theelements. Without warning, we were flung between a pair of jagged ledgesand launched bodily on the surface of a concealed lagoon. 

"A low rocky island lay in the center of the nest of reefs, with astretch of open water to leeward of it, all completely hidden from viewuntil that moment. The open water ran for perhaps a couple of miles;beyond it the surf began again in another unbroken line. It would takeus ten minutes to cross the lagoon. 

"'Bring Captain Wilbur, ' said Lee Fu. 

"I crept forward, where Wilbur lay beside the rail, his arm around astanchion. He was moaning to himself as if he'd been injured. I kickedhim roughly; he lifted an ashen face. 

"'Come aft--you're wanted, ' I cried. 

"He followed like a dog. Lee Fu, at the tiller, beckoned us to standbeside him; I pulled Wilbur up by the slack of his coat, and pinned himagainst the cross-rail. 

"'This is the end, ' said Lee Fu, speaking in loud jerks, as he steeredacross the lagoon. 'There is no way out, except by the way we came. Thatway is closed. Here we can find shelter until the storm passes, if youwill speak. If not, we shall go on. By this time. Captain, you know meto be a man of my word. '

"'You yellow devil!'

"'Beyond these reefs, Captain, lies the wreck of your ship the"Speedwell. " There my friend met death at your hands. You have had fulltime to consider. Will you join him, or return to Hong Kong? A word willsave you. And remember that the moments are passing very swiftly. '

"With a last flicker of obstinate pride, Wilbur pulled himself togetherand whirled on us. 'It's a damnable lie!'

"'Very well, Captain. Go forward once more, and reserve your finalexplanation for the gods. '

"The flicker of pride persisted; Wilbur staggered off, holding by therail. I waited beside Lee Fu. Thus we stood, watching the approach ofthe lagoon's leeward margin. Had Lee Fu spoken truthfully; was there noway out? I couldn't be certain; all I knew was that the wall of spoutingsurf was at our bows, that the jaws of death seemed opening again. 

"Suddenly Wilbur's head snapped back; he flung up his arms in a gestureof finality, shaking clenched fists into the sky. He was at the point ofsurrender. The torture had reached his vitals. He floundered aft. 

"'What is it I must say?' he cried hoarsely, in a voice that by its veryabasement had taken on a certain dignity. 

"'Say that you sunk the "Speedwell. "'

"His face was shocking; a strong man breaking isn't a pleasant object. In a flash I realized how awful had been this struggle of the wills. Hecame to the decision as we watched, lost his last grip. 

"'Of course I did it! You knew it all along! I had no intention--Youmadman! For God's sake, haul up, before you're in the breakers!'

"'Show me your insurance money. '

"Wilbur dug frantically in an inside pocket, produced a packet of banknotes, held them in a hand that trembled violently as the gale flutteredthe crisp leaves. 

"'Throw them overboard. '

"For the fraction of a second he hesitated; then all resolution went outin his eyes like a dying flame. He extended his arm and loosed thenotes; they were gone down the wind before our eyes could follow them. 

"In the same instant Lee Fu flung down the great tiller. The sampan cameinto the wind with a shock that threw us to the deck. Close under ourlee quarter lay the breakers, less than a couple of hundred yards away. Lee Fu made frantic signals forward, where the crew were watching us inutter terror. I felt the centerboard drop; a patch of sail rose on themain. The boat answered, gathered headway, drove forward--

"Wilbur lay as he had fallen and made no move. 

"Two nights later, under a clear starry sky, we slipped through LymoonPass on the tail of the land breeze. It fell flat calm before we reachedWanchi; the long sweeps were shipped, and the chattering crew, who'dnever expected to see Hong Kong again, fell to work willingly. At lengthwe rounded to against the bulkhead and settled into our berth, as ifback from a late pleasure trip down the bay. 

"A little forward, Wilbur rose to his feet. He hadn't spoken or touchedfood since that tragic hour under the reefs two nights before. Without aglance in our direction, he made for the side and stepped ashore. Therewas a bright light behind him; his form stood out plainly. It had lostthe lines of vigor and alertness; it was the figure of a different andolder man. 

"A moment later he had lurched away, vanishing in the darkness of a sidestreet. Three days later, we heard that he had taken the boat forSingapore. He hasn't been seen or heard of since that day. 

"When he had gone, that night at the bulkhead, Lee Fu reached out a handto help me to my feet. 'Thank you, Captain, ' he said. 'For my part, ithas been supremely interesting. For your part, I hope that you have beenrepaid?'

"'It's enough to be alive, just now, ' I answered. 'I want a chart, LeeFu. I want to see what you did. How you did it is quite beyond mycomprehension. '

"'Oh, that? It was not much. The gods were always with us, as you musthave observed. And I know that place pretty well. '

"'Evidently. Did the "Speedwell" fetch up among those reefs, or toleeward of them?'

"'The "Speedwell?" Captain, you did not believe my little pleasantry! Wewere nowhere near the wreck of the "Speedwell, " as Captain Wilbur shouldhave known had he retained his mind. '

"I smiled feebly. 'I didn't know it. Tell me another thing, Lee Fu. Wereyou bluffing, there at the last, or wasn't there really a hole throughthe reef?'

"'So far as I am aware, Captain, there was no passage, ' answered myimperturbable friend. 'I believe we were heading for the rocks when wecame into the wind. '

"'Would you have piled us up?'

"'That is merely a hypothetical question. I knew that I would not beforced to do it. I was only afraid that, in the final anguish, CaptainWilbur would lose his sense of seamanship, and so would wait too long. That, I confess, would have been unfortunate. Otherwise, there was nodoubt or especial danger. '

"'I'm glad to know it!' I exclaimed, with a shudder of recollection. 'Itwasn't apparent at the time. '

"'No, perhaps not; time was very swift. In fact, he did wait too long. He was more willful than I had anticipated. '

"I gazed across the harbor, reviewing the experience. 'What did you havein mind, ' I asked, 'before the typhoon shifted? Did you expect to catchthe center?'

"'I had no plan; it is dangerous to plan. There was a task to be begun;the determination of its direction and result lay with the gods. It wasplain that I had been called upon to act; but beyond that I neither sawnor cared to see. '

"I could believe him only because I'd witnessed his incredible calm. Hewaved a hand toward the city. 'Come, my friend, let us sleep, ' he said. 'We have earned our rest. Learn from this never to plan, and always tobeware of overconfidence. It is by straining to look into the futurethat men exhaust themselves for present duty; and it is by making theirlittle plans that men bring down the wrath of the gods. We are theirinstruments, molding in faith and humility our various destinies. Perhaps you thought me unfeeling, but I was only happy. There constantlywere too many propitious signs. '"

THE LIZARD GOD[7]

By CHARLES J. FINGER

(From _All's Well_)

It is not pleasant to have one's convictions disturbed, and that is whyI wish I had never seen that man Rounds. He seems to have crossed mypath only to shake my self-confidence. The little conversation we hadhas left me dissatisfied. I look upon my collection with less interestthan I did. I am not as pleased with the result of my investigations asthey appear in my monograph on "The Saurian Family of EquatorialAmerica. " Doubtless the mood that now possesses me will pass away, and Ishall recover my equanimity. His story would have upset most men. Worsestill was his unpleasant habit of interjecting strange opinions. Judgefor yourself. 

It was when passing through the Reptile room on my way to the study thatI first saw him. I took him to be a mere common working man passing awayan idle hour; one of the ordinary Museum visitors. Two hours later, Inoticed that he was closely examining the lizard cases. Then later, heseemed interested in my collection of prints illustrating the livingworld of the ante-diluvian period. It was then that I approached him, and, finding him apparently intelligent, with, as it seemed, a benttowards lizards, and further, discovering that he had traveled in Peruand Colombia, took him to the study. 

The man had some unusual habits. He was absolutely lacking in that senseof respect, as I may term it, usually accorded to one in my position. One who is a professor and curator becomes accustomed to a certainamount of, well, diffidence in laymen. The attitude is entirely natural. It is a tribute. But Rounds was not that way. He was perfectly at ease. He had an air of quiet self-possession. He refused the chair Iindicated, the chair set for visitors and students, and instead, walkedto the window and threw up the lower sash, taking a seat on the sill, with one foot resting on the floor and the other swinging. Thus, helooked as though he were prepared to leap, or to jump or run. He gave methe impression of being on the alert. Without asking permission, hefilled and lit his pipe, taking his tobacco from a queerly made pouch, and using but one hand in the process. 

"What I was looking for, " he said, "is a kind of lizard. Yet it is not alizard. It is too hard and thin in the body to be that. It runs on itshind legs. It is white. Its bite is poisonous. It lives in theequatorial districts of Colombia. "

"Have you seen one?" I asked. 

"No, " was the reply. Then after a moment he asked, "Why?"

"Because there is no such living creature, " I said. 

"How do you know?" he said abruptly. 

"The lizard group is thoroughly classified, " I said. "There is nothinganswering to that description. In the first place--"

"Does that make it non-existent? Your classification of what you know?"he interrupted. 

"I have made a study of the Saurians, " I said. 

"No you haven't, " he said. "You have read what other men have writtenand that is not the same thing. "

"Really, " I began, but he broke in. 

"I mean to say that you have never been in any new equatorial country, "he said. "Your manner shows that. You are too quiet. Too easy. Toosedentary. You would have been killed because of your lack ofvigilance. "

That is, as nearly as I can repeat and remember, the opening of theconversation. There was an air of challenge about the man that I foundunpleasant. Of course I admitted the fact that I was not an explorermyself, and that mine was the humbler if more tedious task of collectingand arranging data. At that he said that in his opinion, organizedexpeditions were little more than pleasure jaunts taken at the publicexpense. His viewpoint was most extraordinary. 

"Such an expedition, " he said, "must fail in its main purpose becauseits very unwieldiness destroys or disperses the very things it wasorganized to study. It cannot penetrate the wilds; it cannot get intothe dry lands. The very needs of the men and horses and dogs preventthat. It must keep to beaten tracks and in touch with the edge ofcivilization. The members of such an expedition are mere killers on alarge scale, and to kill or to hunt a thing is to not know it at all. Further, the men in such expeditions are not hunters even. They aredestroyers who destroy while keeping themselves in safety. They havetheir beaters. Their paid natives. Humbug! That's the only word todescribe that kind of thing. Staged effects they have. Then they comeback here to pose as heroes before a crowd of gaping city clerks. "

I mentioned the remarkable results obtained by the Peary and Rooseveltexpeditions and pointed to the fact that the specimens brought back andproperly set up by efficient taxidermists, did, in fact, give the commonpeople some notion of the wonders of animal life. 

"Nothing of the kind, " he said. "Look at that boa-constrictor you haveout there. It is stuffed and in a glass case. Don't you know that in itsnatural surroundings you yourself would come mighty near stepping on onewithout seeing it? You would. If you had that thing set up as it shouldbe, these museum visitors of yours would pass the case believing it wasa mere collection of foliage. They wouldn't see the snake itself. Seewhat I mean? Set up as they are in real life they'd come near beinginvisible. "

The man walked up and down the study floor for half a minute or so, thenpaused at the desk and said:

"Don't let us get to entertaining one another though. But remember this, you only get knowledge at a cost. I mean to say that the man that wouldknow something, can only get the knowledge at first hand. The people whowander around this junk shop that you call a museum, go out as emptyheaded as they came in. Consider. Say a Fiji islander came here and tookback with him from the United States an electric light bulb, a stuffedpossum, an old hat, a stalactite from the Mammoth cave, a sackful ofpecan nuts, a pair of handcuffs, half a dozen photographs and a dozenpacking cases full of things gathered from here and there, and then setthe whole junk pile up under a roof in the Fiji Islands, what would hisfellow Fijians know from that of the social life of this country. Eh?Tell me that?"

"You exaggerate, " I protested. "You take an extreme point of view. "

"I don't, " he said. 

His contradictions would have made me angry, perhaps, were they not madein such a quiet tone of voice. 

"Take anything from its natural surroundings, " he went on, "and it ismeaningless. The dull-eyed men and women that wander through this Museumof yours are just killing time. There's no education in that kind ofthing. Besides, what they see are dead things, anyway, and you can'tstudy human nature in a morgue. "

He resumed his seat on the window sill, then took from an inner pocket aleather wallet, and drew from that a photograph which he tossed acrossso that it fell on the desk before me. I examined it carefully. It hadbeen badly developed and badly printed, and what was worse, roughlyhandled. But still, one could distinguish certain features. 

It pictured the interior of a building. It was roofless, and above therear wall was what I recognized as tropical vegetation, mainly by itswild luxuriance. In the center of the rear wall was what seemed to be agiant stone lizard, standing on its hind legs. The one foreleg thatshowed was disproportionately short. The body, too, was more attenuatedthan that of any lizard. The thing was headless and the statue, idol orwhatever it was, stood on a pedestal, and before that again, seemed tobe a slab of stone. Then my attention was caught by the head of thething, which was to be seen in a corner. It was shaped roughlytriangular. The jaws were broad at the base and the thing had, even inthe photograph, something of the same repulsive appearance as the headof a vampire bat. 

"It is the result of the imagination of some Indian, " I said. "Nopost-diluvian Saurian ever existed of that size. "

"Good God, man, you jump to conclusions, " he said. "This is only arepresentation of the thing itself. Made in heroic size, so to say. Butsee here!"

He leaned over my shoulder and pointed to a kind of border that ranalong the base of the pedestal. Examining closely, I made out a seriesof lizards running on their hind legs. 

"They, " he explained, "are cut into the stone. It is a sort of redsandstone. They are a little bigger than the thing itself as it isliving. But look at this. "

The particular spot to which he pointed was blurred and dirty, as thoughmany fingers had pointed to it and I took the magnifying glass forcloser inspection. Even then I only saw dimly as something that bore aresemblance to the carved figures. 

"That, " he said, "is as near as ever I came to seeing one of the littledevils. I think it was one of them though I am not sure. I caught sightof it flashing across like a swiftly blown leaf. We took the picture byflashlight you see, so I'm not sure. Somerfield, of course, was too busyattending to his camera. He saw nothing. "

"We might have another picture made, " I said. "It would be interesting. "

"D'ye think I'd be able to carry plunder around traveling as I wasthen?" he asked. "You see, I went down there for the Company I'm workingfor. I was looking out for rubber and hard woods. I'd worked fromBuenaventura. From Buenaventura down to the Rio Caqueta and thenfollowed that stream up to the water head, and then down the Codajaz. Ifyou look at the map, you'll see it's no easy trip. No chance to packmuch. All I wanted to carry was information. And there was onlySomerfield along. "

"But Somerfield--he, as I take it, was the photographer, was he not? Didhe not take care of the negatives? It would not have been much for himto take care of. "

"Well you see, he did take care of his negatives. But circumstances weredifferent at the time. He had laid them away somewhere. After I killedhim, I just brought away the camera and that was all. "

Positively, I gasped at the audacity of the man. He said the words "Ikilled him, " so quietly, in so matter of fact a way, that for the momentI was breathless. Like most other men, I had never sat face to face withone who had taken the life of another. Even soldiers, though they, wesuppose, kill men, do it in a machine-like way. The killing isimpersonal. The soldier handles the machine and it is the machine thatkills. The individual soldier does not know whether he kills or not. That is why we are able to make much of the soldier, perhaps, I havethought since, though it never appeared to me in that light before I metRounds. Actually, we are repelled at the thought of a man who killsanother deliberately. If it were not so, as Rounds pointed out, we wouldmake a hero of the public executioner. He should be as heroic a figureas a general. But as I tell you, at the moment, when Rounds said, "whenI killed him, " I was shocked. I had never before realized how violencewas a thing apart from my life. I had looked at the representation ofmurder on the stage. I had read novels with murder as the mainspring. Ihad seen shootings and stabbings in moving pictures. Yet, not until thatmoment had I any suspicion that violence was so rare a thing and thatmost of our lives are far, far removed from it. Actually, I have neverstruck a man, nor has any man ever lifted his hand against me in anger. 

It was, therefore, a startling thing to hear Rounds confess to havingkilled a fellow man. It was awesome. And yet, let me say, that at once Iwas possessed of a great desire to learn all about it, and down in myheart I feared that he would decide he had said something that he shouldnot have said, and would either deny his statement or modify it in someway. I wanted to hear all the details. I was hugely interested. Was itmorbidity? Then I came to myself after what was a shock, and awoke tothe fact that he was talking in his quiet, even way. 

"But those Tlingas held the belief, and that was all there was to it, "he was saying. 

I came to attention and said, "Of course. It is natural, " for I fearedto have him know that I was inattentive even for that short space, andwaited for elucidations. 

"It seems, " he went on, "that the tribe was dying out. Helm, who firsttold me something of it at Buenaventura, was one of those scientists whohave to invent a new theory for every new thing they were told of. Hesaid it was either because of eating too much meat, or not enough. Iforget which. There had been a falling off in the birth rate. TheTocalinian who had lived with them, and who joined us at the headwatersof the Codajaz, maintained that there had been too much inbreeding. Sothere was some arrangement by means of which they invited immigrants, asit were. Men from other neighboring tribes were encouraged to join theTlingas. And they did. The Tlingas had a fat land and welcomed theimmigrants. The immigrants on their part expected to have an easy time. "

"That would make for racial improvement, " I hazarded. 

"Why?" he asked. 

"The best from other lands would tend to improve their race. That was myidea when I spoke, " I said. 

He laughed quietly. "Something of the same idea that you foster here, "he said. "I've laughed at that many's the time. America is this, thatand the other; its people are inventive, intelligent, original, free, independent and all the rest of it because it is a result of the bestblood of other lands. Eh? Lord, man, how you fool yourself! Can't yousee that you would have a far better case if you deplored the fact thatwe are a result of the worse? All the fugitives, the poor, theill-educated, the unfortunate, the ne'er-do-wells have been swarminghere from Europe for two centuries. Can't you see that no man who couldfight successfully against odds in his own country would emigrate? Can'tyou see that? If you said that we are a people that will allow anyactive minority to put anything over on us, because we are the result ofgenerations of poor-spirited fugitives who couldn't fight for theirpersonal freedom, you would be nearer the mark. "

His argument of course was absurd, and at the moment I had no answerready, though since I have thought of the thing I should have said. AsRounds talked, he grew quieter in his tone. He moved from his place onthe window sill and sat on the corner of my desk. I had forgotten myuneasiness at being in the presence of one who had taken his fellow'slife. He went on:

"When there's a falling birth rate, things change. There are manners andcustoms evolved that would seem strange to you. There come laws andreligions, all made to match current requirements. Celibacy andsterility become a crime. Virginity becomes a disgrace, a something tobe ridiculed. "

"It seems impossible, " I said. 

"No, " he said. "You have that in part. You ridicule what you call oldmaids, don't you?"

Again I was too slow with my reply. If I ever meet him again, I shallshow him the fallacy of many of his arguments. 

"Men with most children had the most to say. The childless werepenalized, were punished. The sterile were put to death. There grew up areligion and a priesthood, ceremonials, sacrifices and rituals. And theyhad their god, in the shape of this lizard thing. Of course, like mostother gods, it was more of a malevolent creature than anything else. Gods generally are if you will consider a little. I don't care whatcreed or religion gets the upper hand, it's Fear that becomes the power. Look around and see if I'm not right. 

"Well, Somerfield and I walked into that kind of thing. Now like me, hehad worked for the Exploration Company a good few years and had been toall kinds of places prospecting. Torres Straits, the Gold Coast, Madagascar, Patagonia. We prospectors have to get around in queercorners and the life's a dull one. All monotony. But Somerfield hadqueer notions. He worked at the job because he could make more moneythan at anything else and that gave him a chance to keep his family inOhio in comfort. He was mighty fond of his family. Besides, the job gavehim more time with the wife and kids than the average man gets. When hewas at home, he was at home three months on end at times. That's betterthan the ordinary man. A man in a city, for example, leaves home earlyand gets home late, and then he's too grouchy what with the close airand one thing and another to find the children anything but an infernalnuisance. Now a man away from his home for a long spell on end reallyenjoys the company when he does get home, and they enjoy his company, too. Then, too, he does not get to messing into the affairs of thefamily. He's not the Lord Almighty and Supreme Court Judge all the time. Besides that, the wife and children get a kind of independence. 

"Now this being so, Somerfield was what he was. He had ideas aboutreligion. He was full of the notion that things are arranged so that ifyou live up to a certain code, you'll get a reward. 'Do right, andyou'll come out right, ' was one of his sayings. 'The wages of sin isdeath, ' was another. Point out to him that virtue got paid in the samecoin, and he'd argue. No use. In a way he was like a man who wouldn'twalk under a ladder or spill salt. You know. 

"Naturally, for him things were awkward at the Tlinga village. We stayedthere quite a while, I should say. He lived in his own shack, cookingfor himself and all that. He was full of ideas of duty to his wife andso on. I fell in with the local customs and took up with a sweetheart, and handled things so well that there was one of their ceremonialspretty soon in which I was central figure. Ista, it seems, made a publicannouncement. That would be natural enough with a tribe so concernedabout the family birth rate. But it made me sorter mad to hear thenatives everlastingly accusing Somerfield of being an undesirable. Butthey never let up trying to educate him and make him a Tlinga citizen. They were patient and persistent enough. On the other hand, I was lookedon as a model young man, and received into the best society. 

"About the time we were ready to strike west, Ista, that was my girl, told me that there would have to be a new ceremonial. She took my goingin good part, for there was nothing more I could do. They were sensibleenough to know that man was only an instrument in the great game as theyunderstood it. Ista had led me out to a quiet place to put me next. Iremember that vividly because of a little thing that happened thatdoesn't mean anything. I often wonder why resultless things sometimesstick in the mind. We were sitting at the base of a tall tree and therewas a certain bush close by with bright red berries when they wereunripe. They look good to eat. But when they ripened, they grew fat andjuicy, the size of a grape, and of a liverish color. I thought that oneof them had fallen on my left forearm and went to flick it off. Insteadof being that, the thing burst into a blood splotch as soon as I hit it. That was the first time I had been bitten by one of those bugs. They areabout the size of a sheep tick when empty, but they get on you and suckand suck, till they are full of your blood and size of a grape. Queerthings, but ugly. Ista laughed as you would laugh if you saw a niggerafraid of a harmless snake. It's queer that it should be considered ajoke when one fears something that another does not. 

"But that has nothing to do with the story. What has, is that Istawanted to tell me about the ceremonial. She did not believe in it atall. Privately, she was a kind of atheist among her people, but kept heropinions to herself. You must not think that because you see, hear orread of savage rites, that all the savages believe in those things. Nosir. There is as much disbelief amongst them as with us. Perhaps more. They think things out. I might say that in a way they think more thanthe average civilized man. You see, a civilized child thinks for itselfup until it is six or seven or so, and then the schools get hold of it, and from then on, it's tradition and believing what it's told tobelieve. That goes on through school life. Then at work, the man whowould dare to vary on his own account is not wanted. So independentthought is not possible there. Work finished, it's the evening paper andeditorial opinions. So really, man does not get much of a chance tothink straight at any time. I guess if he did, the whole scheme wouldfall to pieces. That's why I say civilized man does not only not think, but perhaps can't think. His brains are not trained to it. Give theaverage man something with real, straight, original, first-hand thoughtin it, and he's simply unable to tackle it. His brain has not beencultivated. He wilts mentally. It's like putting the work of a man on aboy. Catch what I mean? Now a savage gets more of a chance. It was thatway with Ista. She had thought out things for herself and had her ownbeliefs, but they were not the beliefs the Tlingas were supposed tohold. But after all she did not tell me much besides her own disbeliefs. When you think of it, no one can tell another much. What you know youhave to discover alone. All she told me was what was going to be done, and that was about as disappointing as the information you might getabout what would take place in initiation in a secret society. Some waslost in transmission. 

"Well, at last the ceremonial started up with a great banging of drumsand all that. It was a great scene, let me tell you, with the tumbledvegetation, glaringly colored as if a scene painter had gone crazy. There were the flashing birds--blood-colored and orange scarlet andyellow, gold and green. Butterflies, too, --great gaudy things thatlooked like moving flowers. And the noise and chatterings and whistlingsin the trees of birds and insects. There were flowers and fruits, andeatings and speech-makings. As far as I could gather, the chief speakerswere congratulating the hearers upon their luck in belonging to theTlingas, which was the greatest tribe on earth and the favorite of Naol, the lizard god. We capered round the tribal pole, I capering with therest of them of course. Somerfield took a picture of it. Then there wasa procession of prospective mothers with Ista among them. Rotten, Ithought it. Don't imagine female beauty, by the way, as some of thewriters on savage life would have you imagine it. Nothing of the kind. White, black or yellow, I never saw a stark woman that looked beautifulyet. That's all bunk. Muscular and strong, yes. That's a kind of beautyin its way. True as God, I believe that one of the causes of unhappymarriages among white folk is that the lads are fed upon false notionsabout womanly beauty, and when they get the reality they think thatthey've captured a lemon. 

"Presently the crowd quieted down and the men were set around in asemicircle with me and Somerfield at the end. Then a red-eyed old hagtottered out and began cursing Somerfield. She spat in his face andcalled him all outrageous names that came to her vindictive tongue. Luckily it was that he had been put next, and so, forewarned, was ableto grin and bear it. But Lord, how she did tongue-lash him. Then shetook a flat piece of wood, shaped like a laurel leaf, which was fastenedto a thin strip of hide, and showed him that. It was a kind of charm, and on it was cut one of the running lizards. She wanted him to rub iton his forehead. Of course with his notions of religion he wouldn't doit. That's natural. When she passed it to me, I did what she wanteddone. I never was particular that way. Symbols mean nothing anyway andif fools are in the majority, it's no use stirring up trouble. It'splaying a lie of course, but then that's the part of wisdom it seems tome, sometimes. It's in a line with protective coloring. You rememberwhat I said about the proper mounting of your specimens don't you? Well, it's like that. That's why persecutions have never stamped out opinionsnor prohibitions appetites. The wisest keep their counsel and go on asusual. The martyrs are the weak fools. But let's see. Where was I? Oh, yes. The old woman and the piece of wood. 

"She began running from this one to that, kind of working herself upinto a frenzy. Then she started to chant some old nonsense. There was arhythm to it. She sang:

 'Nao calls for the useless. '

"Then the rest of them would shout

 'Nao calls. Nao calls. '

"There was a terrible lot of it. The main purport was that this Nao wasthe ruling devil or god of the place. It called for the sacrifice of theuseless. Many men were needed so that the one should be born who wouldlead the Tlingas to victory. That was the tone of it, and at the end ofevery line she sang, the crowd joined in with the refrain. 

 'Nao calls. Nao calls. '

"Of course they became worked up. She handled them pretty much the sameas a skillful speaker does things at a political meeting or anevangelist at a revival. The same spirit was there. Instead of a flag, there was the tribal pole. There was the old gag of their nation ortribe being the chosen one. I don't care where you go, there is alwaysthe same thing. Every tribe and nation is cock-sure that theirs is thebest. They have the bravest and the wisest men and the best women. But Ikept nudging Somerfield. It was hard on him. He was the Judas and thetraitor and all that. 'Damn-fool superstition, ' he muttered to me timeand again. But of course he was a bit nervous, and so was I. Being inthe minority is awkward. The human brain simply isn't strong enough toencounter organized opposition. It wears. You spend too much energybeing on the defensive. 

"After a time, when the song was done, the old hag seemed pretty wellplayed out. Then she passed the piece of wood I told you of to a bigbuck, and he started to whirling it round and round. He was a skillfulchap at the trick, and in a little had it whirling and screaming. Thenpresently some of the birds fell to noise making just as you will hearcanaries sing when some one whistles, or women talk when a pianocommences to play. I saw something of the same down in Torres Straits. They call it the Twanyirika there. In the Malay Peninsula they usesomething of the kind to scare the elephants out of the plantations. They've got it on the Gold Coast as well. It's called the Oro there. Really it's all over the world. I've seen Scotch herd boys use somethinglike it to scare the cattle, and Mexican sheep herders in Texas to makethe sheep run together when they scatter too far. Of course there'sreally nothing to be scared of, but when it comes near you, you feelinclined to duck. To me, it was the feeling that the flat piece of woodwould fly off and hit me. You always duck when you hear a whizzing. Still, the priests or medicine men trade on the head-ducking tendency. So, somehow, in the course of time, it gets so that those that listenhave to bow down. Oh, yes! You say it's ridiculous and fanciful and allthat sort of thing. I know. I have heard others say the same. It's onlya noise and nothing to be scared of. But then, when you come to think ofit, most men are scared of noise. They're like animals in that respect. What is a curse but a noise? Yet most men are secretly afraid ofcurses. They're uneasy under them. Yet they know it's only noise. Thenlook at thunderings from the pulpit. Look at excommunications. Look atdenunciations. All noises to be sure. But there's the threat of forcebehind some of them. The blow may come and again it may not. 

"As I said, every one bowed down and of course so did I, on generalprinciples. Somerfield didn't and the old buck whirled that bull-roarerover him ever so long, and the red-eyed hag cursed and spat at him, buthe never budged. That sort of conduct is damned foolishness according tomy notion. But then, you see, in a kind of a way he was backing hisprejudices against theirs and prejudices are pretty solid things whenyou consider. Still, he took a hell of a chance. 

"On the trail next day, for we left the following morning, I argued withhim about that, but he couldn't be budged. He said he stood for truthand all that kind of thing. I put it to him that he would expect anyforeigner to conform to his national customs. He'd expect a Turk to giveup his polygamy, I said, no matter what heart-breakings it cost some ofthe family. But he had a kink in his thinking, holding that his peoplehad the whole, solid, unchanging truth. Of course, the argument camedown with a crash then, for it worked around to a question of what istruth. There you are. There was the limit. So we quit. As I tell you, the human brain is not constituted to do much thinking. It's beencrippled by lack of use. We are mentally stunted in growth. I rememberthat I began to say something about the possibility of there beingseveral gods, meaning that some time or other men with imagination haddefied some natural thing, but it came to me that I was talkingnonsense, so I quit. Yet I know right well that many tribes have madegods of things of which they were afraid. But it's small profit totheorize. 

"It was near sundown when we came to that building shown in thatphotograph. The vegetation was so thick thereabouts that the temple, forI suppose it was that, appeared before us suddenly. One moment we werecrawling like insects between the trunks of great jungle trees that shotupwards seventy feet or more without a branch, as if they were racingfor dear life skyward, and then everything fell away and there was theold building. It startled the both of us. We got the sensation that youget when you see a really good play. You forget your bodily presence andyou are only a bundle of nerves. You walk or sit or stand, but withoutany effort or knowledge that you are doing it. We had been talking, andthe sight of that building, so unexpected, startled us into silence. Itwould any one. Believe me, your imperturbable man with perfect, cool, self-possession does not exist. Man's a jumpy thing, given to nerves. You may deny it and talk about the unexcitability of the Americancitizen and all that bunk, but let me tell you that your journalists andmoving picture producers and preachers and politicians have caught on tothe fact that man is jumpy, and they trade on their discovery, believeme. They've got man on the hop every which way and keep him going. 

"There had been a gateway there once, but for some reason or other ithad become blocked with a rank vegetation. The old gap was chocked fullwith a thorny, flower-bearing bush so thick that a cat could not havepassed through. Somerfield switched on one of his theories as soon as hegot over his first surprise. Worshipers, he held, had brought flowersthere and the seeds that had dropped had sprouted. It looked reasonable. 

"Above the lintel was carved one of those running lizards. That younoticed early. You can't see that in the picture because we took thatfrom the edge of a broken wall. You see, all the walls stood except thatto the left of this doorway and that had partly fallen and what was leftwas chin high. We saw at a glance that the people who had built thattemple were handy with tools. The stones of the wall were quite big--twofeet or more square, and fitted closely. There was no mortar to holdthem but the ends had been made with alternate grooves and projectionsthat fitted well. The stone was a kind of red sandstone. But I told youthat before. 

"When we looked over the broken wall and saw that stone lizard, we hadanother shock. I don't care how you school yourself, there's a scare inevery man. That's what annoys me, to see men posing and lettingthemselves be written up and speechified over as fearless. FearlessGeneral this and Admiral that. Our fearless boys in the trenches. Itsickens me. Why the whole race has been fed up on fear for ages. Fearlessness is impossible. Hell-fire, boogermen, devils, witches, thewrath of God--it's all been fear. Things that we know nothing of andhave no proof of have been added to things that we do know of that willhurt, and, on top of that there has been the everlasting 'cuidado' lestyou say a word that will run foul of current opinion--so what wonderthat man is scary? It's a wonder that he's sane. 

"After we took that picture we debated for the first time where weshould camp that night. A new scare possessed us. In the end, we decidedto camp inside the temple because of the greater security afforded bythe walls. The truth is that some half fear of a giant lizard had gottenhold of us. So, as it was the lizard that scared us, we decided to stayin the lizard temple. Man's built that way. He likes to keep close tothe thing that he fears. I heard a man who was a banker once say that healways mistrusted the man who would not take a vacation. As I take it, his idea was that the man who knew some danger was nigh, wanted to bearound where he could catch the first intimation of a crash. But then, too, besides that, there is a sense of comfort in being within walls, especially with a floor paved as this one was. Besides, it was a changefrom the trees with their wild-tangled vines and their snake-likelianas. So we decided on the temple. 

"That night I was a long time getting to sleep. The memory of the oldhag and the bull-roarer was in my mind. I kept thinking of Ista, too. Itwas a warmer night than usual, and, after the moon dropped, pitchy dark. I slept stripped as I generally do, with a light blanket across my legsso that I could find it if needed without waking up. 

"I awoke presently, feeling something run lightly and swiftly across myface. I thought it was a spider. It seemed to run in a zig-zag. Thenfeeling nothing more I set it down to fancy and dropped off to sleepagain, face turned towards that idol. Later, I felt the same kind ofthing run across my neck. I knew it was no fancy then, and my scarevanished because here was something to do. So I waited with my righthand poised to grab. I waited a long time, too, but I have lots ofpatience. Presently it ran down my body starting at my left shoulder andI brought down my hand at a venture, claw fashion, and caught the thingon the blanket. I felt the blanket raise and then fall again, just alittle, of course, as I lifted my hand with the thing in it, and by thatknew that it had claws. Yet bet I held tight. It seemed to be hard andsmooth. It was a wiry, wriggling thing, somewhat like a lizard. But itwas much more vigorous than any lizard. I tried to crush it, but couldnot. As to thickness, it seemed to be about the diameter of one of thoselead pencils. It was like this I had it. "

Rounds picked up a couple of lead pencils from the desk and took my handin his. He told me to close my fist and then placed one pencillengthwise so that an end of it was between my first and second fingerand the rubber-tipped end lay across my wrist. The other pencil hethrust crosswise so that the pointed end stuck out between the secondand third finger and the blunt end between the index finger and thumb. 

"There you have it, " he said. "That's how I held the little devil. Nowgrip hard and try to crush the pencils and you'll have something of thesame sensation as I had. Holding it thus, I could feel its head jerkingthis way and that, violently, and its tail, long and lithe, lashing atmy wrist. The little claws were trying to tear, but they were evidentlysoftish. I could hear, or thought I could, the snap of its little jaws. It was about the nastiest sensation that I ever experienced. I don'tknow why I thought that it was venomous, but I did. I tried to smash thething in my hand--tried again and again, and I have a good grip--butmight just as well have tried to crush a piece of wire. There was nogive to it. It tried to wriggle backwards but I had it under its jaws. So there we were: it wriggling, writhing and lashing and me laying thereholding it at arms length. I felt the sweat start on me and the hair atthe nap of my neck raise up, and I did some quick and complicatedthinking. Of course, I dared not throw it away, but I got to my feet andas I did so, tried to bend its head backwards against the stone floor. But the head slipped sideways. I called on Somerfield for a light then, and he struck one hurriedly and it went out immediately. All that I sawwas that the thing was white and had a triangular shaped head. 

"Somehow I ran against Somerfield before he got another match struck andhe swore at me, saying that I had cut him. I knew that I had touched himwith my outstretched hand that held the beast. I drew back my hand alittle and remembered afterwards that I then felt a slight, elasticresistance as if the thing that I held had caught on to something, as ithad before to my blanket. Afterwards I found that the thing had gottenSomerfield's neck. As he struck another match, I saw the low place inthe wall and flung the thing away with a quick jerk. You know the kindof a motion you'd make getting rid of some unseen noxious thing likethat. That's how I never really saw the beast and can only conjecturewhat it was like from the feel of it. 

"On Somerfield's neck, just below the angle of the jaw, was a clean-cutlittle oval place about half an inch in length. It did not bleed much, but it seemed to pain him a lot. He maintained that the thing was somekind of rodent. Anyway we put a little chewed tobacco on the place and, after awhile, tried to sleep again. We didn't do much good at it, neither of us. He was tossing and grumbling like a man with thetoothache. 

"Next morning the bitten place had swollen up to the size of an appleand was a greenish yellow color. He was feeling sick and a bit feverish, so I made him comfortable after looking around to see whether there wasanything to harm him in the courtyard, and went to hunt water. Iremember that I gave the head of the idol a kick with the flat of myfoot for spite, as I passed it. Like a kid, that was, wasn't it? Now Iwas running back and forth all the morning with the canteen, for hedrank a terrible quantity. His eyes grew bright, too, and his skinflushed. Towards noon, he began to talk wild, imagining that he was athome. Then I judged it best to let him stay there in the temple wherehe was, so to speak, corraled. Coming back shortly after from onewater-hunting trip, I heard singing, and, looking over the wall, saw himsitting on the slab in front of the idol. He must have fancied that hehad his kids before him for he was beating time with his hands andsnapping his fingers and thumbs and singing:

 'London bridge is fallen down, Fallen down, fallen down. '

"It was rotten to hear that out there, but I was halfway glad to see himthat way, knowing that he wasn't miserable. After a little, he quitbabbling and took more water; emptied the canteen, in fact, so back Ihad to start for more. 

"Returning, I found things changed. He was going around, crouched like ahunting Indian, peering here and there, behind the idol then across tothe head as if seeking some one. He had the _facon_ in his hand. 'Roundsstabbed me, ' he was saying. 'It was Rounds, damn him, that killed me. 'Over and over again he said that. He was talking to invisible people, creatures of his mad brain. One would have thought, if one had not seen, that the temple court was crowded with spectators. Then he rose to hisfeet and, with the knife held close to his breast, began walking roundand round as if seeking an outlet. He passed me once, he on one side ofthe wall and I on the other, and he looked me square in the eye, butnever saw me. So round and round he went with long strides, knees bentand heels never touching the ground. He eyes were fixed and staring andhis teeth clenched. Now and then he made long, slashing stabs in the airwith the _facon_. 

"Suddenly he saw me, and there was a change. The blood lust was in hiseyes. He was standing on the slab in front of the idol, then made agreat leap and started for the broken wall where I was. I saw then thatthe lump on his neck had swollen to the size of a big goitre. His wholebody was a-quiver. There was an animal-like celerity in his movementsthat made me shudder. Then I knew that I dared not let him get on thesame side of the wall as me. But he leaped at the gap from a distancethat I would have thought no human could compass, and hung on to thewall with one arm over. He snarled like an animal. Then I smashed himover the head with the canteen, gripping the strap with my right hand. He fell back with the force of the blow, but immediately came at the gapagain, then changed his mind and went to tearing around the chamber withgreat leaps. He was a panther newly caged. He sprang on to the head ofthe idol and from that to the pedestal, and then to the slab in front ofit. Then he went across and across the floor, sometimes screaming andyelling, and then again moaning and groaning. One side of his face wasall bloody where I had smashed it with the canteen. Seeing him so, athing not human, but with all the furtive quickness of an animal and itsstrength, too, I felt sorry no more. I hated him with a wild hate. Hewas dangerous to me and I had to conquer him. That's fundamental. So Istood, gripping the strap of the canteen, watching, waiting. He came atme again, striding and leaping. That time he got one leg over with bothhands gripping the top stones. The _facon_ he dropped on my side of thewall, but I had no time to stoop for it just then. There were otherthings to do. He was getting over. It took some frantic beating with thecanteen and he seemed to recover from the blows quicker than I could getthe swing to strike again. But I beat him down at last, though I sawthat he had lots more life in him than I, with that devil of madnessfilling him. So, when I saw him stumble, then recover and begin thatrunning again, I picked up the knife and leaped over the wall to settlethe matter once and for all. It was an ugly thing to do, but it had tobe done and done quickly. At the root of things it's life against life. "

Rounds ceased and fell to filling his pipe. I waited for him torecommence, but he made as if to leave, but paused a moment at my deskto pick up and examine a piece of malachite. I felt it incumbent upon meto say something to relieve the tension that I felt. 

"I understand, " said I. "It was a horrible necessity. It is a terriblething to have to kill a fellow creature. "

"That wasn't a fellow creature, " he said. "What I killed was not thepartner I knew. Don't you understand?"

"Yes, I understand, " I replied. Then I asked, "Did you bury him?"

"Bury him? What for? How?" Rounds seemed indignant. "How could I buryhim in a stone-paved court? How could I lift a dead man over a wall chinhigh?"

"Of course. Of course, " I said. "I had forgotten that. But to us wholead quiet lives, it seems terrible to leave a dead man unburied. "

"Do you feel that way about that mummy you have out there?" he asked, indicating the museum with his thumb. "If not, why not? But if you wantthe story to the bitter end, I dragged him to the only clean spot in theplace, which was that slab in front of the idol. There I left him, orit. But things take odd turns. By the time I got back to the Tlingavillage, they knew all about it and the priests used the affair to theirown advantage. Mine was incidental. Yet I did reap some benefit. According to the priests, I had accepted the whole blessed lizardtheory, or religion or whatever it was, and had sacrificed theunbeliever to the lizard god. Ista helped things along, I suspect, forwith me as a former mate, there was some fame for her. Anyway, they metand hailed me as a hero and brought tribute to me. Gold dust. I wantedthem to quit their damned foolishness and tried to explain, but it wasno use. You can't teach a mob to have sense. Well, adios. But rememberthis: Don't be too cocksure. "

UNDER THE DOME[8]

By WALDO FRANK

(From _the Dial_)

They were two figures under the grey of the Dome--two straight faintfigures of black; they were a man and woman with heads bowed, straight--under the surge of the Dome. 

I

Friday night, when always he broke away in order to pray in the _Schul_, and when she sat in the shop and had to speak with the customers whocame, these praying hours of Friday night. _Shabbas_ morning at least hedid not go also. --My heart tells me it is wrong. Lord, forgive me forEsther and for my little girl. Lord, you know it is for them I do not goto _Schul_ on _Shabbas_ morning. --But by God, you will keep the storethose two hours Friday! Do you hear? By God, what else have I ever askedyou for? Don't you sit around, do nothing all the day, and aren'tFlora's clothes a filth? and hardly if you'll cook our meals. But thisyou will do: this you will do! Friday nights. Lord, why is there nolight in Esther? What have I done, Lord? what have I not done?

She sat in a chair, always, near the side wall: her eyes lay burningagainst the cold glare of the gas. 

Above her shoulder on the wall was a large sheet of fashions: women withwasp waists, smirking, rolling: stiff men, all clothes, with littleheads. Under the table--where Meyer sits with his big feet so much tolook at--Flora played, a soiled bundle, with a ball of yarn and a hugegleaming scizzors. --No one perhaps comes, and then I do not mind sittingand keeping the store. I saw a dead horse in the street. --A dead horse, two days dead, rotting and stiff. Against the grey of the living street, a livid dead horse: a hot stink was his cold death against the street'sclean-ness. There are two little boys, wrapped in blue coat, bluemuffler, leather caps. They stand above the gaunt head of the horse andsneer at him. His flank rises red and huge. His legs are four strokesaway from life. He is dead. The naughty boys pick up bricks. They stand, very close, above the head of the horse. They hurl down a brick. Itstrikes the horse's skull, falls sharp away. They hurl down a brick. Itcuts the swollen nostril, falls soft away. The horse does not mind, thehorse does not hurt. He is dead. 

--Go away, you two! Throwing stones at a dead horse! Go away, I say! Howwould you like--When one is dead, stones strike one's skull and fallsharp away, one is moveless. When one is dead, stones strike the soft ofone's throat and fall soft away, one is hurtless. When one is dead onedoes not hurt. 

She sat and turned her eyes away from her child. Flora had smear on herface; her hands were grimed with the floor. One of her stockings wasdown: her little white knee was going to scrape on the floor, be blackbefore it was bloody. So--A long shining table under a cold gas spurt. Astore with clothes and a stove: no place for herself. A row of suits, all pressed and stiff with Meyer's diligence. A pile of suits, writhedwith the wear of men, soiled, crumpled with traffic of streets, withbending of bodies in toil, in eating, in loving perhaps. Grimed livingsuits. Meyer takes an iron and it steams and it presses hard, it sucksup the grime. It sucks out the life from the suit. The suit is stiff anddead, now, ready to go once more over the body of a man and suck toitself his life. 

The automatic bell clangs. There in the open door was a dark tallwoman--customer. 

Esther stood, too. She felt she was shorter and less tidy: morebeautiful though. 

Two women across the tailor-shop, seeing each other. 

"I came for my husband's--for Mr. Breddan's dress suit. Mr. Lanich toldhim it would be ready at seven?"

Esther Lanich moved, Sophie Breddan stood. Between slow dark curve, swift dark stroke of these two women, under a tailor's table the burn ofa dirty child, mumbling intent with scizzors between her soiled fraillegs, at play with loose hair. 

"Is this the one?"

The curve and the stroke came near across the table. 

"Yes. "

Eyes met. --She is tidy and fresh, less beautiful, though, than I. Shehas no child. She has a flat with Sun and a swell husband who wears aswallow-tail and takes her out to parties. She has a diamond ring, hercorsets are sweet. She has things to put into her time like candies intoher mouth, like loved kisses into my mouth. She is all new with hersmooth skin going below the collar of her suit. 

--She has a child, and she lets her play dirty with scizzors under atailor table. "How much is it?"--After a decent bedtime. 

--Does she think I care about this? "Oh, no hurry. Better come in andpay my--Mr. Lanich. Any time. "

The clang of the bell. 

Esther is seated. Her grey tilted eyes seem sudden to stand upon thefarther wall of her husband's shop, and to look upon her. Her eyes speaksoft warm words that touch her hair, touch her lips, lie like caressingfingers upon the soft cloth that lies upon her breast. 

--Less beautiful than I, though. My flesh is soft and sweat, it is thecolour of cream. What for? My hair is like an autumn tree gleaming withsun. I can let it fall through the high channel of my breast against mystomach that does not bulge but lies soft and low like a cushion ofsilk. What for? My eyes see beauty. What for? O there is no God. Ifthere is God, what for?--He will come back and work. He will eat andwork. He is kind and good. What for? When he is excited with love, doesn't he make an ugly noise with his nose? What else does he make withhis love?--Another like Flora? God forbid. What for?

She did not pull down the wide yellow shade, though it was night. Thestreet was a ribbon of velvet blackness laid beside the hurting andsharp brightness of the store. The yellow light was hard like grains ofsand under the quick of her nails. She was afraid of the street. She washurt in the store. But the brightness clamped her. She did not move. --Olet no more customers come! "Keep quiet, Flora. " I can not move. --Shewas clamped. 

But the store moved, moved. 

There was a black wheel with a gleaming axle--the Sun--that sent lightdimming down its spokes as it spun. From the rim of the wheel where itwas black, bright dust flung away as it spun. The store was a speck ofbright dust. It flung straight. It moved along the velvet path of thestreet, touching, not merging with its night. It moved, it moved, shesat still in its moving. The store caught up with Meyer. He entered thestore. He was there. He was there, scooped up from the path of thestreet by the store. Now her work was over. He was there. The store wasa still store, fixed in a dirty house. Its brightness the spurt of twojets of gas. He was back from _Schul_. --That is all. 

A man with blond hair, flat feet that shuffled, small tender hands. Aman with a mouth gentle, slow; with eyes timid to see. "Come dear: thatis no place. "--Why she lets the child play with my shears!

Tender hands pull Flora from beneath the table. Flora comes blinking, unprotesting. Where her father's hands leave off from her, she stays. She sinks back to the floor. She looks at her little fists from whichthe scizzors are gone. She misses hard gleaming steel. She opens andshuts her fists and looks at them: she cries. But she does notmove. --Her mother does not move. --Her father does not move. He squats onthe table. His head sways with his thoughts. He knows that Flora willstop--what can he do?--in perhaps half an hour. It is a weak cry. Growsweaker. He is used to it. There is work. 

He sews. 'A woman of valour who can find? For her price is far aboverubies'--She will stay here, stay here silent. Flora should be in bed. Who to put his child in bed? Hard gas-light on her beloved hair? Awither, a wilt--'She is like the merchant ships; she bringeth her foodfrom afar'--He sews and rips. --What, Lord, have I left undone? I love myEsther. --He sews. --I love my little girl. Lord, I fear the Lord--'Shelooketh well to the ways of the household, and eateth not the bread ofidleness. '--Lighten me, Lord, give me light. There is my daughtercrying, who should sleep: and my wife sitting, who will not, who willnever without me go home. She is afraid. She says she is afraid. She issullen and silent. She is so fair and sweet against my heart. Lord! whydid her hands that held my head speak a lie? and her silent lips thatshe let press upon my mouth, why were they lies? Lord, I cannotunderstand. Lord, I pray. I must sew bread for Esther and for my child. I go to _Schul_ at least once each _Shabbas_, Lord--Do I not fill thedeep ten Penitential Days from _Rosh Ha Shonoh_ to _Yom Ha Kippurim_with seeking out of heart?--He sews, he rips. The weeping of his childis done. Long stitches, here. She has found a chair's leg to play with. Her moist fingers clasp at the shrill wood. The wooden chair and hersoft flesh wrestle. Esther sits still. He sews. 

 'Her children arise, and call her blessed; Her husband also, and he praiseth her; --Many daughters have done valiantly, But thou excellest them all. -- Grace is deceitful and beauty is vain; But a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised. Give her of the fruit of her hands; And let her works praise her in the gates. '

II

In the door and the clang again of the bell, a boy with them. A boy theyknew--son of their neighbours--big for his years and heavy, with fatlips, eyes clouded, hair black and low over his clouded eyes. Estheralone saw, as he lurched in, one foot dragging always slightly. 

He went for little Flora with no greeting for them: familiarly as heknew he would find her, had come so, often. --He loves her. The man whosquats on the table and sews smiles on the boy who loves and plays withhis child. 

"Hello, kid, " voice of a thick throat, "look--what I got for you here. "

Flora lets the chair of her late love lurch against her back, strike herforward. She does not care. She watches two hands--grey-caked overred--unwrap from paper a dazzle of colours, place it to her eyes on thefloor, pull with a string: it has little wheels, it moves!

"Quackle-duck, " he announces. 

Flora spreads out her hands, sinks on her rump, feels its green headthat bobs with purple bill, feels its yellow tail. 

"Quackle-duck--yours, " says the boy. 

She takes the string from his hand. With shoulder and stomach she swingsher arm backward and pulls. The duck spurts, bobbing its green long headagainst her leg. 

She plays. The boy on his knees with soiled thick drawers showingbetween his stockings and his pants plays with her. --

Meyer Lanich did not cease from work, nor his woman from silence. Hisface was warm in pleasure, watching his child who had a toy and aplaymate. --I am all warm and full of love for Herbert Rabinowich:perhaps some day I can show him, or do something for his father. Nowthere was no way but to go on working, and smile so the pins in hismouth did not prick. 

The eyes of Esther drew a line from these two children back to the birthof the one that was hers. She dwelt in a world about the bright smallroom like the night: in a world that roared and wailed, that reeled withdespair of her hope. 

She had borne this dirty child all clean beneath her heart. Her bellywas sweet and white, it had borne her: her breasts were high and proud, they had emptied, they had come to sag for this dirty child on thefloor--face and red lips on a floor that any shoes might step. 

Had she not borne a Glory through the world, bearing this stir ofperfect flesh? Had she not borne a song through the harsh city? Had shenot borne another mite of pain, another fleck of dirt upon the city'sshame-heaps?

She lies in her bed burned in sweet pain. Pain wrings her body, wringsher soul like the word of the Lord within lips of Deborah. Her bed withwhite sheets, her bed with its pool of blood is an altar where she laysforth her Glory which she has walking carried like a song through theharsh city. --What have I mothered but dirt?--

A transfigured world she knows she will soon see. Yes: it is a flat oflittle light--and the bugs seep in from the other flats no matter howone cleans--it is a man of small grace, it is a world of few windows. But her child will be borne to smite life open wide. Her child shallleap above its father and its mother as the sun above forlornfields. --She arose from her bed. She held her child in her arms. Shewalked through the reeling block with feet aflame. She entered theshop. --There--squatting with feet so wide to see--her man: his needlepressed by the selfsame finger. The world was not changed for her child. Behold her child changing--let her sit for ever upon her seat oftears--let her lay like fire to her breast this endless vision of herchild changing unto the world. --

 --I have no voice, I have no eyes. I am a woman who has lain with the world. The world's voice upon my lips gave my mouth gladness. The world's arms about my flanks gave my flesh glory. I was big with gladness and glory. Joyful I lost in love of my vision my eyes, in love of my song my voice. I have borne another misery into the world. --

Meyer Lanich moves, putting away the trousers he has patched. --O Lord, why must I sew so many hours in order to reap my pain? Why must I workso long, heap the hard wither of so many hours upon my child who can notsleep till I do, in order that all of us may be unhappy?

 * * * * *

The clang and the door open. The mother of the boy. 

"Oh, here you are! Excuse me, friends. I was worrying overHerbert. --Well, how goes it?"

She smiled and stepped into the room: saw them all. 

"All well, Mrs. Rabinowich, " said Meyer. "We are so glad when yourHerbert comes to play with Florchen. "

Mrs. Rabinowich turns the love of her face upon the children who do notattend her. A grey long face, bitterly pock-marked, in a glow of love. 

"Look what your Herbert brought her, " Meyer sews and smiles. "A toy. Heshouldn't, now. Such a thing costs money. "

Mrs. Rabinowich puts an anxious finger to her lips. 

"Don't, " she whispers. "If he wants to, he should. It is lovely that hewants to. There's money enough for such lovely wants. --Well, darling. Won't you come home to bed?"

Herbert does not attend. 

His mother sighed--a sigh of great appeasement and of content. --This ismy son! She turned to where Esther sat with brooding eyes. Her face wasserious now, grey ever, warm with a grey sorrow. Her lips moved: theyknew not what to say. 

"How are you, Esther?"

"Oh, I am well, Mrs. Rabinowich. Thank you. " A voice resonant and deep, a voice mellowed by long keeping in the breast of a woman. 

"Why don't you come round, some time, Esther? You know, I should alwaysbe so glad to see you. "

"Thank you, Mrs. Rabinowich. "

"You know--we're just next door, " the older woman smiled. "You got time, I think. More time than I. "

"Oh, she got time all right!" The sharp words flash from the soft mouthof Meyer, who sews and seems in no way one with the sharp words of hismouth. Esther does not look. She takes the words as if like stones theyhad fallen in her lap. She smiles away. She is still. And LotteRabinowich is still, looking at her with a deep wonder, shaking herhead, unappeased in her search. 

She turns at last to her boy: relieved. 

"Come Herbert, now. Now we really got to go. "

She takes his hand that he lets limply rise. She pulls him gently. 

"Good night, dear ones. --Do come, some time, Esther--yes?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Rabinowich. "

Meyer says: "Let the boy come when he wants. We love to have him. "

His mother smiles. --Of course: who would not love to have him? Goodheart, fine boy, dear child. "It's long past bedtime. Naughty!" Shekisses him. 

Herbert, a little like a horse, swings away his heavy head. 

They are gone in the bell's jangle. 

 * * * * *

"What a good boy: what a big-hearted boy!" Meyer said aloud. "I like theboy. He will be strong and a success, you see. "

Her words, "I saw him lift the skirt of Flora and peep up, " she couldnot utter. She was silent, seeing the dull boy with the dirty mind, andhis mother and Meyer through love thinking him good. What she saw in hersilence hurt her. 

Her hurt flowed out in fear. She saw her child: a great fear came onEsther. --Flora is small and white, the world is full of men with thicklips, hairy hands, of men who will lift her skirt and kiss her, of menwho will press their hairiness against her whiteness. 

--There is a Magic, Love, whereby this shame is sweet. Where is it? Aworld of men with hair and lips against her whiteness. Where is themagic against them? Esther was very afraid. She hated her daughter. 

III

Meyer Lanich came down from his table and drew down the wide yellowshade and shut out the night. No more stray customers to enter. Heturned the key of the door. He had his back to the door, seeing his workand his child who now sat vacant upon the floor and grimed her eyes withher fists too sleepy to hunt play--seeing his wife. He sought to seethis woman who was his wife. To this end came his words, old words, oldwords he had tried often, often failed with, words that would come againsince they were the words of his seeking to find the woman his wife. 

"Esther, " he said, "it is nine o'clock and I have much work to do--acouple of hours of work. --"--I could work faster alone, it will bemidnight so with this pain for ever in my eyes. "Esther won't you gohome and put Florchen to bed?"

She looked at him with her full lovely eyes. Why since he saw themlovely could he not see them loving? He had said these words before, sooften before. She looked at him. 

"Esther, " he said, "it is bad for a baby of four to be up so late. It isbad for her to sit around on the floor under the gas--smelling the gasand the gasoline and the steam of the clothes. Can't you considerFlora?"

"I am afraid. "

"What is there to be afraid of? Can't you see? Why aren't you afraid ofwhat will happen to Flora? Eh--that don't frighten you, does it? She's ababy. If my Mother could see--"

"Meyer, I can't. Meyer, I can't. You know that I can't. "

He waved his hands. She was stiff. They came no nearer one to the other. About them each, two poles, swirled thoughts and feeling--a world thatdid not touch the other. 

He clambered back to his work. The room was hot. The gaslight burned. Against his temples it beat harsh air, harsh light, the acrid smells ofhis work--against her temples. 

Esther sat. The words of her man seeking the woman she was had not foundfor him but had stirred her. Her breast moved fast, but all else of herwas stiff. Stiff, all she moved like a thick river drawn against itsflow, drawn mounting to its head. --I cannot go home alone, to the emptyhall alone, into the black rooms alone. Against their black the flickerof a match that may go out, the dare of a gas-light that is all whiteand shrieking with its fear of the black world it is in. She could notgo home alone. --For, Esther, in your loneliness you will find your life. I am afraid of my life. 

She was caught, she was trapped. --I am miserable. Let me only notmove. --Since to move was to break against walls of a trap. Here in theheart of movelessness a little space. Let her not stir where the wallsand the roof of the black small trap will smite her!

IV

The room moves up the dimension of time. Hour and hour and hour. Bearingits freight toward sleep. Thick hot room, torn by the burr of twolights, choked by the strain of two bound souls, moving along the night. Writhing in dream. Singing. --

 --My flesh sings for silk and rich jewels; My flesh cries for the mouth of a king. My hair, why is it not a canopy of love, Why does it not cover sweet secrets of love? My hair cries to be laid upon white linen. I have brought misery into the world. -- I have lived with a small man and my dreams have shrunk him, Who in my dreams enlarged the glory of princes. He looks upon me with soft eyes, and my flesh is hard against them. He beats upon me with warm heart, and my breasts do not rise up for him. They are soft and forgetful of his beating heart. My breasts dream far when he is near to them-- They droop, they die. His hands are a tearful prayer upon my body-- I sit: there is no way between my man and my dream, There is no way between my life and life, There is no way between my love and my child. I lie: and my eyes are shut. I sleep: and they open. A world of mountains Plunges against my sleep. --

--Lord, Lord: this is my daughter before me, her cheeks that have notbloomed are wilting. Preserve her, Lord. This is my wife before me, herlove that has not lived is dead. --Time is a barren field that has noend. I see no horizon. My feet walk endlessly, I see no horizon. --I amfaithful, Lord. --

 * * * * *

The tailor-shop is black. It has moved up three hours into midnight. Itis black. 

Esther and Meyer walk the grey street. In the arms of the man sleepsFlora. His arm aches. He dares not change her to his other arm. Lest shewake. 

He has undressed her. Gentle hands of a man. He holds her little body, naked, near his eyes. Her face and her hands, her feet and her knees aresoiled. The rest of her body is white--very white--no bloom upon herbody. He kisses her black hair. 

He lays her away beneath her coverlet. 

There is his wife before him. She is straight. Her naked body rises, column of white flame, from her dun skirt. Esther--his love--she is in acase of fire. Within her breasts as within hard jewels move the liquidsof love. Within her body, as within a case, lies her soul, pent, whichshould pour forth its warmth upon them. 

He embraces her. 

"Esther. --Esther--" He can say no more. 

His lips are at her throat. Can he not break her open?

She sways back, yielding. Her eyes swerve up. They catch the cradle ofher child. 

--Another child--another agony of glory--another misery to the world?

She is stiff in the unbroken case of a vast wound all about her. 

So they lie down in bed. So they sleep. 

 * * * * *

She has cooked their breakfast. 

They walk, a man and a woman, down the steep street to work. A childbetween them, holding the hand of a man. 

They are grey, they are sullen. They are caught up in the sullen strifeof their relentless life. There is no let to them. Time is a barrenfield with no horizon. 

FRENCH EVA[9]

By KATHARINE FULLERTON GEROULD

(From _Scribner's Magazine_)

The real _dramatis personæ_ are three (for Schneider was only asign-post pointing): Follet, the remittance-man, Stires, and French Eva. Perhaps I should include Ching Po--but I hate to. I was the man with hishands in his pockets who saw the thing steadily and saw it whole--tofilch a windy phrase. I liked Stires, who had no social standing, evenon Naapu, and disliked Follet, who had all the standing there was. Follet dined with magnates; and, believe me, the magnates of Naapu werea multicolored lot. A man might have been made by copra or by pearls--orby blackbirding. We were a plutocracy; which means that so long as a manhad the house and the drinks, you asked no questions. The same ruleholds--allowing for their dizzier sense of figures--in New York andChicago. On the whole, I think we were more sensible. There is certainlymore difference between good food and bad than between five millions andfifty (which, I take it, is a figure that buys immunity over here). Idon't think any man's hospitality would have ranked him permanently onNaapu if his dinners had been uneatable. Though perhaps--to befrank--drinks counted more than food as a measuring-rod of aristocracy. 

Well, Follet trained with the people who received consignments ofchampagne and good whiskey. And Stires did not. Anyhow, Stires was atemperance man: he took only one or two drinks a day, and seldom wentbeyond a modest gin-fizz. With the remarkable native punch, compoundedsecretly and by unknown ways, but purchasable, and much esteemed by theknowing, he never would have anything to do. Stires looked like a cowboyand was, in truth, a melancholy New Englander with a corner-groceryoutlook on life, and a nasal utterance that made you think of a barrelof apples and a corn-cob pipe. He was a ship-chandler in a small--a verysmall--way. Follet lived at the ramshackle hotel, owned by the ancientDubois and managed, from roof to kitchen-midden, by Ching Po. French Evadwelt alone in a thatched cottage built upon poles, and sold eggs andchickens and fish. The poultry she raised herself; for the fish, she wasa middleman between fishermen and householders. As she owned agramophone and one silk dress, it was clear that her business prospered. Even Ching Po bought eggs of her, though there was a nameless, uninterpreted hostility between them. 

Let me give you, at once, the few facts I could gather about French Eva. There were rumors a-plenty, but most of them sifted down to a littleresidual malice. I confined my questionings to the respectableinhabitants of Naapu; they were a very small circle. At last, I got somesort of "line" on French Eva. 

None within our ken fathered or mothered her. Old Dubois knew most abouther, but old Dubois, a semi-paralyzed colossus, "doped" most of thetime, kept his thick lips closed. "An excellent girl" was all that anyone could wring from him. As she had begun life on Naapu by being _damede comptoir_ for him, he had some right to his judgment. She hadeventually preferred independence, and had forsaken him; and if he stillhad no quarrel with her, that speaks loudly for her many virtues. Whether Dubois had sent for her originally, no one knew. His memory wasclouded by opium, and you could get little out of him. Besides, by thetime I arrived on Naapu, French Eva belonged to the landscape and tohistory. She was generally supposed to be pure French, and her accentsupported the theory, though she was in a small way a linguist. HerEnglish was as good as any one's--on Naapu, where we were by no meansacademic. She could speak the native tongue after a fashion, and herbêche-de-mer was at least fluent. 

I had heard of the lady before I ever saw her, and had wondered whyNaapu chose to distinguish a female fish-vender--even if she had begunwith old Dubois. As soon as I clapped eyes on her, I perceived herdistinction, her "difference"--the reason for the frequent "Mam'selle. "She was, at first glimpse, unusual. To begin with, never was so white aface matched with hair and brows and eyes so black. In the ordinarypursuit of her business she wore her hair half loose, half braided, downher back; and it fell to her knees like a heavy crape veil. A badsimile, you will say; but there are no words to express the unrelievedblackness of her hair. There were no lights in it; no "reflets, " to usethe French phrase. It might have been "treated" with ink. When, on rareoccasions--not often, for the weight of it, as she freely explained, made her head ache--she put it up in coils, it was like a great mourningbonnet under which her white face seemed to shrink away. Her eyes werenearly as black as her hair. Her figure was very lovely, whether informing the loose native garment or laced into her silk dress. 

You will say that I have painted for you a person who could not, by anypossibility, be beautiful; and yet French Eva was beautiful. You gotused to that dull curtain of her hair; it made Madame Maür's lustrousraven locks look oily. It came to seem, after a time, all that hairshould be. Her features were nearly perfect from our finicking Europeanpoint of view, and she grew in grace even while I, a newcomer, watched;for the effect of the tropic sun upon her skin was curious and lovely:it neither blotched nor reddened nor tanned her, but rather gilded herpallor, touching it with the faintest brown in the world. I must, in theinterests of truth, mention one more fact. Mam'selle Eva was the sort ofwoman who has a direct effect on the opposite sex. Charm hardlyexpresses it; magnetism, rather, though that is a poor word. A mansimply wanted to be near her. She intrigued you, she drew you on, sheassailed your consciousness in indefinable ways--all without the sweepof an eyelash or the pout of a lip. French Eva was a good girl, and wenther devious ways with reticent feet. But she was not in "society, " forshe lived alone in a thatched hut, and attended native festivals, andswore--when necessary--at the crews of trading barques. I am not surethat she did not, of all tongues possible to her, prefer bêche-de-mer;which is not, at its most innocent, an elegant language. She had noenemies except Ching Po--for reasons unknown; and she paid heroccasional respects to any and all religions that Naapu boasted. Whenthere was a row, she was always, of course, on the European side; thoughshe would stretch a point now and then in favor of the nativeconstabulary. 

So much for French Eva--who was by no means so important in the Naapuscheme of things as my long description may imply. She had her eminentlyrespectable, her perfectly recognized niche, and we all bought eggs andfish of her when we could. She was a curious figure, to be sure; but youmust remember that on Naapu every one, nearly, was unaverage, if notabnormal. Even the agents and officials were apt to be the leastpromising of their kind--or they would have been somewhere else. It wasa beautiful refuge for utter bounders and men who, though not bounders, had a very low limit of achievement. The jetsam of officialdom waswashed up on that lonely, lovely shore. The magnates of Naapu were notto be trusted. Naapu was a rich island, the richest of its group; and, being off the main lines of traffic, was an excellent field for theunscrupulous. Tourists did not bother us, for tourists do not likeeighty-ton schooners; maps did not particularly insist upon us; we werewell known in places where it was profitable to know us, and not muchtalked about anywhere. Our copra was of the best; there were pearls tobe had in certain waters if you could bribe or fight your way to them;and large groups of natives occasionally disappeared over night from oneof the surrounding islands. Naapu was, you might say, the clasp of anecklace. How could we be expected to know what went on in the rest ofthe string--with one leaky patrol-boat to ride those seas? Sometimesthere were fights down by the docks; strangers got arrested and weremysteriously pardoned out; there were always a good many people in thelandscape who had had too much square-face. We were very far away fromeverything, and in spite of all these drawbacks we were happy, becausethe climate was, most of the year, unexceptionable. When you recall whatmost civilized climates are like, "unexceptionable, " that cold andformal word, may well take your breath away. Lest any one should suspectme of blackbirding or gin-selling, I will say at once that I had come toNaapu by accident and that I stayed because, for reasons that I will notgo into here, I liked it. I lived in a tiny bungalow with an ex-ship'scook whom I called Joe, and several thousand cockroaches. I had hiredJoe to cook for me, but his chief duty soon became to keep thecockroaches out of my bedroom. As a matter of fact, I usually dined atDubois's hotel or at some private house. 

Why so idle a person as I should have looked down--as I did, from thefirst--on Follet, I cannot explain. The money I lived on was certainlynot of my own making. But, strictly speaking, I could have gone home ifI had chosen, and I more than suspected that Follet could not have. Follet was not enamoured of Naapu, and talked grandiloquently ofMelbourne and Batavia and Hong-Kong. He continued, however, to be aresident of the island, and none of his projects of removal to a betterplace ever went beyond mere frothy talk. He lived at Dubois's, but spentmuch of his time with the aforesaid magnates. He had an incorruptiblemanner; some grace that had been bred in him early never forsook him, and the ladies of Naapu liked him. Even good Madame Maür, who squinted, squinted more painfully at Follet than at any one else. But his idlenesswas beginning to tell on him; occasionally he had moody fits, and therewere times when he broke out and ran amuck among beach-combers and tipsynatives along the water-front. More than once, Ching Po sought him outand fetched him home. 

My first intimation of trouble came from Stires. I had nothing to dowith this particular Yankee in the way of business, but I lingeredoccasionally by his door in the cool of the afternoon, just to feed myeyes on his brawn and my ears on his homely and pleasant nasality. Stires's eyes were that disconcerting gray-blue which seems to prevailamong men who have lived much in the desert or on the open sea. You findit in Arizona; and in the navies of all the northern countries. It addedto his cowboy look. I knew nothing about Stires--remember that on Naapuwe never asked a man questions about himself--but I liked him. He satabout on heaps of indescribable junk--things that go into the bowels ofships--and talked freely. And because Follet and I were both in whatNaapu would have called its best circles, I never talked about Follet, though I liked him no better than Stires did. I say it began withStires; but it began really with Schneider, introduced by Stires intoour leisurely conversation. This is Schneider's only importance: namely, that, mixing himself up in French Eva's context, he made other men speakof her. 

The less said about Schneider, the better; which means always that thereis a great deal to say. In this case, there was perhaps less to say thanto surmise. He did not give himself away--to us. Schneider had turned upon a trading schooner from Melbourne, was stopping at the hotel in oneof the best rooms, and had a general interest in the potentialities ofNaapu. I say potentialities advisedly, for he was not directlyconcerned, so far as I know, with any existing business there. Hefrequented everybody, and asked questions in the meticulous German way. He wandered all over the island--islands, I should say, for once ortwice I saw him banging off in a creaky motor-boat to the other jewelsof the necklace. Guesses as to his real business were free and frequent. He was a pearl-smuggler; the agent of a Queensland planter; a fugitivefrom justice; a mad scientist; a servant of the Imperial GermanGovernment. No one presumed to certitude--which was in itself a tributeto German efficiency. Schneider was blond and brush-haired andthick-lipped; he was unpleasant from the crown of his ill-shaped head tothe soles of his ill-shaped shoes; but, though lacking in every charm, he was not sinister. He had seen curious places and amusing things, andcould cap most adventures with something relevant; but his type andtemperament prevented him from being a "good mixer, " and he was notpopular. 

Stires, however, had his own grievance, and his judgment of Schneiderwent deep. He did not mind the shape of Schneider's skull, or the hintof goose-step in Schneider's gait; but he minded, very much, the kind ofinterest that Schneider took in French Eva. He told me that, straight, emphasizing his statements with a rusty spanner, which he wielded in acurious, classical way, like a trident. According to him, Schneider wasbothering the life out of the girl. "Always asking her to dress up andcome over to chow with him at the hotel. " And the spanner went down asif Neptune were rebuking the seas. 

"Does she go?"

"No. "

"Well, then--can't you leave the lady to discourage him in her own way?"

"She won't go to the ho-tel, because she hates Ching Po. But she walksout with him Sunday afternoons. He gives her gimcracks. "

"Then she likes him?"

"There's no telling. She's a real lady. " And the discouraged Stiresbeat, with his spanner, a refrain to his involuntary epigram. 

"She can take care of herself, can't she?" I had watched her deal with adrunken Solomon Islander, and did not see how Schneider could be a matchfor her. 

"I don't know. " Stires's lazy drawl challenged the sunset. 

"Anything I can do?" I asked as I rose. 

"Unless you go in and cut him out, " he meditated with a grin. 

"But I'm not in love with her, " I protested. 

"You might take her to church. "

But I refused. Philandering was not my forte, and church, in any case, was the last thing I should venture to propose. 

"Why don't you go in yourself?"

Stires scratched his head. The trident trailed upon the ground. "It'sserious or nothing with me, I guess. And she's got something against me. I don't know what. Thinks I don't blarney the Kanakas enough, perhaps. Then there's Follet. "

"Oh, is he in it?" I forgot to go. 

"He's more in it than I am, and I'm darned if I know what she's up towith the three of us. I'm playing 'possum, till I find out. "

"If you can stand Follet butting in, why can't you stand Schneider?Safety in numbers, you know. "

"Well, Mr. Follet belongs here. I can have it out with him any time. He'll have to play the game. But if I know Schneider, there's no weddingbells in his. And Mam'selle Eva hasn't, as you might say, got achaperon. "

The spectacle of "Mam'selle Eva, " as I had last seen her, perspiring, loosely girdled, buying a catch of fish at a fair price from threemercenary natives adorned with shark's-tooth necklaces, rose before me. 

"Man alive, you don't have to chaperon _her_, " I cried. "She's on toeverything. "

The sun-and-wind-whipt eyes flashed at me. The spanner trembled alittle. 

"Don't misunderstand me, " I insisted. "But it stands to reason that, here on Naapu, she's learned a good many things they don't teach inlittle red schoolhouses. I have a great respect for her, and, betweenyou and me, I shouldn't wonder if she had sized Schneider up already. "

The eyes were appeased. "Maybe, maybe, " he grunted. "But lies come easyto him, I guess. Miss Eva wouldn't be the first he'd fooled. "

"Do you know anything about him?"

"Not a thing, except what sticks out all over him. For a man's eyes, that is. You never can tell what a woman will see. "

I left him poking in the dust with his spanner. 

I dined that night at Lockerbie's. There was no Mrs. Lockerbie, and itwas a man's party. Follet was there, of course, and Schneider, too, histeeth and his clothes whiter than the rest of ours. I was surprised tosee Schneider, for Lockerbie had suspected the Teuton of designs on hisvery privately and not too authentically owned lagoon. Lockerbie did afair business in pearls; no great beauties or values among them, but agood marketable cheap product. But no one held out very long against anyone on Naapu. 

Schneider was drunk before he ever got to Lockerbie's that night. It waspart of the Naapu ritual not to drink just before you reached yourhost's house, and that ritual, it soon became evident, Schneider had notobserved. I saw Lockerbie scowl, and Follet wince, and some of theothers stare. I could not help being amused, for I knew that no onewould object to his being in that condition an hour later. The onlypoint was that he should not have arrived like that. If Schneider hadhad anything resembling a skin, he would have felt about as comfortableas Mother Eve at a woman's club. Lockerbie's scowl was no joke; andFollet had a way of wriggling his backbone gracefully. --It was up to meto save Schneider, and I did. The honor of Naapu was nothing to me; andby dint of almost embracing him, I made myself a kind of absorbent forhis worst breaks. It was not a pleasant hour for me before the restbegan to loosen up. 

In my eagerness to prevent Lockerbie from insulting his guest, I dranknothing, myself, after the first cocktail. So it came to pass that bythe time I could safely leave Schneider to the others, I found myselfunwontedly incarnating the spirit of criticism. 

They were a motley crowd, coalesced for the moment into a vinoussolidarity. Follet spat his words out very sweetly; his poisonous gracegrew on him in his cups. Lockerbie, warmed by wine, was as simple--andcharming--as a wart-hog. Old Maskell, who had seen wind-jammer days andways and come very close, I suspected, to piracy, always prayed at leastonce. Pasquier, the successful merchant who imported finery for theladies of Naapu, rolled out socialistic platitudes--he was alwaysflanked, at the end of the feast, by two empty chairs. Little Morlotbegan the endless tale of his conquests in more civilized lands: allpatchouli and hair-oil. Anything served as a cue for all of them to diveinto the welter of their own preoccupations. Just because they knew eachother and Naapu so well, they seemed free to wander at will in thesecret recesses of their predilections and their memories. I felt likeCirce--or perhaps Ulysses; save that I had none of that wise man'swisdom. 

The reward of my abstinence, I found, was to be the seeing home ofSchneider. It would have come more naturally to Follet, who also livedat Dubois's, but Follet was fairly snarling at Schneider. French Eva'sname had been mentioned. On my word, as I saw Follet curving his spinalcolumn, and Schneider lighting up his face with his perfect teeth, Ithought with an immense admiration of the unpolished and loose-hungStires amid the eternal smell of tar and dust. It was a mere discussionof her hair, incoherent and pointless enough. No scandal, even fromSchneider. There had been some sense, of a dirty sort, in his talk tome; but more wine had scattered his wits. 

I took Schneider home, protesting to myself that I would never be socaught again. He lurched rather stiffly along, needing my help only whenwe crossed the unpaved roads in the darkness. Follet went ahead, and Igave him a good start. When we reached the hotel, Ching Po surged up outof the black veranda and crooked his arm for Schneider to lean upon. They passed into the building, silently, like old friends. 

A stupid indisposition housed me for a little after Lockerbie's feast. Iresented the discomfort of temporary illness, but rather liked beingalone, and told Joe to refuse me to callers--even the Maürs, who weremore like friends and neighbors than any one else in the place. My ownaffairs should not obtrude on this tale at all; and I will not go intothem more than to say that I came to the end of my dosing and emergedupon the world after three days. The foolish thought came to me that Iwould have a look at French Eva's hair, of which little Morlot hadspoken in such gallant hiccoughs. 

The lady was not upon her veranda, nor yet in her poultry-yard, as Ipaced past her dwelling. I had got nearly by, when I heard myselfaddressed from the unglazed window. 

"Monsieur!"

I strolled back, wondering if at last I should be invited to hear thegramophone--her chiefest treasure. The mass of hair spread out of thecrude opening in the bamboo wall, for all the world like Rapunzel's. Ifaced a great curtain of black. Then hands appeared and made a rift init, and a face showed in the loose black frame. 

"Monsieur, what is the German for 'cochon'?"

My German is scanty, and I reflected. "'Schweinhund' will do, I think, "I answered after consideration. 

"A thousand thanks. " The face disappeared, and the hair was pulled afterit. 

I waited. I could hear nothing distinctly, but in a moment Schneidercame running quickly and stiffly down the creaky ladder from the door. He saw me--of that I am sure--but I did not blame him for not greetingone who had doubtless been giving aid and comfort to the enemy. Isquatted on the low railing of French Eva's compound, but she herselfwas not forthcoming. After ten minutes I heard a commotion in thepoultry yard, and found her at the back among her chickens. Her hair waspiled up into an amazing structure: it looked as if some one had placedthe great pyramid on top of the sphinx. 

"Do you need my further services?"

She smiled. "Not in the least. But I like to speak to animals, whenpossible, in their own language. It saves time. " By way of illustration, she clucked to a group of hens. She turned her back to me, and I wasdismissed from her barefoot presence. 

Stires was my logical goal after that, and I found him busy with thesecond mate of a tramp just in from Papua and bound for the Carolines. After the man had gone, I informed Stires of the episode. For a man whohad damned Schneider up and down for making presents to a lady, Stiresreacted disappointingly. 

"He got his, eh?" was all he said. 

"Evidently. You don't seem to be much affected. "

"So long as she's shipped him, that's all right, " he drawled. 

"I can't make out what your interest in the matter is, " I suggested. 

"Sure you can't, " Stires began to whistle creakily, and took up somenameless object to repair. 

"How long is Schneider staying round these parts?"

"Not long, I guess. I heard he was leaving on the Sydney packet nextweek. "

"So you're only up against Follet?" I pressed him. 

"I ain't up against anybody. Miss Eva'll settle her own affairs. "

"Excuse me. " And I made the gesture of withdrawing. 

"Don't get het up under the collar, " he protested. "Only I never didlike this discussing ladies. She don't cotton to me for some reason. I'mfree to say I admire her very much. I guess that's all. "

"Nothing I can do for you, then?"

Stires lighted a pipe. "If you're so set on helping me, you might watchover Ching Po a little. "

"What is he up to?"

"Don't know. But it ain't like him to be sitting round idle when there'sharm to be done. He's got something up his sleeve--and a Chink'ssleeve's big enough to hold a good-sized crime, " he finished, with agrim essay of humor. 

"Are these mere suspicions on your part, or do you know that something'sup?"

"Most things happen on Naapu before there's been any time forsuspicion, " he rejoined, squinting at his pipe, which had stoppeddrawing. "These folks lie low and sing little songs, and just as you'redropping off there's a knife somewhere. --Have you heard anything aboutthe doings up yonder?" He indicated the mountain that rose, sharply cutand chasmed, back of the town. 

"Trouble with the natives? No. "

"This is the time o' year when the heathen begin to feel their oats. Miss Eva, she's interested in their superstitions. They don't usuallycome to anything--just a little more work for the police if they getdrunk and run amuck. The constabulary is mostly off on the spree. Theyhave gods of wood and stone up in the caves yonder, you know. But it'salways a kind of uneasy feel to things till they settle down again. "

I leaned against a coil of rope and pursued the subject. "But none ofthe people you and I are interested in are concerned with native orgies. We are all what you might call agnostics. "

"Speak for yourself, sir. I'm a Methodist. 'Tain't that they mixthemselves up in the doings. But--well, you haven't lived through themerry month of May on Naapu. I tell you, this blessed island ain't bigenough to hold all that froth without everybody feeling it. Just becausefolks don't know what's going on up yonder it kind of relaxes 'em. Idon't say the Kanakas do anything they shouldn't, except get drunk, andjoy-ride down waterfalls, and keep up an infernal tom-toming. But itsort of gets on your nerves. And I wouldn't call Naapu straitlaced, either. Everybody seems to feel called on to liquor up, this time o'year. If it isn't one pretext it's another. Things folks have been kindof hesitating over, in the name of morals, they start out and perform, regardless. The authorities, they get worried because a Kanaka's spreelands him, like as not, in a blackbirder. Mighty queer craft hang roundat this season. There ain't supposed to be anything doing in theseblessed islands that ain't aboveboard, but 'tisn't as though the placewas run by Americans. "

"And I am to watch Ching Po? Where does he come in?"

"I wish't I knew. He makes money out of it somehow. Dope, I suppose. Oldman Dubois ain't his only customer, by a long shot. "

"Ching Po isn't likely to go near French Eva, is he? They don't speak, I've noticed. "

"No, they don't. But that Chink's little ways are apt to be indirect. She's afraid of him--afraid of the dust under her feet, as you mightsay. "

Stires puffed meditatively at his pipe. Then a piratical-lookingcustomer intervened, and I left. 

Leisurely, all this, and not significant to the unpeeled eye. And then, within twenty-four hours of the time when I had left Stires, thingsbegan to happen. It was as if a tableau had suddenly decided to become a"movie. " All those fixed types began to dash about and register the mostinconvenient emotions. Let me set down a few facts diary fashion. 

To begin with, when I got up the next morning, Joe had disappeared. Nosign of breakfast, no smell of coffee. It was late for breakfast atDubois's, and I started out to get my own. There were no eggs, and Isauntered over to French Eva's to purchase a few. The town looked queerto me as I walked its grassy streets. Only when I turned into the lanethat led to French Eva's did I realize why. It was swept clean ofnatives. There weren't any. Not a stevedore, not a fisherman, not abrown fruit-vender did I see. 

French Eva greeted me impatiently. She was not doing business, evidently, for she wore her silk dress and white canvas shoes. Also, ahat. Her face was whiter than ever, and, just offhand, I should havesaid that something had shaken her. She would not let me in, but made mewait while she fetched the eggs. I took them away in a little basket ofplaited palm-fronds, and walked through the compound as nonchalantly asI could, pretending that I had not seen what I knew I had seen--ChingPo's face within, a foot or two behind the window opening. It startledme so much that I resolved to keep away from Stires: I wished to digestthe phenomenon quite alone. 

At ten o'clock, my breakfast over, I opened my door to a knock, andFollet's bloodshot eyes raked me eagerly. He came in with a rush, as ifmy hit-or-miss bungalow were sanctuary. I fancied he wanted a drink, butI did not offer him one. He sat down heavily--for all hislightness--like a man out of breath. I saw a pistol-butt sticking out ofhis pocket and narrowed my eyes upon him. Follet seldom looked me up inmy own house, though we met frequently enough in all sorts of otherplaces. It was full five minutes before he came to the point. MeanwhileI remarked on Joe's defection. 

"Yes, " he said, "the exodus has begun. "

"Is there really anything in that?"

"What?" he asked sharply. 

"Well--the exodus. "

"Oh, yes. They do have some sort of shindy--not interesting to any onebut a folk-lorist. Chiefly an excuse, I fancy, for drinking too much. Schneider says he's going to investigate. I rather wish they'd do himin. "

"What have you got against him--except that he's an unpleasant person?"

By this roundabout way Follet had reached his point. "He's been tryingto flirt with my lady-love. "

"French Eva?"

"The same. " His jauntiness was oppressive, dominated as it was by thoseperturbed and hungry eyes. 

"Oh--" I meditated. But presently I decided. "Then why do you let ChingPo intrude upon her in her own house?"

"Ching Po?" He quivered all over as if about to spring up from hischair, but he did not actually rise. It was just a supple, snake-likeplay of his body--most unpleasant. 

"I saw him there an hour ago--when I fetched my eggs. My cook's off, yousee. "

Still that play of muscles underneath the skin, for a moment or two. Then he relaxed, and his eyes grew dull. Follet was not, I fancy, whatthe insurance men call a good risk. 

"She can take care of herself, I expect, " he said. They all seemed surerof that than gentlemen in love are wont to be. 

"She and Ching Po don't hit it off very well, I've noticed. "

"No, they don't. " He admitted it easily, as if he knew all about it. 

"I wonder why. " I had meant to keep my hands off the whole thing, but Icould not escape the tension in the Naapu air. Those gods of wood andstone were not without power--of infection, at the least. 

"Better not ask. " He bit off the words and reached for a cigarette. 

"Does any one know?"

"An old inhabitant can guess. But why she should be afraid of him--eventhe old inhabitant doesn't know. There's Dubois; but you might as wellshriek at a corpse as ask Dubois anything. "

"You don't think that I'd better go over and make sure that Ching Poisn't annoying her?"

Follet's lips drew back over his teeth in his peculiar smile. "If I hadthought he could annoy her, I'd have been over there myself a short timeago. If he really annoyed French Eva any day, he'd be nothing but a neatpattern of perforations, and he knows it. "

"Then what has the oldest inhabitant guessed as to the cause of thequarrel?" I persisted. Since I was in it--well, I hate talk that runs incircles. 

"She hasn't honored me with her confidence. But, for a guess, I shouldsay that in the happy time now past he had perhaps asked her to marryhim. And--Naapu isn't Europe, but, you know, even here a lady mightresent that. "

"But why does she let him into her house?"

"That I can't tell you. But I can almost imagine being afraid of ChingPo myself. "

"Why don't you settle it up, one way or the other?" I _was_ a newcomer, you see. 

Follet laughed and took another cigarette. "We do very well as we are, Ithink. And I expect to go to Auckland next year. " His voice trailed offfatuously in a cloud of smoke, and I knew then just why I disliked him. The fibre was rotten. You couldn't even hang yourself with it. 

I was destined to keep open house that day. Before Follet's lastsmoke-puff had quite slid through the open window, Madame Maür, who wasperpetually in mourning, literally darkened my doorway. Seeing Folletshe became nervous--he did affect women, as I have said. What with hersquint and her smile, she made a spectacle of herself before she pantedout her staccato statement. Doctor Maür was away with a patient on theother side of the island; and French Eva had been wringing her handsunintelligibly on the Maürs' porch. She--Madame Maür--couldn't make outwhat the girl wanted. 

Now, this was nothing to break in on me for; and Madame Maür, in spiteof her squint and her smile, was both sensible and good--broke, moreover, to the ridiculous coincidences and unfathomable dramas ofNaapu. Why hadn't she treated the girl for hysterics? But I gatheredpresently that there was one element in it that she couldn't bear. Thatelement, it appeared, was Ching Po, perfectly motionless in the publicroad--no trespasser, therefore--watching. She had got Eva into the houseto have her hysterics out in a darkened room. But Ching Po neverstirred. Madame Maür thought he never would stir. She couldn't order himoff the public thoroughfare, and there was no traffic for him to block. He was irreproachable and intolerable. After half an hour of it, she hadrun out across her back garden to ask my help. He must go away or she, too, would have hysterics. And Madame Maür covered the squint with ablack-edged handkerchief. If he would walk about, or whistle, or mop hisyellow face, she wouldn't mind. But she was sure he hadn't so much asblinked, all that time. If a man could die standing up, she should thinkhe was dead. She wished he were. If he stayed there all day--as he had aperfect right to do--she, Madame Maür, would have to be sent home to a_maison de santé_. --And she began to make guttural noises. As FélicitéMaür had seen, in her time, things that no self-respecting _maison desanté_ would stand for, I began to believe that I should have to dosomething. I rose reluctantly. I was about fed up with Ching Po, myself. 

I helped Madame Maür out of her chair, and fetched my hat. Then I lookedfor Follet, to apologize for leaving him. I had neither seen nor heardhim move, but he was waiting for us on the porch. He could be asnoiseless on occasion as Ching Po. 

"You'd better not come into this, " I suggested; for there was no stayingpower, I felt, in Follet. 

He seemed to shiver all over with irritation. "Oh, damn his yellow soul, I'll marry her!" He spat it out--with no sweetness, this time. 

Madame Maür swung round to him like a needle to the pole. "You may saveyourself the _corvée_. She won't have you. Not if any of the things shehas been sobbing out are true. She loves the other man--down by thedocks. _Your_ compatriot. " She indicated me. Her French was clear andclicking, with a slight provincial accent. 

"Oh--" He breathed it out at great length, exhaling. Yet it sounded likea hiss. "Stires, eh?" And he looked at me. 

I had been thinking, as we stood on the steps. "How am I to move ChingPo off?" I asked irritably. It had suddenly struck me that, inspired byMadame Maür, we were embarking on sheer idiocy. 

"I'll move him, " replied Follet with a curious intonation. 

At that instant my eye lighted again on the pistol. "Not with that. " Ijerked my chin ever so slightly in the direction of his pocket. 

"Oh, take it if you want it. Come on. " He thrust the weapon into myinnocent hand and began to pull at my bougainvillea vine as if it werein his way. Some of the splendid petals fluttered about Madame Maür'shead. 

We reached the Maürs' front porch by a circuitous route--through theback garden and the house itself--and paused to admire the view. Yes, welooked for Ching Po as if we were tourists and he were Niagara. 

"He hasn't moved yet. " This was Madame Maür's triumphant whimper. Inarticulate noises somewhere near indicated that French Eva was stillin sanctuary. 

Follet grunted. Then he unleashed his supple body and was half way tothe gate in a single arrow flight. I followed, carrying the pistol stillin my hand. My involuntary haste must have made me seem to brandish it. I heard a perfectly civilized scream from Madame Maür, receding into thebackground--which shows that I was, myself, acquiring full speed ahead. By the time Follet reached the gate, Ching Po moved. I saw Folletgaining on him, and then saw no more of them; for my feet acting on someinspiration of their own which never had time to reach my brain, took ashort cut to the water front. I raced past French Eva's empty house, pounding my way through the gentle heat of May, to Stires'sestablishment. I hoped to cut them off. But Ching Po must have had alike inspiration, for when I was almost within sight of my goal--fiftyrods ahead--the Chinaman emerged from a side lane between me and it. Hewas running like the wind. Follet was nowhere to be seen. Ching Po and Iwere the only mites on earth's surface. The whole population, apparently, had piously gone up the mountain in order to let us have ourlittle drama out alone. I do not know how it struck Ching Po; but I feltvery small on that swept and garnished scene. 

I was winded; and with the hope of reaching Stires well dashed, my legsbegan to crumple. I sank down for a few seconds on the low wall of someone's compound. But I kept a keen eye out for Follet. I thought Stirescould look out for himself, so long as it was just Ching Po. It was thetriangular mix-up I was afraid of; even though I providentially hadFollet's pistol. And, for that matter, where was Follet? Had he given upthe chase? Gone home for that drink, probably. 

But in that I had done him injustice; for in a few moments he debouchedfrom yet a third approach. Ching Po had evidently doubled, somehow, andbaffled him. 

I rose to meet him, and he slowed down to take me on. By this time thepeaceful water front had absorbed the Chinaman; and if Stires was athome, the two were face to face. I made this known to Follet. 

"Give me back my pistol, " he panted. 

"Not on your life, " I said, and jammed it well into my pocket. 

"What in hell have you got to do with it?" he snarled. 

"Stires is a friend of mine. " I spoke with some difficulty, for thoughwe were not running, we were hitting up a quick pace. Follet was allcolors of the rainbow, and I looked for him to give out presently, buthe kept on. 

"Ching Po, too?" he sneered. 

"Not a bit of it. But they won't stand for murder in open daylight--even_your_ friends. "

We were very near Stires's place by this time. There was no sign of anyone in the yard; it was inhabited solely by the familiar rusty monstersof Stires's trade. As we drew up alongside, I looked through the window. Stires and Ching Po were within, and from the sibilant noise thatstirred the peaceful air, I judged that Ching Po was talking. Theirbacks were turned to the outer world. I pushed open the door, and Folletand I entered. 

For the first time I found myself greeted with open hostility by myfellow countryman. "What the devil are you doing here?" I was annoyed. The way they all dragged me in and then cursed me for being there! TheChinaman stood with his hands folded in his wicked sleeves, his eyes onthe ground. In the semi-gloom of Stires's warehouse, his face lookedlike a mouldy orange. He was yellower even than his racepermitted--outside and in. 

"If I can't be of any service to you or Miss Eva, I should be only tooglad to go home, " I retorted. 

"What about her?" asked Stires truculently. He advanced two stepstowards me. 

"I'm not looking for trouble--" It seemed to me just then that I hatedNaapu as I had never hated any place in the world. "She's havinghysterics up at Madame Maür's. I fancy that's why we're here. Youryellow friend there seems to have been responsible for the hysterics. This other gentleman and I"--I waved a hand at Follet, who stood, spentand silent, beside me--"resented it. We thought we would follow him up. "

How much Ching Po understood of plain English, I do not know. One alwaysconversed with him in the pidgin variety. But he certainly looked atpeace with the world: much as the devil must have looked, gazing atPompeii in the year '79. 

"You can do your resenting somewheres else, " snapped Stires. "Both ofyou. "

"I go, " murmured Ching Po. He stepped delicately towards the door. 

"No, you don't!" Follet's foot shot out to trip him. But the Chinamanmelted past the crude interruption. 

"I go, " he repeated, with ineffable sadness, from the threshold. 

The thing was utterly beyond me. I stood stock-still. The two men, Follet and Stires, faced each other for an instant. Then Follet swunground and dashed after Ching Po. I saw him clutch the loose black sleeveand murmur in the flat ear. 

Stires seemed to relent towards me now that Follet was gone. "Let 'emalone, " he grunted. "The Chink won't do anything but tell him a fewthings. And like as not, he knows 'em already, the--" The word indicatedhis passionate opinion of Follet. 

"I was called in by Madame Maür, " I explained weakly. "Ching Po wouldn'tleave the road in front of her compound. And--Miss Eva was inside, having hysterics. Ching Po had been with her earlier. Now you know allI know, and as I'm not wanted anywhere, I'll go. I assure you I'm veryglad to. "

I was not speaking the strictest truth, but I saw no reason to pour outMadame Maür's revelations just then upon Stires's heated soul. Nor wouldI pursue the subject of Follet. 

Stires sank down on something that had once been an office-chair. Thencehe glowered at me. I had no mind to endure his misdirected anger, and Iturned to go. But in the very instant of my turning from him I sawtragedy pierce through the mask of rage. The man was suffering; he couldno longer hold his eyes and lips to the expression of anger. I spoke tohim very gently. 

"Has Miss Eva really anything to fear from that miserable Chinaman?"

Stires bowed his head on his hands. "Not a thing, now. He's done hisdamnedest. It only took a minute for him to spit it out. "

"Will he spit it out to Follet?"

"You bet he will. But I've got a kind of a hunch Follet knew all along. "

"I'm sure he didn't--whatever it is. "

"Well, he does by now. They must be nearly back to the ho-tel. I'm kindof busy this morning"--he waved his hand round that idle scene--"and Iguess--"

"Certainly. I'm going now. " I spared him the effort of polishing off hislie. The man wanted to be alone with his trouble, and that was a stateof mind I understood only too well. 

The circumstantial evidence I had before me as I walked back to my ownhouse led inevitably to one verdict. I could almost reconstruct theignoble pidgin-splutter in which Ching Po had told Stires, and was evennow telling Follet. The wonder to me was that any one believed themiserable creature. Truth wouldn't be truth if it came from Ching Po. Yet if two men who were obviously prepossessed in the lady's favor wereso easily to be convinced by his report, some old suspicions, someforgotten facts must have rushed out of the dark to foregather with it. French Eva had been afraid of the Chinaman; yet even Follet hadpooh-poohed her fears; and her reputation was--or had been--well-nighstainless on Naapu, which is, to say the least, a smudgy place. Still--there was only one road for reason to take, and in spite of theseobstacles it wearily and doggedly took it. 

Joe, of course, was still absent; and though I was never more in need offood, my larder was empty. I would not go to Dubois's and encounterFollet and Ching Po. Perhaps Madame Maür would give me a sandwich. Iwanted desperately to have done with the whole sordid business; and hadthere been food prepared for me at home, I think I should havebarricaded myself there. But my hunger joined hands with a lurkingcuriosity. Between them they drove me to Madame Maür's. 

The lady bustled about at once to supply my needs. Her husband was stillaway, and lunch there was not in any proper sense. But she fed me withodd messes and endless cups of coffee. Hunger disappeared leavingcuriosity starkly apparent. 

"How's Eva?" I asked. 

Madame Maür pursed her lips. "She went away an hour ago. "

"Home?"

The lady shrugged her shoulders. "It looked like it. I did not ask her. She would go--with many thanks, but with great resolution. --What hashappened to you?" she went on smoothly. 

I deliberated. Should I tell madame anything or should I not? I decidednot to. "Ching Po went back to the hotel, " I said. "I don't believe hemeant to annoy you. "

She let the subject drop loyally. And, indeed, with Ching Po and FrenchEva both out of the way, she had become quite normal again. Of course, if I would not let her question me, I could not in fairness questionher. So we talked on idly, neither one, I dare say, quite sure of theother, and both ostensibly content to wait. Or she may have had reasonsas strong as mine for wishing to forget the affair of the morning. 

I grew soothed and oblivious. The thing receded. I was just thinking ofgoing home when Follet appeared at the gate. Then I realized how futilehad been our common reticence. 

"Is Eva here?" he shouted before he reached us. 

"She went home long ago. " Madame Maür answered quietly, but I saw by herquick shiver that she had not been at peace, all this time. 

"She's not there. The place is all shut up. "

"Doesn't she usually attend these festivities up the hill?" I asked. 

His look went through me like a dagger. "Not today, you fool!"

"Well, why worry about her?" It was I who put it calmly. Six hoursbefore, I had not been calm; but now I looked back at that fever withcontempt. 

"She's been to Stires's, " he went on; and I could see the words hurthim. 

"Well, then, ask him. "

"He was asleep. She left her beloved gramophone there. He found it whenhe waked. "

"Her gramophone?" I ejaculated. "Where is Stires?"

"Looking for her--and hoping he won't find her, curse him!"

Follet took hold of me and drew me down the steps. "Come along, " hesaid. Then he turned to Madame Maür. "Sorry, madame. This is urgent. We'll tell you all about it later. "

Félicité Maür did not approve of Follet, but he could do no wrong whenshe was actually confronted with him. She took refuge in a shrug andwent within. 

When we were outside the gate, I stood still and faced Follet. "What didChing Po tell you and Stires?"

"Don't you know?" Sheer surprise looked out at me from his eyes. 

"Of course, I think I know. Do you really want to tear the place up, looking for her?"

"It's not that!" he shouted. "If it had been, every one would have knownit long since. Ching Po got it out of old Dubois. I shook Dubois out ofhis opium long enough to confirm it. I had to threaten him. --Ching Po'sa dirty beast, but, according to the old man he told the truth. Ching Podid want to marry her once. She wouldn't, of course, and he's just beenwaiting to spike her guns. When he found out she really wanted thatimpossible Yankee, he said he'd tell. She had hysterics. He waited forher outside the Maürs', hoping, I suppose, it would work out anotherway. When we appeared, he decided to get his work in. He probablythought she had sent for us. And he was determined no one should stophim from telling. Now do you see? Come on. " He pulled at my arm. 

"In heaven's name, man, _what_ did he tell?" I almost shrieked. 

"Just the one thing you Yankees can't stand, " Follet sneered. "A touchof the tar-brush. She wasn't altogether French, you see. Old Duboisknows her pedigree. Her grandmother was a mulatto, over Penang way. Sheknew how Stires felt on the subject--a damn, dirty ship-chandler noself-respecting officer deals with--"

"None of that!" I said sharply. "He's a good man, Stires. A darned sighttoo good for the Naapu grafters. A darned sight too good to go native--"Then I stopped, for Follet was hardly himself, nor did I like the lookof myself as a common scold. 

We did not find Stires, and after an hour or two we gave up the search. By dusk, Follet had got to the breaking-point. He was jumpy. I took himback myself to the hotel, and pushed him viciously into Ching Po's arms. The expressionless Chinese face might have been a mask for all thevirtues; and he received the shaking burden of Follet as meekly as asister of charity. 

I bought some tinned things for my dinner and took my way home. I shouldnot, I felt sure, be interrupted, and I meant to turn in early. MadameMaür would be telling the tale to her husband; Follet would, of acertainty, be drunk; and Stires would be looking, I supposed, for FrenchEva. French Eva, I thought, would take some finding; but Stires was thebest man for the job. It was certainly not my business to notify any onethat night. So I chowed alone, out of the tins, and smoked a longtime--alone--in the moonlight. 

 * * * * *

It was not Stires, after all, who found her, though he must have huntedthe better part of that night. It was three days before she was washedashore. She was discovered by a crew of fishermen whom she had oftenbeaten down in the way of business. They brought her in from the remotecove, with loud lamentations and much pride. She must have rocked backand forth between the shore and the reef, for when they found her, herbody was badly battered. From the cliff above, they said, she looked atfirst like a monstrous catch of seaweed on the sand Her hair--

Follet had treated himself to a three days' drinking-bout, and onlyemerged, blanched and palsied, into a town filled with the clamor of herfuneral. Stires had shut up his junk-shop for a time and stayed strictlyat home. I went to see him, the day after they found her. His face wasdrawn and gloomy, but it was the face of a man in his right mind. Ithink his worst time was that hour after Follet had followed Ching Poout of his warehouse. He never told me just how things had stood betweenFrench Eva and him, but I am sure that he believed Ching Po at once, andthat, from the moment Ching Po spoke, it was all over. It was no longereven real to him, so surely had his inborn prejudice worked. Stires wasno Pierre Loti. 

In decency we had to mention her. There was a great to-do about it inthe town, and the tom-toms had mysteriously returned from the hillsides. 

"I've been pretty cut up about it all, " he admitted. "But there's nodoubt it's for the best. As I look back on it, I see she never wascomfortable in her mind. On and off, hot and cold--and I took it forflightiness. The light broke in on me, all of a sudden, when that dirtyyellow rascal began to talk. But if you'll believe me, sir, I used to bejealous of Follet. Think of it, now. " He began to whittle. 

Evidently her ravings to Madame Maür had not yet come to his ears. Madame Maür was capable of holding her tongue; and there was a chanceFollet might hold his. At all events, I would not tell Stires howseriously she had loved him. He was a very provincial person, and Ithink--considering her pedigree--it would have shocked him. 

French Eva's cerebrations are in some ways a mystery to me, but I amsure she knew what she wanted. I fancy she thought--but, as I say, I donot know--that the mode of her passing would at least make all clear toStires. Perhaps she hoped for tardy regrets on his part; anex-post-facto decision that it didn't matter. The hot-and-cold businesshad probably been the poor girl's sense of honor working--though, naturally, she couldn't have known (on Naapu) the peculiarimpregnability of Stires's prejudices. When you stop to think of it, Stires and his prejudices had no business in such a place, and nothingin earth or sky or sea could have foretold them to the population ofthat landscape. Perhaps when she let herself go, in the strong seas, shethought that he would be at heart her widower. Don't ask me. Whateverpoor little posthumous success of the sort she may have hoped for, sheat least paid for it heavily--and in advance. And, as you see, her ghostnever got what her body had paid for. It is just as well: why shouldStires have paid, all his life? But if you doubt the strength of hersincerity, let me tell you what every one on Naapu was perfectly awareof: she could swim like a Kanaka; and she must have let herself go onthose familiar waters, against every instinct, like a piece ofdriftwood. Stires may have managed to blink that fact; but no one elsedid. 

Lockerbie gave a dinner-party at the end of the week, and Follet gotdrunk quite early in the evening. He embarrassed every one (except me)by announcing thickly, at dessert, that he would have married French Evaif she hadn't drowned herself. I believed it no more the second timethan I had believed it the first. Anyhow, she wouldn't have had him. Schneider left us during those days. We hardly noticed his departure. Ching Po still prospers. Except Stires, we are not squeamish on Naapu. 

THE PAST[10]

By ELLEN GLASGOW

(From _Good Housekeeping_)

I had no sooner entered the house than I knew something was wrong. Though I had never been in so splendid a place before--it was one ofthose big houses just off Fifth Avenue--I had a suspicion from the firstthat the magnificence covered a secret disturbance. I was always quickto receive impressions, and when the black iron doors swung togetherbehind me, I felt as if I were shut inside of a prison. 

When I gave my name and explained that I was the new secretary, I wasdelivered into the charge of an elderly lady's maid, who looked as ifshe had been crying. Without speaking a word, though she nodded kindlyenough, she led me down the hall, and then up a flight of stairs at theback of the house to a pleasant bedroom in the third story. There was agreat deal of sunshine, and the walls, which were painted a soft yellow, made the room very cheerful. It would be a comfortable place to sit inwhen I was not working, I thought, while the sad-faced maid stoodwatching me remove my wraps and hat. 

"If you are not tired, Mrs. Vanderbridge would like to dictate a fewletters, " she said presently, and they were the first words she hadspoken. 

"I am not a bit tired. Will you take me to her?" One of the reasons, Iknew, which had decided Mrs. Vanderbridge to engage me was theremarkable similarity of our handwriting. We were both Southerners, andthough she was now famous on two continents for her beauty, I couldn'tforget that she had got her early education at the little academy foryoung ladies in Fredericksburg. This was a bond of sympathy in mythoughts at least, and, heaven knows, I needed to remember it while Ifollowed the maid down the narrow stairs and along the wide hall to thefront of the house. 

In looking back after a year, I can recall every detail of that firstmeeting. Though it was barely four o'clock, the electric lamps wereturned on in the hall, and I can still see the mellow light that shoneover the staircase and lay in pools on the old pink rugs, which were sosoft and fine that I felt as if I were walking on flowers. I rememberthe sound of music from a room somewhere on the first floor, and thescent of lilies and hyacinths that drifted from the conservatory. Iremember it all, every note of music, every whiff of fragrance; but mostvividly I remember Mrs. Vanderbridge as she looked round, when the dooropened, from the wood fire into which she had been gazing. Her eyescaught me first. They were so wonderful that for a moment I couldn't seeanything else; then I took in slowly the dark red of her hair, the clearpallor of her skin, and the long, flowing lines of her figure in atea-gown of blue silk. There was a white bearskin rug under her feet, and while she stood there before the wood fire, she looked as if she hadabsorbed the beauty and colour of the house as a crystal vase absorbsthe light. Only when she spoke to me, and I went nearer, did I detectthe heaviness beneath her eyes and the nervous quiver of her mouth, which drooped a little at the corners. Tired and worn as she was, Inever saw her afterwards--not even when she was dressed for theopera--look quite so lovely, so much like an exquisite flower, as shedid on that first afternoon. When I knew her better, I discovered thatshe was a changeable beauty, there were days when all the colour seemedto go out of her, and she looked dull and haggard, but at her best noone I've ever seen could compare with her. 

She asked me a few questions, and though she was pleasant and kind, Iknew that she scarcely listened to my responses. While I sat down at thedesk and dipped my pen into the ink, she flung herself on the couchbefore the fire with a movement which struck me as hopeless. I saw herfeet tap the white fur rug, while she plucked nervously at the lace onthe end of one of the gold-coloured sofa cushions. For an instant thethought flashed through my mind that she had been taking something--adrug of some sort--and that she was suffering now from the effects ofit. Then she looked at me steadily, almost as if she were reading mythoughts, and I knew that I was wrong. Her large radiant eyes were asinnocent as a child's. 

She dictated a few notes--all declining invitations--and then, while Istill waited pen in hand, she sat up on the couch with one of her quickmovements, and said in a low voice, "I am not dining out to-night, MissWrenn. I am not well enough. "

"I am sorry for that. " It was all I could think of to say, for I did notunderstand why she should have told me. 

"If you don't mind, I should like you to come down to dinner. There willbe only Mr. Vanderbridge and myself. "

"Of course I will come if you wish it. " I couldn't very well refuse todo what she asked me, yet I told myself, while I answered, that if I hadknown she expected me to make one of the family, I should never, noteven at twice the salary, have taken the place. It didn't take me aminute to go over my slender wardrobe in my mind and realize that I hadnothing to wear that would look well enough. 

"I can see you don't like it, " she added after a moment, almostwistfully, "but it won't be often. It is only when we are dining alone. "

This, I thought, was even queerer than the request--or command--for Iknew from her tone, just as plainly as if she had told me in words, thatshe did not wish to dine alone with her husband. 

"I am ready to help you in any way--in any way that I can, " I replied, and I was so deeply moved by her appeal that my voice broke in spite ofmy effort to control it. After my lonely life I dare say I should haveloved any one who really needed me, and from the first moment that Iread the appeal in Mrs. Vanderbridge's face I felt that I was willing towork my fingers to the bone for her. Nothing that she asked of me wastoo much when she asked it in that voice, with that look. 

"I am glad you are nice, " she said, and for the first time she smiled--acharming, girlish smile with a hint of archness. "We shall get onbeautifully, I know, because I can talk to you. My last secretary wasEnglish, and I frightened her almost to death whenever I tried to talkto her. " Then her tone grew serious. "You won't mind dining with us. Roger--Mr. Vanderbridge--is the most charming man in the world. "

"Is that his picture?"

"Yes, the one in the Florentine frame. The other is my brother. Do youthink we are alike?"

"Since you've told me, I notice a likeness. " Already I had picked up theFlorentine frame from the desk, and was eagerly searching the featuresof Mr. Vanderbridge. It was an arresting face, dark, thoughtful, strangely appealing, and picturesque--though this may have been due, ofcourse, to the photographer. The more I looked at it, the more theregrew upon me an uncanny feeling of familiarity; but not until the nextday, while I was still trying to account for the impression that I hadseen the picture before, did there flash into my mind the memory of anold portrait of a Florentine nobleman in a loan collection last winter. I can't remember the name of the painter--I am not sure that it wasknown--but this photograph might have been taken from the painting. There was the same imaginative sadness in both faces, the same hauntingbeauty of feature, and one surmised that there must be the same richdarkness of colouring. The only striking difference was that the man inthe photograph looked much older than the original of the portrait, andI remembered that the lady who had engaged me was the second wife of Mr. Vanderbridge and some ten or fifteen years younger, I had heard, thanher husband. 

"Have you ever seen a more wonderful face?" asked Mrs. Vanderbridge. "Doesn't he look as if he might have been painted by Titian?"

"Is he really so handsome as that?"

"He is a little older and sadder, that is all. When we were married itwas exactly like him. " For an instant she hesitated and then broke outalmost bitterly, "Isn't that a face any woman might fall in love with, aface any woman--living or dead--would not be willing to give up?"

Poor child, I could see that she was overwrought and needed some one totalk to, but it seemed queer to me that she should speak so frankly to astranger. I wondered why any one so rich and so beautiful should ever beunhappy--for I had been schooled by poverty to believe that money is thefirst essential of happiness--and yet her unhappiness was as evident asher beauty, or the luxury that enveloped her. At that instant I feltthat I hated Mr. Vanderbridge, for whatever the secret tragedy of theirmarriage might be, I instinctively knew that the fault was not on theside of the wife. She was as sweet and winning as if she were still thereigning beauty in the academy for young ladies. I knew with a knowledgedeeper than any conviction that she was not to blame, and if she wasn'tto blame, then who under heaven could be at fault except her husband?

In a few minutes a friend came in to tea, and I went upstairs to myroom, and unpacked the blue taffeta dress I had bought for my sister'swedding. I was still doubtfully regarding it when there was a knock atmy door, and the maid with the sad face came in to bring me a pot oftea. After she had placed the tray on the table, she stood nervouslytwisting a napkin in her hands while she waited for me to leave myunpacking and sit down in the easy chair she had drawn up under thelamp. 

"How do you think Mrs. Vanderbridge is looking?" she asked abruptly in avoice, that held a breathless note of suspense. Her nervousness and thequeer look in her face made me stare at her sharply. This was a house, Iwas beginning to feel, where everybody, from the mistress down, wantedto question me. Even the silent maid had found voice for interrogation. 

"I think her the loveliest person I've ever seen, " I answered after amoment's hesitation. There couldn't be any harm in telling her how muchI admired her mistress. 

"Yes, she is lovely--every one thinks so--and her nature is as sweet asher face. " She was becoming loquacious. "I have never had a lady who wasso sweet and kind. She hasn't always been rich, and that may be thereason she never seems to grow hard and selfish, the reason she spendsso much of her life thinking of other people. It's been six years now, ever since her marriage, that I've lived with her, and in all that timeI've never had a cross word from her. "

"One can see that. With everything she has she ought to be as happy asthe day is long. "

"She ought to be. " Her voice dropped, and I saw her glance suspiciouslyat the door, which she had closed when she entered. "She ought to be, but she isn't. I have never seen any one so unhappy as she has been oflate--ever since last summer. I suppose I oughtn't to talk about it, butI've kept it to myself so long that I feel as if it was killing me. Ifshe was my own sister, I couldn't be any fonder of her, and yet I haveto see her suffer day after day, and not say a word--not even to her. She isn't the sort of lady you could speak to about a thing like that. "

She broke down, and dropping on the rug at my feet, hid her face in herhands. It was plain that she was suffering acutely, and while I pattedher shoulder, I thought what a wonderful mistress Mrs. Vanderbridge mustbe to have attached a servant to her so strongly. 

"You must remember that I am a stranger in the house, that I scarcelyknow her, that I've never even seen her husband, " I said warningly, forI've always avoided, as far as possible, the confidences of servants. 

"But you look as if you could be trusted. " The maid's nerves, as well asthe mistress's, were on edge, I could see. "And she needs somebody whocan help her. She needs a real friend--somebody who will stand by her nomatter what happens. "

Again, as in the room downstairs, there flashed through my mind thesuspicion that I had got into a place where people took drugs ordrink--or were all out of their minds. I had heard of such houses. 

"How can I help her? She won't confide in me, and even if she did, whatcould I do for her?"

"You can stand by and watch. You can come between her and harm--if yousee it. " She had risen from the floor and stood wiping her reddened eyeson the napkin. "I don't know what it is, but I know it is there. I feelit even when I can't see it. "

Yes, they were all out of their minds; there couldn't be any otherexplanation. The whole episode was incredible. It was the kind of thing, I kept telling myself, that did not happen. Even in a book nobody couldbelieve it. 

"But her husband? He is the one who must protect her. "

She gave me a blighting look. "He would if he could. He isn't toblame--you mustn't think that. He is one of the best men in the world, but he can't help her. He can't help her because he doesn't know. Hedoesn't see it. "

A bell rang somewhere, and catching up the tea-tray, she paused justlong enough to throw me a pleading word, "Stand between her and harm, ifyou see it. "

When she had gone I locked the door after her, and turned on all thelights in the room. Was there really a tragic mystery in the house, orwere they all mad, as I had first imagined? The feeling of apprehension, of vague uneasiness, which had come to me when I entered the iron doors, swept over me in a wave while I sat there in the soft glow of the shadedelectric light. Something was wrong. Somebody was making that lovelywoman unhappy, and who, in the name of reason, could this somebody beexcept her husband? Yet the maid had spoken of him as "one of the bestmen in the world, " and it was impossible to doubt the tearful sincerityof her voice. Well, the riddle was too much for me. I gave it up at lastwith a sigh--dreading the hour that would call the downstairs to meetMr. Vanderbridge. I felt in every nerve and fibre of my body that Ishould hate him the moment I looked at him. 

But at eight o'clock, when I went reluctantly downstairs, I had asurprise. Nothing could have been kinder than the way Mr. Vanderbridgegreeted me, and I could tell as soon as I met his eyes that there wasn'tanything vicious or violent in his nature. He reminded me more thanever of the portrait in the loan collection, and though he was so mucholder than the Florentine nobleman, he had the same thoughtful look. Ofcourse I am not an artist, but I have always tried, in my way, to be areader of personality; and it didn't take a particularly keen observerto discern the character and intellect in Mr. Vanderbridge's face. Evennow I remember it as the noblest face I have ever seen; and unless I hadpossessed at least a shade of penetration, I doubt if I should havedetected the melancholy. For it was only when he was thinking deeplythat this sadness seemed to spread like a veil over his features. Atother times he was cheerful and even gay in his manner; and his richdark eyes would light up now and then with irrepressible humour. Fromthe way he looked at his wife I could tell that there was no lack oflove or tenderness on his side any more than there was on hers. It wasobvious that he was still as much in love with her as he had been beforehis marriage, and my immediate perception of this only deepened themystery that enveloped them. If the fault wasn't his and wasn't hers, then who was responsible for the shadow that hung over the house?

For the shadow was there. I could feel it, vague and dark, while wetalked about the war and the remote possibilities of peace in thespring. Mrs. Vanderbridge looked young and lovely in her gown of whitesatin with pearls on her bosom, but her violet eyes were almost black inthe candlelight, and I had a curious feeling that this blackness was thecolour of thought. Something troubled her to despair, yet I was aspositive as I could be of anything I had ever been told that she hadbreathed no word of this anxiety or distress to her husband. Devoted asthey were, a nameless dread, fear, or apprehension divided them. It wasthe thing I had felt from the moment I entered the house; the thing Ihad heard in the tearful voice of the maid. One could scarcely call ithorror, because it was too vague, too impalpable, for so vivid a name;yet, after all these quiet months, horror is the only word I can thinkof that in any way expresses the emotion which pervaded the house. 

I had never seen so beautiful a dinner table, and I was gazing withpleasure at the damask and glass and silver--there was a silver basketof chrysanthemums, I remember, in the centre of the table--when Inoticed a nervous movement of Mrs. Vanderbridge's head, and saw herglance hastily toward the door and the staircase beyond. We had beentalking animatedly, and as Mrs. Vanderbridge turned away, I had justmade a remark to her husband, who appeared to have fallen into a suddenfit of abstraction, and was gazing thoughtfully over his soup-plate atthe white and yellow chrysanthemums. It occurred to me, while I watchedhim, that he was probably absorbed in some financial problem, and Iregretted that I had been so careless as to speak to him. To mysurprise, however, he replied immediately in a natural tone, and I saw, or imagined that I saw, Mrs. Vanderbridge throw me a glance of gratitudeand relief. I can't remember what we were talking about, but I recallperfectly that the conversation kept up pleasantly, without a break, until dinner was almost half over. The roast had been served, and I wasin the act of helping myself to potatoes, when I became aware that Mr. Vanderbridge had again fallen into his reverie. This time he scarcelyseemed to hear his wife's voice when she spoke to him, and I watched thesadness cloud his face while he continued to stare straight ahead of himwith a look that was almost yearning in its intensity. 

Again I saw Mrs. Vanderbridge, with her nervous gesture, glance in thedirection of the hall, and to my amazement, as she did so, a woman'sfigure glided noiselessly over the old Persian rug at the door, andentered the dining-room. I was wondering why no one spoke to her, whyshe spoke to no one, when I saw her sink into a chair on the other sideof Mr. Vanderbridge and unfold her napkin. She was quite young, youngereven than Mrs. Vanderbridge, and though she was not really beautiful, she was the most graceful creature I had ever imagined. Her dress was ofgray stuff, softer and more clinging than silk, and of a peculiar mistytexture and colour, and her parted hair lay like twilight on either sideof her forehead. She was not like any one I had ever seen before--sheappeared so much frailer, so much more elusive, as if she would vanishif you touched her. I can't describe, even months afterwards, thesingular way in which she attracted and repelled me. 

At first I glanced inquiringly at Mrs. Vanderbridge, hoping that shewould introduce me, but she went on talking rapidly in an intense, quivering voice, without noticing the presence of her guest by so muchas the lifting of her eyelashes. Mr. Vanderbridge still sat there, silent and detached, and all the time the eyes of the stranger--starryeyes with a mist over them--looked straight through me at the tapestryon the wall. I knew she didn't see me and that it wouldn't have made theslightest difference to her if she had seen me. In spite of her graceand her girlishness I did not like her, and I felt that this aversionwas not on my side alone. I do not know how I received the impressionthat she hated Mrs. Vanderbridge--never once had she glanced in herdirection--yet I was aware from the moment of her entrance, that she wasbristling with animosity, though animosity is too strong a word for theresentful spite, like the jealous rage of a spoiled child, which gleamednow and then in her eyes. I couldn't think of her as wicked any morethan I could think of a bad child as wicked. She was merely wilful andundisciplined and--I hardly know how to convey what I mean--elfish. 

After her entrance the dinner dragged on heavily. Mrs. Vanderbridgestill kept up her nervous chatter, but nobody listened, for I was tooembarrassed to pay any attention to what she said, and Mr. Vanderbridgehad never recovered from his abstraction. He was like a man in a dream, not observing a thing that happened before him, while the strange womansat there in the candlelight with her curious look of vagueness andunreality. To my astonishment not even the servants appeared to noticeher, and though she had unfolded her napkin when she sat down, shewasn't served with either the roast or the salad. Once or twice, particularly when a course was served, I glanced at Mrs. Vanderbridge tosee if she would rectify the mistake, but she kept her gaze fixed on herplate. It was just as if there were a conspiracy to ignore the presenceof the stranger, though she had been, from the moment of her entrance, the dominant figure at the table. You tried to pretend she wasn't there, and yet you knew--you knew vividly that she was gazing insolentlystraight through you. 

The dinner lasted, it seemed, for hours, and you may imagine my reliefwhen at last Mrs. Vanderbridge rose and led the way back into thedrawing-room. At first I thought the stranger would follow us, but whenI glanced round from the hall she was still sitting there beside Mr. Vanderbridge, who was smoking a cigar with his coffee. 

"Usually he takes his coffee with me, " said Mrs. Vanderbridge, "buttonight he has things to think over. "

"I thought he seemed absent-minded. "

"You noticed it, then?" She turned to me with her straightforwardglance. "I always wonder how much strangers notice. He hasn't been wellof late, and he has these spells of depression. Nerves are dreadfulthings, aren't they?"

I laughed. "So I've heard, but I've never been able to afford them. "

"Well, they do cost a great deal, don't they?" She had a trick of endingher sentences with a question. "I hope your room is comfortable, andthat you don't feel timid about being alone on that floor. If youhaven't nerves, you can't get nervous, can you?"

"No, I can't get nervous. " Yet while I spoke, I was conscious of ashiver deep down in me, as if my senses reacted again to the dread thatpermeated the atmosphere. 

As soon as I could, I escaped to my room, and I was sitting there over abook, when the maid--her name was Hopkins, I had discovered--came in onthe pretext of inquiring if I had everything I needed. One of theinnumerable servants had already turned down my bed, so when Hopkinsappeared at the door, I suspected at once that there was a hidden motiveunderlying her ostensible purpose. 

"Mrs. Vanderbridge told me to look after you, " she began. "She is afraidyou will be lonely until you learn the way of things. "

"No, I'm not lonely, " I answered. "I've never had time to be lonely. "

"I used to be like that; but time hangs heavy on my hands now. That'swhy I've taken to knitting. " She held out a gray yarn muffler. "I had anoperation a year ago, and since then Mrs. Vanderbridge has had anothermaid--a French one--to sit up for her at night and undress her. She isalways so fearful of overtaxing us, though there isn't really enoughwork for two lady's-maids, because she is so thoughtful that she nevergives any trouble if she can help it. "

"It must be nice to be rich, " I said idly, as I turned a page of mybook. Then I added almost before I realized what I was saying, "Theother lady doesn't look as if she had so much money. "

Her face turned paler if that were possible, and for a minute I thoughtshe was going to faint. "The other lady?"

"I mean the one who came down late to dinner--the one in the gray dress. She wore no jewels, and her dress wasn't low in the neck. "

"Then you saw her?" There was a curious flicker in her face as if herpallor came and went. 

"We were at the table when she came in. Has Mr. Vanderbridge a secretarywho lives in the house?"

"No, he hasn't a secretary except at his office. When he wants one atthe house, he telephones to his office. "

"I wondered why she came, for she didn't eat any dinner, and nobodyspoke to her--not even Mr. Vanderbridge. "

"Oh, he never speaks to her. Thank God, it hasn't come to that yet. "

"Then why does she come? It must be dreadful to be treated like that, and before the servants, too. Does she come often?"

"There are months and months when she doesn't. I can always tell by theway Mrs. Vanderbridge picks up. You wouldn't know her, she is so full oflife--the very picture of happiness. Then one evening she--the OtherOne, I mean--comes back again, just as she did tonight, just as she didlast summer, and it all begins over from the beginning. "

"But can't they keep her out--the Other One? Why do they let her in?"

"Mrs. Vanderbridge tries hard. She tries all she can every minute. Yousaw her tonight?"

"And Mr. Vanderbridge? Can't he help her?"

She shook her head with an ominous gesture. "He doesn't know. "

"He doesn't know she is there? Why, she was close by him. She never tookher eyes off him except when she was staring through me at the wall. "

"Oh, he knows she is there, but not in that way. He doesn't know thatany one else knows. "

I gave it up, and after a minute she said in a suppressed voice, "Itseems strange that you should have seen her. I never have. "

"But you know all about her. "

"I know and I don't know. Mrs. Vanderbridge lets things dropsometimes--she gets ill and feverish very easily--but she never tells meanything outright. She isn't that sort. "

"Haven't the servants told you about her--the Other One?"

At this, I thought, she seemed startled. "Oh, they don't know anythingto tell. They feel that something is wrong; that is why they never staylonger than a week or two--we've had eight butlers since autumn--butthey never see what it is. "

She stooped to pick up the ball of yarn which had rolled under my chair. "If the time ever comes when you can stand between them, you will doit?" she asked. 

"Between Mrs. Vanderbridge and the Other One?"

Her look answered me. 

"You think, then, that she means harm to her?"

"I don't know. Nobody knows--but she is killing her. "

The clock struck ten, and I returned to my book with a yawn, whileHopkins gathered up her work and went out, after wishing me a formalgood night. The odd part about our secret conferences was that as soonas they were over, we began to pretend so elaborately to each other thatthey had never been. 

"I'll tell Mrs. Vanderbridge that you are very comfortable, " was thelast remark Hopkins made before she sidled out of the door and left mealone with the mystery. It was one of those situations--I am obliged torepeat this over and over--that was too preposterous for me to believeeven while I was surrounded and overwhelmed by its reality. I didn'tdare face what I thought, I didn't dare face even what I felt; but Iwent to bed shivering in a warm room, while I resolved passionately thatif the chance ever came to me I would stand between Mrs. Vanderbridgeand this unknown evil that threatened her. 

In the morning Mrs. Vanderbridge went out shopping, and I did not seeher until the evening, when she passed me on the staircase as she wasgoing out to dinner and the opera. She was radiant in blue velvet, withdiamonds in her hair and at her throat, and I wondered again how any oneso lovely could ever be troubled. 

"I hope you had a pleasant day, Miss Wrenn, " she said kindly. "I havebeen too busy to get off any letters, but tomorrow we shall beginearly. " Then, as if from an afterthought, she looked back and added, "There are some new novels in my sitting-room. You might care to lookover them. "

When she had gone, I went upstairs to the sitting-room and turned overthe books, but I couldn't, to save my life, force an interest in printedromances after meeting Mrs. Vanderbridge and remembering the mysterythat surrounded her. I wondered if "the Other One, " as Hopkins calledher, lived in the house, and I was still wondering this when the maidcame in and began putting the table to rights. 

"Do they dine out often?" I asked. 

"They used to, but since Mr. Vanderbridge hasn't been so well, Mrs. Vanderbridge doesn't like to go without him. She only went tonightbecause he begged her to. "

She had barely finished speaking when the door opened, and Mr. Vanderbridge came in and sat down in one of the big velvet chairs beforethe wood fire. He had not noticed us, for one of his moods was upon him, and I was about to slip out as noiselessly as I could when I saw thatthe Other One was standing in the patch of firelight on the hearth rug. I had not seen her come in, and Hopkins evidently was still unaware ofher presence, for while I was watching, I saw the maid turn towards herwith a fresh log for the fire. At the moment it occurred to me thatHopkins must be either blind or drunk, for without hesitating in heradvance, she moved on the stranger, holding the huge hickory log out infront of her. Then, before I could utter a sound or stretch out a handto stop her, I saw her walk straight through the gray figure andcarefully place the log on the andirons. 

So she isn't real, after all, she is merely a phantom, I found myselfthinking, as I fled from the room, and hurried along the hall to thestaircase. She is only a ghost, and nobody believes in ghosts anylonger. She is something that I know doesn't exist, yet even, though shecan't possibly be, I can swear that I have seen her. My nerves were soshaken by the discovery that as soon as I reached my room I sank in aheap on the rug, and it was here that Hopkins found me a little laterwhen she came to bring me an extra blanket. 

"You looked so upset I thought you might have seen something, " she said. "Did anything happen while you were in the room?"

"She was there all the time--every blessed minute. You walked rightthrough her when you put the log on the fire. Is it possible that youdidn't see her?"

"No, I didn't see anything out of the way. " She was plainly frightened. "Where was she standing?"

"On the hearthrug in front of Mr. Vanderbridge. To reach the fire youhad to walk straight through her, for she didn't move. She didn't giveway an inch. "

"Oh, she never gives way. She never gives way living or dead. "

This was more than human nature could stand. "In Heaven's name, " I criedirritably, "who is she?"

"Don't you know?" She appeared genuinely surprised. "Why, she is theother Mrs. Vanderbridge. She died fifteen years ago, just a year afterthey were married, and people say a scandal was hushed up about her, which he never knew. She isn't a good sort, that's what I think of her, though they say he almost worshipped her. "

"And she still has this hold on him?"

"He can't shake it off, that's what's the matter with him, and if itgoes on, he will end his days in an asylum. You see, she was very young, scarcely more than a girl, and he got the idea in his head that it wasmarrying him that killed her. If you want to know what I think, Ibelieve she puts it there for a purpose. "

"You mean--?" I was so completely at sea that I couldn't frame arational question. 

"I mean she haunts him purposely in order to drive him out of his mind. She was always that sort, jealous and exacting, the kind that clutchesand strangles a man, and I've often thought, though I've no head forspeculation, that we carry into the next world the traits and feelingsthat have got the better of us in this one. It seems to me only commonsense to believe that we're obliged to work them off somewhere until weare free of them. That is the way my first lady used to talk anyhow, andI've never found anybody that could give me a more sensible idea. "

"And isn't there any way to stop it? What has Mrs. Vanderbridge done?"

"Oh, she can't do anything now. It has got beyond her, though she hashad doctor after doctor, and tried everything she could think of. But, you see, she is handicapped because she can't mention it to her husband. He doesn't know that she knows. "

"And she won't tell him?"

"She is the sort that would die first--just the opposite from the OtherOne--for she leaves him free, she never clutches and strangles. It isn'ther way. " For a moment she hesitated, and then added grimly--"I'vewondered if you could do anything?"

"If I could? Why, I am a perfect stranger to them all. "

"That's why I've been thinking it. Now, if you could corner her someday--the Other One--and tell her up and down to her face what you thinkof her. "

The idea was so ludicrous that it made me laugh in spite of my shakennerves. "They would fancy me out of my wits! Imagine stopping anapparition and telling it what you think of it!"

"Then you might try talking it over with Mrs. Vanderbridge. It wouldhelp her to know that you see her also. "

But the next morning, when I went down to Mrs. Vanderbridge's room, Ifound that she was too ill to see me. At noon a trained nurse came onthe case, and for a week we took our meals together in the morning-roomupstairs. She appeared competent enough, but I am sure that she didn'tso much as suspect that there was anything wrong in the house except theinfluenza which had attacked Mrs. Vanderbridge the night of the opera. Never once during that week did I catch a glimpse of the Other One, though I felt her presence whenever I left my room and passed throughthe hall below. I knew all the time as well as if I had seen her thatshe was hidden there, watching, watching--

At the end of the week Mrs. Vanderbridge sent for me to write someletters, and when I went into her room, I found her lying on the couchwith a tea table in front of her. She asked me to make the tea becauseshe was still so weak, and I saw that she looked flushed and feverish, and that her eyes were unnaturally large and bright. I hoped shewouldn't talk to me, because people in that state are apt to talk toomuch and then to blame the listener; but I had hardly taken my seat atthe tea table before she said in a hoarse voice--the cold had settled onher chest:

"Miss Wrenn, I have wanted to ask you ever since the other evening--didyou--did you see anything unusual at dinner? From your face when youcame out I thought--I thought--"

I met this squarely. "That I might have? Yes, I did see something. "

"You saw her?"

"I saw a woman come in and sit down at the table, and I wondered why noone served her. I saw her quite distinctly. "

"A small woman, thin and pale, in a grey dress?"

"She was so vague and--and misty, you know what I mean, that it is hardto describe her; but I should know her again anywhere. She wore her hairparted and drawn down over her ears. It was very dark and fine--as fineas spun silk. "

We were speaking in low voices, and unconsciously we had moved closertogether while my idle hands left the tea things. 

"Then you know, " she said earnestly, "that she really comes--that I amnot out of my mind--that it is not an hallucination?"

"I know that I saw her. I would swear to it. But doesn't Mr. Vanderbridge see her also?"

"Not as we see her. He thinks that she is in his mind only. " Then afteran uncomfortable silence, she added suddenly, "She is really a thought, you know. She is his thought of her--but he doesn't know that she isvisible to the rest of us. "

"And he brings her back by thinking of her?"

She leaned nearer while a quiver passed over her features and the flushdeepened in her cheeks. "That is the only way she comes back--the onlyway she has the power to come back--as a thought. There are months andmonths when she leaves us in peace because he is thinking of otherthings, but of late, since his illness, she has been with him almostconstantly. " A sob broke from her, and she buried her face in her hands. "I suppose she is always trying to come--only she is too vague--and shehasn't any form that we can see except when he thinks of her as she usedto look when she was alive. His thought of her is like that, hurt andtragic and revengeful. You see, he feels that he ruined her life becauseshe died when the child was coming--a month before it would have beenborn. "

"And if he were to see her differently, would she change? Would shecease to be revengeful if he stopped thinking her so?"

"God only knows. I've wondered and wondered how I might move her topity. "

"Then you feel that she is really there? That she exists outside of hismind?"

"How can I tell? What do any of us know of the world beyond? She existsas much as I exist to you or you to me. Isn't thought all that thereis--all that we know?"

This was deeper than I could follow; but in order not to appear stupid, I murmured sympathetically. 

"And does she make him unhappy when she comes?"

"She is killing him--and me. I believe that is why she does it. "

"Are you sure that she could stay away? When he thinks of her isn't sheobliged to come back?"

"Oh, I've asked that question over and over! In spite of his calling herso unconsciously, I believe she comes of her own will. I have always thefeeling--it has never left me for an instant--that she could appeardifferently if she would. I have studied her for years until I know herlike a book, and though she is only an apparition, I am perfectlypositive that she wills evil to us both. Don't you think he would changethat if he could? Don't you think he would make her kind instead ofvindictive if he had the power?"

"But if he could remember her as loving and tender?"

"I don't know. I give it up--but it is killing me. "

It _was_ killing her. As the days passed I began to realize that she hadspoken the truth. I watched her bloom fade slowly and her lovelyfeatures grow pinched and thin like the features of a starved person. The harder she fought the apparition, the more I saw that the battle wasa losing one, and that she was only wasting her strength. So impalpableyet so pervasive was the enemy that it was like fighting a poisonousodour. There was nothing to wrestle with, and yet there was everything. The struggle was wearing her out--was, as she had said, actually"killing her"; but the physician who dosed her daily with drugs--therewas need now of a physician--had not the faintest idea of the malady hewas treating. In those dreadful days I think that even Mr. Vanderbridgehadn't a suspicion of the truth. The past was with him so constantly--hewas so steeped in the memories of it that the present was scarcely morethan a dream to him. It was, you see, a reversal of the natural order ofthings; the thought had become more vivid to his perceptions than anyobject. The phantom had been victorious so far, and he was like a manrecovering from the effects of a narcotic. He was only half awake, onlyhalf alive to the events through which he lived and the people whosurrounded him. Oh, I realize that I am telling my story badly!--that Iam slurring over the significant interludes! My mind has dealt so longwith external details that I have almost forgotten the words thatexpress invisible things. Though the phantom in the house was more realto me than the bread I ate or the floor on which I trod, I can give youno impression of the atmosphere in which we lived day after day--of thesuspense, of the dread of something we could not define, of the broodinghorror that seemed to lurk in the shadows of the firelight, of thefeeling always, day and night, that some unseen person was watching us. How Mrs. Vanderbridge stood it without losing her mind, I have neverknown; and even now I am not sure that she could have kept her reason ifthe end had not come when it did. That I accidentally brought it aboutis one of the things in my life I am most thankful to remember. 

It was an afternoon in late winter, and I had just come up fromluncheon, when Mrs. Vanderbridge asked me to empty an old desk in one ofthe upstairs rooms. "I am sending all the furniture in that room away, "she said, "it was bought in a bad period, and I want to clear it out andmake room for the lovely things we picked up in Italy. There is nothingin the desk worth saving except some old letters from Mr. Vanderbridge'smother before her marriage. "

I was glad that she could think of anything so practical as furniture, and it was with relief that I followed her into the dim, rather mustyroom over the library, where the windows were all tightly closed. Yearsago, Hopkins had once told me, the first Mrs. Vanderbridge had used thisroom for a while, and after her death her husband had been in the habitof shutting himself up alone here in the evenings. This, I inferred, wasthe secret reason why my employer was sending the furniture away. Shehad resolved to clear the house of every association with the past. 

For a few minutes we sorted the letters in the drawers of the desk, andthen, as I expected, Mrs. Vanderbridge became suddenly bored by the taskshe had undertaken. She was subject to these nervous reactions, and Iwas prepared for them even when they seized her so spasmodically. Iremember that she was in the very act of glancing over an old letterwhen she rose impatiently, tossed it into the fire unread, and picked upa magazine she had thrown down on a chair. 

"Go over them by yourself, Miss Wrenn, " she said, and it wascharacteristic of her nature that she should assume my trustworthiness. "If anything seems worth saving you can file it--but I'd rather die thanhave to wade through all this. "

They were mostly personal letters, and while I went on, carefully filingthem, I thought how absurd it was of people to preserve so many papersthat were entirely without value. Mr. Vanderbridge I had imagined to bea methodical man, and yet the disorder of the desk produced a painfuleffect on my systematic temperament. The drawers were filled withletters evidently unsorted, for now and then I came upon a mass ofbusiness receipts and acknowledgements crammed in among weddinginvitations or letters from some elderly lady, who wrote interminablepale epistles in the finest and most feminine of Italian hands. That aman of Mr. Vanderbridge's wealth and position should have been socareless about his correspondence amazed me until I recalled the darkhints Hopkins had dropped in some of her midnight conversations. Was itpossible that he had actually lost his reason for months after the deathof his first wife, during that year when he had shut himself alone withher memory? The question was still in my mind when my eyes fell on theenvelope in my hand, and I saw that it was addressed to Mrs. RogerVanderbridge. So this explained, in a measure at least, the carelessnessand the disorder! The desk was not his, but hers, and after her death hehad used it only during those desperate months when he barely opened aletter. What he had done in those long evenings when he sat alone hereit was beyond me to imagine. Was it any wonder that the brooding shouldhave permanently unbalanced his mind?

At the end of an hour I had sorted and filed the papers, with theintention of asking Mrs. Vanderbridge if she wished me to destroy theones that seemed to be unimportant. The letters she had instructed me tokeep had not come to my hand, and I was about to give up the search forthem, when, in shaking the lock of one of the drawers, the door of asecret compartment fell open and I discovered a dark object, whichcrumbled and dropped apart when I touched it. Bending nearer, I saw thatthe crumbled mass had once been a bunch of flowers, and that a streamerof purple ribbon still held together the frail structure of wire andstems. In this drawer some one had hidden a sacred treasure, and movedby a sense of romance and adventure, I gathered the dust tenderly intissue paper, and prepared to take it downstairs to Mrs. Vanderbridge. It was not until then that some letters tied loosely together with asilver cord caught my eyes, and while I picked them up, I rememberthinking that they must be the ones for which I had been looking solong. Then, as the cord broke in my grasp and I gathered the lettersfrom the lid of the desk, a word or two flashed back at me through thetorn edges of the envelopes, and I realized that they were love letterswritten, I surmised, some fifteen years ago, by Mr. Vanderbridge to hisfirst wife. 

"It may hurt her to see them, " I thought, "but I don't dare destroythem. There is nothing I can do except give them to her. "

As I left the room, carrying the letters and the ashes of the flowers, the idea of taking them to the husband instead of to the wife, flashedthrough my mind. Then--I think it was some jealous feeling about thephantom that decided me--I quickened my steps to a run down thestaircase. 

"They would bring her back. He would think of her more than ever, " Itold myself, "so he shall never see them. He shall never see them if Ican prevent it. " I believe it occurred to me that Mrs. Vanderbridgewould be generous enough to give them to him--she was capable of risingabove her jealousy, I knew--but I determined that she shouldn't do ituntil I had reasoned it out with her. "If anything on earth would bringback the Other One for good, it would be his seeing these old letters, "I repeated as I hastened down the hall. 

Mrs. Vanderbridge was lying on the couch before the fire, and I noticedat once that she had been crying. The drawn look in her sweet face wentto my heart, and I felt that I would do anything in the world to comforther. Though she had a book in her hand, I could see that she had notbeen reading. The electric lamp on the table by her side was alreadylighted, leaving the rest of the room in shadow, for it was a grey daywith a biting edge of snow in the air. It was all very charming in thesoft light; but as soon as I entered I had a feeling of oppression thatmade me want to run out into the wind. If you have ever lived in ahaunted house--a house pervaded by an unforgettable past--you willunderstand the sensation of melancholy that crept over me the minute theshadows began to fall. It was not in myself--of this I am sure, for Ihave naturally a cheerful temperament--it was in the space thatsurrounded us and the air we breathed. 

I explained to her about the letters, and then, kneeling on the rug infront of her, I emptied the dust of the flowers into the fire. Therewas, though I hate to confess it, a vindictive pleasure in watching itmelt into the flames and at the moment I believe I could have burned theapparition as thankfully. The more I saw of the Other One, the more Ifound myself accepting Hopkins' judgment of her. Yes, her behaviour, living and dead, proved that she was not "a good sort. "

My eyes were still on the flames when a sound from Mrs. Vanderbridge--half a sigh, half a sob--made me turn quickly and look upat her. 

"But this isn't his handwriting, " she said in a puzzled tone. "They arelove letters, and they are to her--but they are not from him. " For amoment or two she was silent, and I heard the pages rustle in her handsas she turned them impatiently. "They are not from him, " she repeatedpresently, with an exultant ring in her voice. "They are written afterher marriage, but they are from another man. " She was as sternly tragicas an avenging fate. "She wasn't faithful to him while she lived. Shewasn't faithful to him even while he was hers--"

With a spring I had risen from my knees and was bending over her. 

"Then you can save him from her. You can win him back? You have only toshow him the letters, and he will believe. "

"Yes, I have only to show him the letters. " She was looking beyond meinto the dusky shadows of the firelight, as if she saw the Other Onestanding there. "I have only to show him the letters, " I knew now thatshe was not speaking to me, "and he will believe. "

"Her power over him will be broken, " I cried out. "He will think of herdifferently. Oh, don't you see? Can't you see? It is the only way tomake him think of her differently. It is the only way to break for everthe thought that draws her back to him. "

"Yes, I see, it is the only way, " she said slowly; and the words werestill on her lips when the door opened and Mr. Vanderbridge entered. 

"I came for a cup of tea, " he began, and added with playful tenderness, "What is the only way?"

It was the crucial moment, I realized--it was the hour of destiny forthese two--and while he sank wearily into a chair, I looked imploringlyat his wife and then at the letters lying scattered loosely about her. If I had had my will I should have flung them at him with a violencewhich would have startled him out of his lethargy. Violence, I felt waswhat he needed--violence, a storm, tears, reproaches--all the things hewould never get from his wife. 

For a minute or two she sat there, with the letters before her, andwatched him with her thoughtful and tender gaze. I knew from her face, so lovely and yet so sad, that she was looking again at invisiblethings--at the soul of the man she loved, not at the body. She saw him, detached and spiritualized, and she saw also the Other One--for while wewaited I became slowly aware of the apparition in the firelight--of thewhite face and the cloudy hair and the look of animosity and bitternessin the eyes. Never before had I been so profoundly convinced of themalignant will veiled by that thin figure. It was as if the visible formwere only a spiral of grey smoke covering a sinister purpose. 

"The only way, " said Mrs. Vanderbridge, "is to fight fairly even whenone fights evil. " Her voice was like a bell, and as she spoke, she rosefrom the couch and stood there in her glowing beauty confronting thepale ghost of the past. There was a light about her that was almostunearthly--the light of triumph. The radiance of it blinded me for aninstant. It was like a flame, clearing the atmosphere of all that wasevil, of all that was poisonous and deadly. She was looking directly atthe phantom, and there was no hate in her voice--there was only a greatpity, a great sorrow and sweetness. 

"I can't fight you that way, " she said, and I knew that for the firsttime she had swept aside subterfuge and evasion, and was speakingstraight to the presence before her. "After all, you are dead and I amliving, and I cannot fight you that way. I give up everything. I givehim back to you. Nothing is mine that I cannot win and keep fairly. Nothing is mine that belongs really to you. "

Then, while Mr. Vanderbridge rose, with a start of fear, and cametowards her, she bent quickly, and flung the letters into the fire. Whenhe would have stooped to gather the unburned pages, her lovely flowingbody curved between his hands and the flames; and so transparent, soethereal she looked, that I saw--or imagined that I saw--the firelightshine through her. "The only way, my dear, is the right way, " she saidsoftly. 

The next instant--I don't know to this day how or when it began--I wasaware that the apparition had drawn nearer, and that the dread and fear, the evil purpose, were no longer a part of her. I saw her clearly for amoment--saw her as I had never seen her before--young and gentleand--yes, this is the only word for it--loving. It was just as if acurse had turned into a blessing, for, while she stood there, I had acurious sensation of being enfolded in a kind of spiritual glow andcomfort--only words are useless to describe the feeling because itwasn't in the least like anything else I had ever known in my life. Itwas light without heat, glow without light--and yet it was none of thesethings. The nearest I can come to it is to call it a sense ofblessedness--of blessedness that made you at peace with everything youhad once hated. 

Not until afterwards did I realize that it was the victory of good overevil. Not until afterwards did I discover that Mrs. Vanderbridge hadtriumphed over the past in the only way that she could triumph. She hadwon, not by resisting, but by accepting, not by violence, but bygentleness, not by grasping, but by renouncing. Oh, long, longafterwards, I knew that she had robbed the phantom of power over her byrobbing it of hatred. She had changed the thought of the past, in thatlay her victory. 

At the moment I did not understand this. I did not understand it evenwhen I looked again for the apparition in the firelight, and saw that ithad vanished. There was nothing there--nothing except the pleasantflicker of light and shadow on the old Persian rug. 

HIS SMILE[11]

By SUSAN GLASPELL

(From _The Pictorial Review_)

Laura stood across the street waiting for the people to come out fromthe picture-show. She couldn't have said just why she was waiting, unless it was that she was waiting because she could not go away. Shewas not wearing her black; she had a reason for not wearing it when shecame on these trips, and the simple lines of her dark-blue suit and thesmart little hat Howie had always liked on her, somehow suggested youngand happy things. Two soldiers came by; one of them said, "Hello, there, kiddo, " and the other, noting the anxiety with which she waited, assuredher, "_You_ should worry. " She looked at them, and when he saw her facethe one who had said, "You should worry, " said, in sheepish fashion, "Well, _I_ should worry, " as if to get out of the apology he didn't knowhow to make. She was glad they had gone by. It hurt so to be near thesoldiers. 

The man behind her kept saying, "Pop-_corn_! _Pop_-corn right _here_. "It seemed she must buy pop-corn if she stood there. She bought some. Shetried to do the thing she was expected to do--so she wouldn't benoticed. 

Then the people came pushing out from the theater. They did it just asthey did it in the other towns. A new town was only the same town in adifferent place; and all of it was a world she was as out of as if itwere passing before her in a picture. All of it except that one thingthat was all she had left! She had come so far to have it tonight. She_wouldn't_ be cheated. She crossed the street, and as the last peoplewere coming out of the theater she went in. 

A man, yawning, was doing something to a light. He must belong to theplace. His back was to her, and she stood there trying to get braveenough to speak. It had never been easy for her to open conversationswith strangers. For so many years it was Howie who had seemed to connecther with the world. And suddenly she thought of how sorry Howie would beto see her waiting around in this dismal place after every one else hadgone, trying to speak to a strange man about a thing that man wouldn'tat all understand. How well Howie would understand it! He would say, "Goon home, Laura. " "Don't do this, sweetheart. " Almost as if he had saidit, she turned away. But she turned back. This was her weddinganniversary. 

She went up to the man. "You didn't give all of the picture tonight, didyou?" Her voice was sharp; it mustn't tremble. 

He looked round at her in astonishment. He kept looking her up and downas if to make her out. Her trembling hands clutched the bag of pop-cornand some of it spilled. She let it all fall and put one hand to hermouth. 

A man came down from upstairs. "Lady here says you didn't give the wholeshow tonight, " said the first man. 

The young man on the stairs paused in astonishment. He, too, lookedLaura up and down. She took a step backward. 

"What was left out wasn't of any importance, lady, " said the man, looking at her, not unkindly, but puzzled. 

"I think it was!" she contended in a high, sharp voice. They both staredat her. As she realized that this could happen, saw how slight was herhold on the one thing she had, she went on, desperately, "You haven'tany right to do this! It's--it's _cheating_. "

They looked then, not at her, but at each other--as the sane counseltogether in the presence of what is outside their world. Oh, she knewthat look! She had seen her brother and his wife doing it when first sheknew about Howie. 

"Now I'll tell you, lady, " said the man to whom she had first spoken, in the voice that deals with what has to be dealt with carefully, "youjust let me give you your money back, then you won't have the feelingthat you've been cheated. " He put his hand in his pocket. 

"I don't want my money back!" cried Laura. "I--want to see what you leftout!"

"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do, " proposed the young man, taking hiscue from the older one. "I'll tell you just exactly what happened in thepart that was left out. "

"I know exactly what happened, " cut in Laura. "I--I want to _see_--whathappened. "

It was a cry from so deep that they didn't know what to do. 

"Won't you do it for me?" she begged of the young man, going up to him. "What you left out--won't you show it for me--_now_?"

He just stood there staring at her. 

"It means--! It--" But how could she tell them what it meant? She lookedfrom one to the other, as if to see what chance there was of their doingit without knowing what it meant. When she couldn't keep sobs back, sheturned away. 

Even in her room at the hotel she had to try to keep from crying. Shecould hear the man moving around in the next room--so he, of course, could hear her, too. It was all as it was in the pictures--peoplecrowded together, and all of it something that seemed life and reallywasn't. Even _that_--the one thing, the one moment--really wasn't life. But it was all she had! If she let herself think of how little that allwas--it was an emptiness she was afraid of. 

The people who had tried to comfort her used to talk of how much she hadhad. She would wonder sometimes why they were talking on her sideinstead of their own. For if you have had much--does that make it easyto get along with nothing? Why couldn't they _see_ it? That because ofwhat Howie had been to her--and for ten years!--she just didn't know anyway of going on living without Howie!

Tonight made fresh all her wedding anniversaries--brought happiness tolife again. It almost took her in. And because she had been so near thedear, warm things in which she had lived, when morning came she couldn'tget on the train that would take her back to that house to which Howiewould never come again. Once more it all seemed slipping from her. Theremust be _something_. As a frightened child runs for home, she turned tothat place where--for at least a moment--it was as if Howie were there. 

She went to the telegraph office and wired the company that sent out"The Cross of Diamonds, " asking where that film could be seen. She hadlearned that this was the way to do it. She had known nothing about suchthings at first; it had been hard to find out the ways of doing. It wasa world she didn't know the ways of. 

When she got her answer, and found that the place where "The Cross ofDiamonds" would be shown that night was more than a hundred milesaway--that it meant going that much farther away from home--she toldherself this was a thing she couldn't do. She told herself this muststop--that her brother was right in the things he said against it. Itwouldn't do. He hadn't said it was crazy, but that was what he meant--orfeared. She had told him she would try to stop. Now was the time to doit--now when she would have to go so much farther away. But--_it_ wasgoing farther away--this glimpse of Howie--all that was left of Howiewas moving away from her! And after the disappointment of the nightbefore--She must see him once more! Then--yes, then she would stop. 

She was excited when she had decided to do this. It lifted her out ofthe nothingness. From this meager thing her great need could in a waycreate the feeling that she was going to meet Howie. Once more she wouldsee him do that thing which was so like him as to bring him back intolife. _Why_ should she turn from it? What were all the other thingscompared with this thing? This was one little flash of life in a worldthat had ceased to be alive. 

So again that night, in the clothes he had most liked, she went for thatpoor little meeting with her husband--so pitifully little, and yet sotremendous because it was all she would ever have. Again she sat in abig, noisy place with many jostling, laughing people--and waited to seeHowie. She forgot that the place had ugly red walls and sickly greenlights; she could somehow separate herself from harsh voices andsmells--for she was here to meet Howie!

She knew just the part of the house to sit in. Once she had sat whereshe couldn't see him as he passed from sight! After that she had alwayscome very early. So she had to sit there while other people were comingin. But she didn't much mind that; it was like sitting in a crowdedrailway station when the person you love is coming soon. 

But suddenly something reached over that gulf between other people andher. A word. A terrible word. Behind her some one said "munitions. " Sheput her hand to her eyes and pressed tight. Not to _see_. That was whyshe had to keep coming for this look at Howie. She had to see_him_--that she might shut out _that_--the picture of Howie--_blown intopieces_. 

She _hated_ people. They were always doing something like this to her. She hated all these people in the theater. It seemed they were all, somehow, against her. And Howie had been so good to them! He was so goodto people like the people in this theater. It was because he was so goodand kind to them that he was--that he was not Howie now. He was alwaysthinking of people's comfort--the comfort of people who had to workhard. From the time he went into his father's factory he had always beenthinking up ways of making people more comfortable in their work. To seegirls working in uncomfortable chairs, or standing hour after hour attables too low or too high for them--he couldn't pass those things by asothers passed them by. He had a certain inventive faculty, and hiskindness was always making use of that. His father used to tell him hewould break them all up in business if his mind went on working in thatdirection. He would tell him if he was going to be an inventor he hadbetter think up some money-making inventions. Howie would laugh andreply that he'd make it all up some day. And at last one of the thingshe had thought out to make it better for people was really going to makeit better for Howie. It was a certain kind of shade for the eyes. Ithad been a relief to the girls in their little factory, and it was beingtried out elsewhere. It was even being used a little in one of the bigmunition plants. Howie was there seeing about it. And while he wasthere--He went in there Howie. There wasn't even anything to carry out. 

The picture had begun. She had to wait until almost half of it hadpassed before her moment came. The story was a tawdry, meaningless thingabout the adventures of two men who had stolen a diamond cross--astrange world into which to come to find Howie. Chance had caught himinto it--he was one of the people passing along a street which was beingtaken for the picture. His moment was prolonged by his stopping to dothe kind of thing Howie would do, and now it was as if that one momentwas the only thing saved out of Howie's life. They who made the picturehad apparently seen that the moment was worth keeping--they left it as apart of the stream of life that was going by while the detective oftheir story waited for the men for whom he had laid a trap. The storyitself had little relation to real things--yet chance made it thisvehicle for keeping something of the reality that had been Howie--adisclosing moment captured unawares. 

She was thinking of the strangeness of all this when again the peopleseated back of her said a thing that came right to her. They were saying"scrap-heap. " She knew--before she knew why--that this had something todo with her. Then she found that they were talking about this film. Itwas ready for the scrap-heap. It was on its last legs. They laughed andsaid perhaps they were seeing its "last appearance. "

She tried to understand what it meant. Then even this would cease to bein the world. She had known she ought to stop following the picturearound, she had even told herself this would be the last time she wouldcome to see it--but to feel it wouldn't any longer be there to beseen--that even this glimpse of Howie would go out--go out as life goesout--scrap-heap! She sat up straight and cleared her throat. She wouldhave to leave. She must get air. But she looked to see where they were. Not far now. She might miss Howie! With both hands she took hold of thesides of the seat. She was _not_ going to fall forward! _Not_suffocating. Not until after she had seen him. 

_Now. _ The detective has left the hotel--he is walking along the street. He comes to the cigar-store door, and there steps in to watch. And therecomes the dog! Then it was not going to be cut out tonight! Along comesthe little dog--pawing at his muzzle. He stops in distress in front ofthe cigar-store. People pass and pay no attention to the dog--there onthe sidewalk. And then--in the darkened theater her hands go out, forthe door has opened--and she sees her husband! _Howie. _ _There. _ Movingas he always moved! She fights back the tears that would blur him. Thatdear familiar way he moves! It is almost as if she could step up andmeet him, and they could walk away together. 

He starts to go the other way. Then he sees the dog. He goes up to him;he is speaking to him, wanting to know what is the matter. She canfairly hear the warmth and kindness of his voice as he speaks to thelittle dog. He feels of the muzzle--finds it too tight; he lets it out anotch. _Dear_ Howie. Of _course_ he would do that. No one else hadcared, but he would care. Then he speaks to the dog--pats him--tells himhe is all right now. Then Howie turns away. 

But the dog thinks he will go with this nice person! Howie laughs andtells him he can't come. A little girl has come across the street. Howietells her to keep the dog from following him. Then again he turns to go. But just before he passes from sight the child calls something to him, and he looks back over his shoulder and smiles. She sees again the smilethat has been the heart of her life. Then he passes from sight. 

And he always leaves friends behind him--just as he always did leavefriends behind him. There will be little murmurs of approval; sometimesthere is applause. Tonight a woman near Laura said, "Say, I bet that'san awful nice fellow. "

She never left her seat at once, as if moving would break a spell. For alittle while after she had seen it, his smile would stay with her. Thenit would fade, as things fade in the motion pictures. Somehow she didn'treally _have_ it. That was why she had to keep coming--constantlyreaching out for something that was not hers to keep. 

When her moment had gone, she rose and walked down the aisle. It wasvery hard to go away tonight. There had been all the time the fear thatwhat happened the night before would happen again--that she would notsee Howie, after all. That made her so tense that she was exhausted now. And then "munitions"--and "scrap-heap. " Perhaps it was because of allthis that tonight her moment had been so brief. Only for an instantHowie's smile had brought her into life. It was gone now. It had passed. 

She was so worn that when, at the door, her brother Tom stepped up toher she was not much surprised or even angry. Tom had no business to befollowing her about. She had told him that she would have to manage ither own way--that he would have to let her alone. Now here he wasagain--to trouble her, to talk to her about being brave and sane--whenhe didn't _know_--when he didn't have any idea what he was talkingabout! But it didn't matter--not tonight. Let him do things--get thetickets--and all that. Even let him talk to her. That didn't mattereither. 

But he talked very little. He seemed to think there was something wrongwith her. He looked at her and said, "O, Laura!" reproachfully, butdistressed. 

"I thought you weren't going to do this any more, Laura, " he saidgently, after they had walked a little way. 

"How did you know I was here?" she asked listlessly. 

"They sent me word you had left home. I traced you. "

"I don't see why you should trace me, " she said, but not as if itmattered. 

"O, Laura!" he said again. "Well, I must say I don't think Mrs. Edmundswas much of a friend!"

It was Mrs. Edmunds who had told Laura that there was this glimpse ofher husband in "The Cross of Diamonds. " She had hesitated about tellingher, but had finally said it was so characteristic and beautiful amoment she felt Laura should see it. 

From the first Tom had opposed her seeing it, saying it would be nothingbut torture to her. Torture it was, but it was as if that torture wereall there was left of life. 

Tonight everything was as a world of shadows. She knew that her brotherwas taking her to his home instead of back to her own. He had wanted todo this before, but she had refused. There was nothing in her now thatcould refuse. She went with him as if she were merely moving in apicture and had no power of her own to get out of it. 

And that was the way it was through the next few weeks. Tom and his wifewould talk to her about trying to interest herself in life. She made noresistance, she had no argument against this; but she had no power to doit. They didn't know--they didn't know how it had been with her andHowie. 

She herself had never been outgoing. It was perhaps a habit of reservebuilt out of timidity, but she had been a girl whose life did not have areal contact with other lives. Perhaps there were many people likethat--perhaps not; she did not know. She only knew that before Howiecame the life in her was more as a thing unto itself than a part of thelife of the world. 

Then Howie came! Howie, who could get on with any one, who foundsomething to like in every one; and in the warmth and strength of hisfeeling for people he drew her into that main body of life where she hadnot been before. It had been like coming into the sunshine!

Now he was gone; and they asked her to be alone what she had beenthrough him. It was like telling one to go into the sunshine when thesun is not shining. 

And the more these others tried to reach her, the more alone she felt, for it only made her know they could not reach her. When you have livedin the sunshine, days of cold mist may become more than you can bear. After a long struggle not to do so, she again went to the long-distancetelephone to find out where that picture was being shown--that pictureinto which was caught one moment of Howie's life as he moved through theworld. 

Worn by the struggle not to do what she was doing, and tormented by thefear that she had waited too long, that this one thing which was left toher might no longer _be_, she had to put every bit of her strength intoestablishing this connection with the people who could tell her what shemust know. Establishing the connection with living was like this. Shewas far off and connected only by a tenuous thing which might any momentgo into confusion and stop. 

At the other end some one was making fun of her. They doubted if "TheCross of Diamonds" could be seen anywhere at all. "The Cross ofDiamonds" had been double-crossed. Wasn't it too much of a cross, anyway, to see "The Cross of Diamonds"?

Finally another man came to the phone. "The Cross of Diamonds" could beseen at a certain town in Indiana. But she'd better hurry! And she'dbetter look her last look. Why did she want to see it--might he ask? ButLaura hung up the receiver. She must hurry!

All the rest of it was a blur and a hurry. Through the unreal confusiondrove the one idea--she must get there in time! And that whole life ofthe world seemed pitted against her--it was as if the whole of that mainbody of life was thrown in between her and Howie. The train was late. Itwas almost the hour for pictures to begin when she got down at thatlonely, far-away station. And the town, it seemed, was a mile from thestation! There was a bus she must take. Every nerve of her being washurrying that bus on--until that very anxiety made it seem it was Howiehimself she would see if only she could get there in time. 

And being late, the downstairs at the theater was full. "Balcony only, "said a man as she came in. "Oh, _won't_ you find me a good seat?" Laurabesought him. "Like to know how I'll find you a seat when there ain't noseat, " was the answer--the whole big life of the world in between herand Howie!

Upstairs, too, it was hard to find a place. And all those people seatedthere--for them it meant only a few hours' silly entertainment!

But after a moment a man directed her to a seat. There was another placebeside it, and just as Laura was being seated a woman came along withtwo children. "We can't all sit together, " she was saying, "so you justsit in here, Mamie. You sit right in here--beside the nice lady. "

The mother looked at Laura, as if expecting her to welcome her child. Laura did nothing. She must be alone. She was there to be with Howie. 

She was not as late as she had feared. There would be time for gettingready--getting ready for Howie! She knew this would be the last time shewould see Howie as he had moved through the world. For the last time shewould see his face light to a smile. If she did not reach him tonight, she would never reach him. She had a feeling that she could reach him, if only something in her--if only something in her--

She could not finish that; it brought her to a place into which shecould not reach, but as never before she had a feeling that he could bereached. And so when the little girl beside her twisted in her seat andshe knew that the child was looking up at her she tried not to know thislittle girl was there--tried not to know that any of those people werethere. If only she could get them all out of the _way_--she could reachinto the shadow and feel Howie near!

But there was one thing she kept knowing--try her best not to know it!The little girl beside her, too young to be there, was going to sleep. When it came right up to the moment for her to see Howie, she wasknowing that that little girl had fallen asleep in an uncomfortableposition. Her head had been resting on the side of the seat--the sidenext Laura--and as she fell asleep it slipped from its support in a waythat--Could _she_ help it if this child was not comfortable? Angry, shetried to brush this from her consciousness as we brush dust from oureyes. This was her moment with _Howie_--her _chance_. 

But when her moment came, a cruel thing happened. Something was wrongwith the machine that was showing the picture. At just _that_ moment--ofall the moments!--the worn-out film seemed to be going to pieces beforeher eyes. After the little dog came along, and just as Howie should comeout from the cigar-store, there was a flash--a blur--a jumble ofmovements. It was like an earthquake--it looked like life ceasing to belife. "_No!_" she gasped under her breath. "_No!_" The people around herwere saying things of a different sort. "Cut it!" "What you givin' us?""Whoa, boy!" They laughed. _They_ didn't care. It got a little better;she could make out Howie bending down to fix the dog's muzzle--but itwas all dancing crazily--and people were laughing. And then--then themiracle! It was on Howie's smile the picture steadied--that smile backover his shoulder after he had turned to go. And, as if to bring torights what had been wrong, the smile was held, and it was as if Howielingered, as if in leaving life he looked back over his shoulder andwaited--waited for his smile to reach Laura. Out of the jumble andblur--out of the wrong and meaningless--Howie's beautiful steady smile_making it all right_. 

She could not have told how it happened. As Howie passed, she turned tothe little girl beside her whose head was without support and, notwaking her, supported the child's head against her own arm. And aftershe had done this--it was after she had done it that she began to know, as if doing it let down bars. 

Now she was knowing. She had wanted to push people aside and reach intothe shadows for Howie. She began to see that it was not so she wouldreach him. It was in being as he had been--kind, caring--that she couldhave a sense of him near. Here was her chance--among the people she hadthought stood between her and her chance. Howie had always cared forthese people. On his way through the world with them he had alwaysstopped to do the kind thing--as he stopped to make it right for thebadly muzzled dog. Then there _was_ something for her to do in theworld. She could do the kind things Howie would be doing if he werethere! It would somehow--keep him. It would--fulfill him. Yes, fulfillhim. Howie had made her more alive--warmer and kinder. If she became asshe had been before--Howie would have failed. She moved so that thelittle girl who rested against her could rest the better. And as she didthis--it was as if Howie had smiled. The one thing the picture had nevergiven her--the sense that it was hers to keep--that stole through hernow as the things come which we know we can never lose. For the firstmoment since she lost him, she had him. And all the people in thattheater, and all the people in the world--_here_ was the truth! Itcleared and righted as Howie's smile had righted the picture. In so faras she could come close to others she would come closer to him. 

THE HARBOR MASTER[12]

By RICHARD MATTHEWS HALLET

(From _Harper's Magazine_)

Coming ashore one summer's night from Meteor Island, Jethro Rackby wasmet by Peter Loud--Deep-water Peter he was called, because even so earlyhe had gone one foreign voyage. Peter was going round with a papercontaining the subscription to a dance. 

"Come, Harbor Master, " he said; "put your thumb mark in the corner alongwith the rest of us. "

Rackby drew back. "Why should I dance?" he muttered. 

He was town clerk as well as harbor master--a scholarly man withvisionary, pale eyes, and a great solitary, as Peter knew. 

"Why? I'll tell you why, " said Peter. "To bring joy to Caddie Sill'sheart, if nothing more. The girl would throw all the rest of us in aheap tomorrow for a firm hold of you, Rackby. "

He winked at Zinie Shadd, who swayed on his heels soberly. 

Rackby turned his eyes toward the black mound of Meteor, which lay likea shaggy stone Cerberus at the harbor's mouth. 

The star-pointed harbor was quiet at his feet. Shadows in the water weredeep and languid, betokening an early fall of rain through the stillair. But from the rim of the sea, where the surf was seen only as awhite glow waxing and waning, a constant drone was borne in to them--athunder of the white horses' hoofs trampling on Pull-an'-be-Damned; thevindictive sound of seas falling down one after another on wasted rocks, on shifting sand bars--a powerful monotone seeming to increase in theear with fuller attention. The contrast was marked between theheavy-lying peace of the inner harbor and that hungry reverberation fromwithout of waters seeking fresh holds along a mutilated coast. On dampnights when the wind hauled to the southeast, men stood still in theirtracks, and said, simply, "There's the Old Roke, " as if it was the OldMan of the Sea himself. The sound was a living personality in theirears. --Women whom the sea had widowed shivered and rattled irons whenthe Old Roke came close to their windows; but the men listened, as ifthey had been called--each by his own name. 

"What's the ringle jingle of feet by the side of that?" Rackby said, hismystified face turned toward the water. "I'm a man for slow tunes, Peter. No, no, no; put your paper up again. "

"No? You're a denying sort of a crab, and no mistake. Always seeing howfast you can crawl backward out of pleasure. "

"I mistrust women. "

"You cleave to the spirit and turn from the flesh, that I know. Buthere's a woman with a voice to waken the dead. "

"That's the voice on the seaward side of Meteor, " answered Rackby. 

"Cad Sills is flesh and blood of the Old Roke, I'm agreed, " saidDeep-water Peter. "She's a seafaring woman, that's certain. Next door toending in a fish's tail, too, sometimes I think, when I see her carryingon--Maybe you've seen her sporting with the horse-shoe crabs and all o'that at Pull-an'-be-Damned?"

"No, I can't say that. "

"No, it wasn't to be expected, you with your head and shoulders walkingaround in a barrel of jam. "

The harbor master smiled wistfully. 

"More I don't require, " he said. 

"Ah, so you say now--Well, marry the sea, then. It's a slippery embrace, take the word of a man who has gone foreign voyages. "

"I mistrust the sea, " said Jethro. 

"So you do. --You mistrust the sea and the like o' that, and you mistrustwomen and the like o' that. There's too much heaving and tossing in suchwaters for a harbor master, hey?"

"I'm at home here, that's a fact, " said Jethro. "I know the tides andthe buoys. I can find my way in the dark, where another man would be ata total loss. I'm never suffering for landmarks. "

"Landmarks!" roared Deep-water Peter. "What's a landmark good for but totake a new departure?"

To the sea-goers, tilted on a bench in the shadow of the Customs House, he added, "What life must be without a touch of lady fever is more thanI can tell. "

A red-bearded viking at the end of the bench rose and took Peter'sshoulders in a fearful grip. 

"What's all this talk of lady fever?"

"Let be, Cap'n Dreed!" cried Peter. His boisterousness failed him likewind going out of a sail. He twisted out of the big seaman's grip andfrom a distance shouted, "If you weren't so cussed bashful, you mighthave had something more than a libel pinned to your mainmast by now, with all this time in port. "

There was a general shifting along the bench, to make room for possiblefray. It was a sore point with Sam Dreed that the ship chandler had thatday effected a lien for labor on his ship, and the libel was nailed tothe mast. 

"Now they'll scandalize each other, " murmured Zinie Shadd. 

They were turned from that purpose only by the sudden passing at theirbacks of the woman in question, Caddie Sills. 

Quiet reigned. The older men crossed their legs, sat far down on theirspines, and narrowed their eyes. The brick wall of the Customs House, held from collapsing by a row of rusty iron stars, seemed to bulge morethan its wont for the moment--its upper window, a ship's deadlight, round and expressionless as the eye of a codfish. 

Cad Sills ran her eye over them deftly, as if they were the separatestrings of an instrument which could afford gratification to her onlywhen swept lightly all at one time by her tingling finger tips, or, more likely, by the intangible plectrum in her black eye. 

The man she selected for her nod was Sam Dreed, however. 

Peter Loud felt the walls of his heart pinch together with jealousy. 

It was all in a second's dreaming. "Gape and swallow, " as Zinie Shaddsaid, from his end of the bench. The woman passed with a superciliousturn of her head away from them. 

"That's a foot-loose woman if ever there was one. "

With all her gift of badinage, she was a solitary soul. The men fearedno less than they admired her. They were shy of that wild courage, fearful to put so dark a mystery to the solution. The women hated her, backbit and would not make friends, because of the fatal instantaneouspower she wielded to spin men's blood and pitch their souls derelict onthat impassioned current. Who shall put his finger on the source of thispower? There were girls upon girls with eyes as black, cheeks as likehers as fruit ripened on the same bough, hair as thick and lustrous--yetat the sound of Caddie Sills's bare footfall eyes shifted and glowed, and in the imaginations of these men the women of their choice grew paleas the ashes that fringe a fallen fire. 

"She's a perilous woman, " muttered the collector of the port. "Sticks inthe slant of a man's eye like the shadow of sin. Ah! there he goes, likethe leaves of autumn. "

Samuel Dreed trod the dust of the road with a wonderful swaying of hisbody, denominated the Western Ocean roll. He was a mighty man, all wereagreed; not a nose of wax, even for Cad Sills to twist. 

"Plump she'll go in his canvas bag, along with his sea boots and hispalm and needle, if she's not precious careful, with hershillyshallying, " said Zinie Shadd. "I know the character of the man, from long acquaintance, and I know that what he says he'll do he'll do, and no holding off at arm's length, either, for any considerable periodof time. "

Such was the situation of Cad Sills. A dark, lush, ignorant, entrancingwoman, for whose sake decent men stood ready to drop their principleslike rags--yes, at a mere secret sign manifested in her eye, where thewarmth of her blood was sometimes seen as a crimson spark alighted onblack velvet. She went against the good government of souls. 

Even Rackby had taken note of her once, deep as his head was in theclouds by preference and custom. It was a day in late November. No snowhad fallen, and she floated past him like a cloud shadow as he ploddedin the yellow road which turned east at the Preaching Tree. She passed, looked back, slashed a piece of dripping kelp through the air so closethat salt drops stung his pale eyes, laughed aloud, and at the top ofher laugh, broke into a wild, sweet song unfamiliar to him. It was avoice unlike the flat voices of women thereabouts--strong, sweet, sustained, throbbing with a personal sense of the passion which lurkedin the warm notes. 

Her foot was bare, and more shapely in consequence than if she had had ahabit of wearing shoes. Its shape was the delicate shape of strengthnative to such a foot, and each toe left its print distinct and even inthe dust. With his eye for queer details, he remembered that print andassociated with it the yellow-rutted road, the rusty alders in themeadow beyond, and the pale spire of the church thrust into a Novembersky. 

He called this to mind when on the night of the dance information cameto his ear that she had sold her pearls to lift the lien on Cap'n SamDreed's ship, with her own hands tearing down the libel from the mastand grinding it under her heel. 

No man whom she had once passed and silently interrogated could quiteforget her, not even Jethro Rackby. The harbor master swayed on hisoars, collected himself, and looked forward across the dimpled floor ofhis harbor, which in its quietude was like a lump of massy silver orrich ore, displaying here and there a spur of light, a surface sparkle. The serenity of his own soul was in part a reflection of this nightlycalm, when the spruce on the bank could not be known from its fellow inthe water by a man standing on his head. Moreover, to maintain thiscalm was the plain duty of the harbor master. For five years he had heldthat office by an annual vote of the town meeting. With his title wentauthority to say where were the harbor lines, to order the removal ofhulks, to provide for keeping open a channel through winter ice--in aword, to keep the peace. This peace was of his own substance. 

It was rudely shattered. On the night following the dance Cad Sills putherself in his path for the second time and this time she gave him shortshrift. He was pushing forward, near sundown, to take the impulse of aneddy at the edge of Pull-an'-be-Damned when he saw that predatory, songful woman balanced knee-deep in rushing water, her arms tossing. 

"She's drowning herself after her quarrel with Sam Dreed, " was his firstthought. He had just heard a fine tale of that quarrel. The truth wasnot quite so bold. She had been caught by the tide, which, first peeringover the rim of that extended flat, had then shot forth a frothy tongue, and in a twinkling lapped her up. 

Jethro presently brought up the webs of his two thumbs hard at herarmpits, and took her into his boat, dripping. 

"She's not so plump as she was ashore, " he said to himself with a vagueastonishment. She was as lean as a man at the hips, and finned away likea mermaid, as became a daughter of the Old Roke. 

"Steady now, my girl--. Heave and away. "

There they stood confronting each other. Enraptured, life given into herhand again, Cad Sills flung her arms about his neck and kissed him--amoist, full-budded, passionate, and salty kiss. Even on the edge ofdoom, it was plain, she would not be able to modulate, tone, or containthese kisses, each of which launched a fiery barb into the recipient'sbosom. 

The little fisherman had not known what elemental thing was in a kissbefore. He bit his lip and fell back slowly. Then, after a second's vainreflection, he seized the butts of his oars, which had begun to knocktogether. Caddie Sills sank across a thwart and shivered a little tomark the crowding together of white horses at the very place where shehad stood. Contrary currents caused the tide to horse in strongly overPull-an'-be-Damned. 

"What a ninny!" she whispered. "Was I sick with love, I wonder?"

The harbor master answered with the motion of his oars. 

She glanced at him shrewdly, then struck her hands together at herbreast, which she caused to rise and fall stormily. She was, in fact, astorm petrel in the guise of woman. 

"You have saved my life, " she cried out, "when not another man in allthis world would have lifted so much as his little finger. Do what youwill with me after this. Let me be your slave, your dog--. I am a lostwoman if you will not take pity on me. "

Rackby's heart came into his throat with the slow surge of a sculpin ona hook. 

"Nothing--. Nothing at all. Nothing in the world. I happened along--. Just a happen so. "

The girl stood up, looked at him long and long, cried, "Thank you fornothing, then, Mr. Happen-so, " and from the humility of gratitude shewent to the extreme of impudence, and laughed in his face--a ringing, brazen laugh, with the wild sweetness in it which he had noted in thesong she sang on that November hillside. 

"You're a caution, little man, you're a caution, " she said, slanting herlashes. "You certainly are. I've heard of you. Yes, I have, only thismorning. I'm a solitary like yourself. See here. You and I could set theworld on fire if we joined hands. Do you know that?"

The little man was struck dumb at his oars for very fear of the boldnessof her advance. He recognized this for an original and fearsome, not tosay delectable, vein of talk. She came on like the sea itself, impetuousand all-embracing. Unfathomed, too. Could fancy itself construct a womanso, pat to his hand?

"Is it true that you despise women as they say?" she whispered. Shebreathed close, and electrified the tip of his ear with a tendril ofhair. He saw that she wore coral now, in place of the pearls. But herlips were redder than the coral. He raised his head. 

"Yesterday morning you sold pearls for the benefit of Sam Dreed, " hesaid, in dull tones. "And here you are with your brimstone fairly in myboat. "

He looked at her as if the Old Roke himself had clambered into the boat, with his spell of doom. 

"I am not afraid of helping honest men in trouble that I know of, " saidCad Sills, sucking in her lower lip. "But do you throw that up to me?"

Jethro felt the wickedness of his position like a breath of fire fanninghis cheek. Perilously tempted, he sagged back on the oars without aword. 

"Soho! you're setting me ashore, " said that dark woman, laughing. "Idon't wear very well in the eye and that's a plain conclusion. "

She laid a finger to her breast, and her eye mocked him. This brazenhardness put him from his half-formed purpose. He addressed himself tothe oars, and the dory grated on the shore. 

"Good-bye, then, little man, " she said, springing past him. 

But even now she lingered and looked back, biting the coral and lettingit fall, intimating that a word, a whispered syllable, might lay herlow. 

He sat like a man crushed to earth. When he raised his head she wasgone. 

Was this the voice from the seaward side of Meteor? True, the sea hadyielded this wild being up, but did she speak with the sea's voice? Shehad at least the sea's inconstancy, the sea's abandonment. 

Her words were hot and heavy in little Rackby's heart. Serene harbormaster that he was, the unearthly quiet of his harbor was an affrontupon him in his present mood. Now that she was lost to him, he couldnot, by any makeshift of reason, be rid of the impulse that had comeupon him to jump fairly out of his own skin in an effort to recapturethat tormenting woman--. 

He drifted down upon Meteor Island, bowed and self-reproachful, like aspirit approaching the confines of the dead. He stepped ashore andpassed the painter of his dory through its ring. 

On the crest of the island, at the very spot where, scientists averred, a meteorite had fallen in some prehistoric age, there stood a thickgrove, chiefly of hemlock trees. Here on this night he paused. A strangeinertness filled all nature. Not a whisper from the branches overhead, not a rustle from the dark mold underfoot. Moonlight in one placeflecked the motionless leaves of an alder. Trunk and twigs were quitedissolved in darkness--nothing but the silver pattern of the leaves wasshown in random sprays. He felt for an instant disembodied, like theseleaves--as if, taking one step too many, he had floated out of his ownbody and might not return. 

"Bear and forbear, " he thought. "You wouldn't have stirred, let her saywhat she would, " his heart whispered to the silver leaves. 

But he could not forget that wild glance, the wet hand clinging to hiswrist, the laugh repeated like an echo from the symphony of thatNovember hillside. He reproached himself withal. What was known of CadSills? Little known, and nothing cared to be known. A waif, pursuing himinvisibly with a twinkle or flare from her passionate eyes. She was thedaughter of a sea captain by his fifth wife. He had escaped the otherfour. They had died or been deserted in foreign ports, but this one hecould not escape. Tradition had it that he lost the figurehead from hisship on the nuptial voyage, attributed this disaster to his bride, andso left her at Rosario, only to find her, after all sail was set, in theforechains, at the very stem of his ship, half drowned, her armsoutstretched, a living figurehead. She had swum after him. She outlivedhim, too, and died in giving birth to Cad Sills, whose blood had thus atrace of sea water--. 

He entered his house. In his domestic arrangements he was the veryfigure of a bachelor. His slimsy silver spoon, dented with toothmarks ofan ancestor who had died in a delirium, was laid evenly by his plate. The hand lamps on the shelf wore speckled brown-paper bags inverted overtheir chimneys. A portrait of a man playing the violin hung out, inmassive gilt, over the table, like a ship's figurehead projecting over awharf's end. His red couch bore northeast and southwest, so that hemight not lose good sleep by opposing his body to the flow of magneticcurrents. 

On this night he drew out from a hole in the upholstery of the couch abag of stenciled canvas, which chinked. It was full of money, in goldand silver pieces. He counted it, and sat thoughtful. Later he went outof the house and stood looking at the sea as if for a sign. But the seagave him no sign; and on that night at least had no voice. 

It was three days before he came up with Cad Sills again. Then he spiedher at nightfall, reclining under the crab-apple tree at Hannan'sLanding. 

The little man came close enough to tread on her shadow, cleared histhroat, and almost shouted:

"Did you mean what you said? Did you mean what you said, girl?"

She laughed and threw the core of an apple in his direction. 

"I did when I said it, Mr. Happen-so. I did when I said it. "

"I'm ready--. I'm ready now. We'll be married tomorrow, if you don'tmind. "

"But will I sell my cabbages twice, I wonder? I've had a change of heartsince, if I must tell you. "

"Surely not in this short space of time, " Rackby gasped, dismayed. 

A light throbbed in her eye. "Well, perhaps I haven't. "

The storm petrel hovered high, swooped close, her lips parted. Her teethshone with a native luster, as if she had lived on roots and toughthings all her life. Again little Rackby felt that glow of health andhardness in her person, as if one of the cynical and beautiful immortalsof the Greeks confronted him. He was heartily afraid of her mystifyingpower of enchantment, which seemed to betray him to greater lengths thanhe had dreamed. Even now perhaps all was lost. 

"I will meet you tonight, then--at the top of the hill. See? By thePreaching Tree. "

She nodded her head toward the church corner. "At eight sharp, by thewest face of the clock. And, mind you, Mr. Man, not one jot late orearly. "

Although he heard the quick fall of her feet in the dust grow fainter, it pleased him not to turn. There was a prickling above his heart and atthe cords of his throat. The harbor was as blue as a map suddenlyunrolled at his feet. Clouds with a purple warp were massing in theeast. 

The harbor master stared hard at the low ridge of an outlying islandwhere a cow had been put to pasture. The hillocky back of that loneruminant grew black as ink in the glow of sunset. The creature exhibiteda strange fixity of outline, as if it had been a chance configuration ofrocks. Rackby in due time felt a flaming impatience shoot upward fromhis heels. Water soughed and chuckled at the foot of the crab-appletree, but these eager little voices could no longer soothe or evendetain him with their familiar assurances. 

He jumped up and stared hard at the west face of the clock, whose gilthands were still discernible in the fading light. It was five minutes ofeight. 

When he slipped into the shadow of the Preaching Tree it had grown dark. Fitful lightning flashed. In the meadow fireflies were thick. They madehim think of the eager beating of many fiery little hearts, exposed bygloom, lost again in that opalescent glare on the horizon against whichthe ragged leaves of elm and maple were hung like blobs of ink or swarmsof bees. 

He breathed fast; he heard mysterious fluted calls. A victim oftorturing uncertainty, he strained his ear for that swift footfall. Suddenly he felt her come upon him from behind, buoyant, like a warmwave, and press firm hands over his eyelids. Her hair stung his cheeklike wire. 

"Guess three times. "

Rackby felt the strong beat of that adventurous heart like drums ofconquest. He crushed her in his arms until she all but cried out. Therewas nothing he could say. Her breath carried the keen scent of crushedcheckerberry plums. She had been nibbling at tender pippins by the way, like a wild thing. 

The harbor master remembered later that he seemed to have twice thenumber of senses appointed to mortals in that hour. A heavy fragrancefell through the dusk out of the thick of the horse-chestnut tree. Aload of hay went by, the rack creaking, the driver sunk well out ofsight. He heard the dreaming note of the tree toad; frogs croaked in thelush meadow, water babbled under the crazy wooden sidewalk. --The meadowwas one vast pulse of fireflies. He felt this industrious flame enterhis own wrists. 

Then the birches over the way threshed about in a gust of wind. Almostat once rain fell in heavy drops; blinds banged to and fro, a strongsmell of dust was in his nostrils, beat up from the road by drivingrain. 

The girl first put the palm of her hand hard against his cheek, thenyielded, with a pliant and surprising motion of the whole body. Her eyeswere full of a strange, bright wickedness. Like torches they seemed tocast a crimson light on the already glowing cheek. 

Fascinated by this thought, Rackby bent closer. The tented leaves of thehorse-chestnut did not stir. Surely the dusky cheek had actually a touchof crimson in the gloom. 

This effect, far from being an illusion was produced by a lantern in thefist of a man swinging toward them with vast strides. And now the clock, obeying its north face, struck eight. 

Before the last stroke had sounded the girl was made aware of thebetraying light. She whirled out of Rackby's arms and ran toward SamDreed. The big viking stood with his feet planted well apart, and amistrustful finger in his beard. 

"Touch and go!" cried Caddie Sills, falling on his neck. "Do we go atthe top of the tide, mister?"

"What hellion is that under the trees?" he boomed at her, striking thearm down savagely. 

"You will laugh when you see, " said Cad Sills, wrung with pain, butreturning to him on the instant. 

"On the wrong side of my face, maybe. "

"Can't you see? It's the little harbor master. "

"Ah! and standing in the same piece of dark with you, my girl. "

Cad Sills laughed wildly. "Did ever I look for more thanks than thisfrom any mortal man? Then I'm not disappointed. But let me ask you, haveyou taken your ship inside the island to catch the tide?"

"Yes. "

"Oh, you have. And would you have done that with the harbor masterlooking on? Hauled short across the harbor lines? Maybe you think Ihave a whole chest of pearls at your beck and call, Sam Dreed. Oh, whatvexation! Here I hold the little man blindfolded by my wiles--and thisis my thanks!"

The voice was tearful with self-pity. 

"Is that so, my puss?" roared the seaman, melted in a flash. He swungthe girl by the waist with his free arm. "You _have_ got just enoughnatural impudence for the tall water and no mistake. Come along. "

"Wait!" cried Jethro Rackby. He stepped forward. He felt the first ofmany wild pangs in thus subjecting himself to last insult. "Where areyou going?"

The words had the pitiful vacuity of a detaining question. For whatshould it matter to Jethro where she went, if she went in company withSam Dreed?

"How can I tell you that, little man?" Cad Sills flung over her shoulderat him. "The sea is wide and uncertain. "

Her full cheek, with its emphatic curve, was almost gaunt in the momentwhen she fixed her eyes on the wolfish face of that tousle-headed giantwho encircled her. Her shoulder blades were pinched back; the line ofthe marvelous full throat lengthened; she devoured the man with avehemence of love, brief and fierce as the summer lightning which playedbelow the dark horizon. 

She was gone, planting that aerial foot willfully in the dust. Raindropsticked from one to another of the broad, green leaves over the harbormaster's head. Water might be heard frothing in a nearby cistern. 

Suddenly the moon glittered on the parson's birch-wood pile, and slanteda beam under the Preaching Tree. Sunk in the thick dust which the rainhad slightly stippled in slow droppings, he saw the tender prints of abare foot and the cruel tracks of the seaman's great, square-toed bootspointing together toward the sea. 

He raised his eyes only with a profound effort. They encountered ablackboard affixed to the fat trunk of the Preaching Tree, on which fromday to day the parson wrote the text for its preachments in coloredchalk. The moon was full upon it, and Rackby saw in crimson letteringthe words, "Woman, hath no man damned thee?" The rest of the text hehad rubbed out with his own shoulders in turning to take the girl intohis arms. 

"I damn ye!" he cried, raising his arms wildly. "Yes, by the Lord, Idamn ye up and down. May you burn as I burn, where the worm dieth not, and the fires are not quenched. "

So saying, he set his foot down deliberately on the first of the lightfootprints she had made in springing from his side--as if he might aseasily as that blot out the memory of his enslavement. 

Thereafter the Customs House twitted him, as if it knew the full extentof his shame. Zinie Shadd called after him to know if he had heard thatvoice from the sea yet, in his comings and goings. 

"Peter Loud was not so easy hung by the heels, " that aged loitereraffirmed, "shipping as he did along with the lady herself, as bo's'n forCap'n Sam Dreed. "

Jethro Rackby took to drink somewhat, to drown these utterances, orperhaps to quench some stinging thirst within him which he knew not tobe of the soul. 

When certain of the elders asked him why he did not cut the drink andtake a decent wife, he laughed like a demon, and cried out:

"What's that but to swap the devil for a witch?"

Others he met with a counter question:

"Do you think I will tie a knot with my tongue that I can't untie withmy teeth?"

So he sat by himself at the back windows of a water-front saloon, andwhen he caught a glimpse of the water shining there low in its channelshe would shut his lips tight. --Who could have thought that it would bethe sea itself to throw in his path the woman who had set thisblistering agony in his soul? There it lay like rolled glass; the blackpiles under the footbridge were prolonged to twice their length by theirown shadows, so that the bridge seemed lifted enormously high out ofwater. Beyond the bridge the seine pockets of the mackerel men hung onthe shrouds like black cobwebs, and the ships had a blighting look offuneral ships. --

He had mistrusted the sea. It was life; it was death; flow, slack, andebb--and his pulse followed it. 

Officials of the Customs House could testify that for better than ayear, if he mentioned women at all, it was in a tone to convey that hisfingers had been sorely burned in that flame and smarted still. 

The second autumn, from that moment under the Preaching Tree, found himof the same opinion still. He trod the dust a very phantom, while littleleaves of cardinal red spun past his nose like the ebbing heart's bloodof full-bodied summer. The long leaves of the sumach, too, were likeguilty fingers dipped in blood. But the little man paid no heed to theanalogies which the seasons presented to his conscience in their dying. Though he thought often of his curse, he had not lifted it. But when hesaw a cluster of checkerberry plums in spring gleam withered red againstgray moss, on some stony upland, he stood still and pondered. 

Then, on a night when the fall wind was at its mightiest, and shook thehouse on Meteor Island as if clods of turf had been hurled against it, he took down his Bible from its stand. At the first page to which heturned, his eye rested on the words, "Woman, hath no man damned thee?"

He bent close, his hand shook, and his blunt finger traced the remainderof that text which he and Cad Sills together had unwittingly erased fromthe Preaching Tree. 

"No man, Lord. "--"Neither do I damn thee: go, and sin no more. "

He left the Bible standing open and ran out-of-doors. 

The hemlock grove confronted him a mass of solid green. Night was comingon, as if with an ague, in a succession of coppery cold squalls whichhad not yet overtaken the dying west. In that quarter the sky was like avast porch of crimson woodbine. 

When this had sunk, night gave a forlorn and indistinguishable look toeverything. A spark of ruddy light glowed deep in the valley. Therocking outlines of the hills were lost in rushing darkness. At his backsounded the pathetic clatter of a dead spruce against its livingneighbor, bespeaking the deviltry of woodland demons. --It was the hourwhich makes all that man can do seem as nothing in the mournfuldarkness, causing his works to vanish and be as if they had not been. 

At this hour the heart of man may be powerfully stirred, by an anguish, a prayer, or perhaps--a fragrance. 

The harbor master, uttering a brief cry, dropped to his knees andremained mute, his arms extended toward the sea in a gesture ofreconcilement. 

On that night the _Sally Lunn_, Cap'n Sam Dreed, was wrecked on thesands of Pull-an'-be-Damned. 

Rackby, who had fallen into a deep sleep, lying northeast and southwest, was awakened by a hand smiting his door in, and a wailing outside of theOld Roke busy with his agonies. In a second his room was full ofcrowding seamen, at their head Peter Loud, bearing in his arms thedripping form of Caddie Sills. He laid her gently on the couch. 

"Where did you break up?" whispered Rackby. He trembled like a leaf. 

"Pull-an'-be-Damned, " said Deep-water Peter. "The Cap'n's gone. Hedidn't come away. Men can say what they like of Sam Dreed; he wouldn'tcome into the boat. I'll tell all the world that. "

The crew of the wrecked ship stood heaving and glittering in their oils, plucking their beards with a sense of trespass, hearing the steepleclock tick, and water drum on the worn floor. 

"All you men clear out, " said Caddie Sills, faintly. "Leave me here withJethro Rackby. "

They set themselves in motion, pushing one against the other with a raspand shriek of oilskins--and Peter Loud last of all. 

The harbor master, not knowing what to say, took a step away from her, came back, and, looking into her pale face, cried out, horror-struck, "Idamned ye. " He dropped on his knees. "Poor girl! I damned ye out andout. "

"Hold your horses, Mr. Happen-so, " said Cad Sills. "There's no harm inthat. I was damned and basted good and brown before you ever took meacross your little checkered apron. "

She looked at him almost wistfully, as if she had need of him. With herwet hair uncoiling to the floor, she looked as if she had served, herself, for a fateful living figurehead, like her mother before her. The bit of coral was still slung round her throat. The harbor masterrecalled with what a world of meaning she had caught it between herteeth on the night of his rescue--the eyes with a half-wistful light asnow. 

"Come, " she said, "Harbor Master. I wasn't good to you, that's true; butstill you have done me a wrong in your turn, you say?"

"I hope God will forgive me, " said the harbor master. 

"No doubt of that, little man. But maybe you would feel none the worsefor doing me a favor, feeling as you do. "

"Yes, yes. "

Her hand sought his. "You see me--how I am. I shall not survive mychild, for my mother did not before me. Listen. You are town clerk. Youwrite the names of the new born on a sheet of ruled paper and that istheir name?"

Rackby nodded. 

"So much I knew--Come. How would it be if you gave my child yourname--Rackby? Don't say no to me. Say you will. Just the scratching of apen, and what a deal of hardship she'll be saved not to be known as CadSills over again. "

Her hand tightened on his wrist. Recollecting how they had watched thetide horse over Pull-an'-be-Damned thus, he said, eagerly, "Yes, yes, ifso be 'tis a she, " thinking nothing of the consequences of his promise. 

"Now I can go happy, " murmured Cad Sills. 

"Where will you go?" said the harbor master, timorously, feeling thatshe was whirled out of his grasp a second time. 

"How should I know?" lisped Caddie Sills, with a remembering smile. "Thesea is wide and uncertain, little man. "

The door opened again. A woman appeared and little Rackby was thrust outamong the able seamen. 

Three hours later he came and looked down on Cad Sills again. Rain stillbeat on the black windows. Her lips were parted, as if she were onlyweary and asleep. But in one glance he saw that she had no need to lienortheast and southwest to make certain of unbroken sleep. 

To the child born at the height of the storm the harbor master gave aname, his own--Rackby. He was town clerk, and he gave her this name whenhe came to register her birth on the broad paper furnished by thegovernment. And for a first name, Day, as coming after that long nightof his soul, perhaps. 

When this was known, he was fined by the government two hundred dollars. Such is the provision in the statutes, in order that there may be nocompromise with the effects of sin. 

The harbor master did not regret. He reckoned his life anew from thatnight when he sat in the dusk with the broad paper before him containingthe names of those newly born. 

So the years passed, and Day Rackby lived ashore with her adoptivefather. When she got big enough they went by themselves and reopened thehouse on Meteor Island. 

The man was still master of the harbor, but he could not pretend thathis authority extended to the sea beyond. There he lost himself inspeculation, sometimes wondering if Deep-water Peter had found a thinganswering his quest. But Peter did not return to satisfy him on thispoint. 

The harbor master was content to believe that he had erred on the sideof the flesh, and that the sea, a jealous mistress, had swept him intothe hearing of the gods, who were laughing at him. 

As for the child of Cad Sills, people who did not know her often saidthat her eyes were speaking eyes. Well if it were so, since this voicein the eyes was all the voice she had. She could neither speak nor hearfrom birth. It was as if kind nature had sealed her ears against thoseseductive whisperings which--so the gossips said--had been the ruinationof her mother. 

As she grew older, they said behind their hands that blood would tell, in spite of all. Then, when they saw the girl skipping along the shorewith kelp in her hands they said, mistrustfully, that she was "marked"for the sea, beyond the shadow of a doubt. 

"She hears well enough, when the sea speaks, " Zinie Shadd averred. Hehad caught her listening in a shell with an intent expression. 

"She will turn out to be a chip of the old block, " said Zinie Shadd'swife, "or I shall never live to see the back of my neck. "

Jethro Rackby heard nothing of such prophecy. He lived at home. Here inhis estimation was a being without guile, in whose innocence he mightrejoice. His forethought was great and pathetic. He took care that sheshould learn to caress him with her finger tips alone. He remembered thefatal touch of Cad Sills's kiss at Pull-an'-be-Damned, which had as goodas drawn the soul out of his body in a silver thread and tied it in aknot. 

Once, too, he had dreamed of waking cold in the middle of the night andfinding just a spark on the ashes of his hearth. This he nursed toflame; the flame sprang up waist-high, hot and yellow. Fearful, he beatit down to a spark again. But then again he was cold. He puffed at thisspark, shivering; the flame grew, and this time, with all he could do, it shot up into the rafters of his house and devoured it. --

So it was that the passion of Cad Sills lived with him still. 

He taught the child her letters with blue shells, and later to take themotion of his lips for words. She waylaid him everywhere--on the rocks, on the sands, in the depths of the hemlock grove, on tiny antlers ofgray caribou moss, with straggling little messages and admonishings oflove. Her apron pocket was never without its quota of these tiny shellsof brightest peacock blue. They trailed everywhere. He ground them underheel at the threshold of his house. From long association they came tostand for so many inquisitive little voices in themselves, beseeching, questioning, defying. 

But for his part, he grew to have a curious belief, even when her headwas well above his shoulder, that the strong arch of her bosom must ringout with wild sweet song one day, like that which he had heard on theNovember hillside, when Caddie Sills had run past him at the PreachingTree. This voice of Day's was like the voice sleeping in the greatbronze horn hanging in a rack, which his father had used to call thehands to dinner. A little wind meant no sound, but a great effort, summoning all the breath in the body, made the brazen throat ring outlike a viking's horn, wild and sweet. 

So with Day, if an occasion might be great enough to call it forth. 

"He always was a notional little man, " the women said, on hearing this. The old bachelor was losing his wits. Such doctrine as he held made himout not one whit better off than Zinie Shadd, who averred that the heartof man was but a pendulum swaying in his bosom--though how it stillmoved when he stood on his head was more than even Zinie Shadd couldfathom, to be sure. 

"It's the voice of conscience he's thinking of, to my judgment, " saidone. "That girl is deafer than a haddock and dumb as the stone. "

Untouched by gossip, the harbor master felt with pride that his jewelamong women was safe, and that here, within four humble walls, hetreasured up a being literally without guile, one who grew straight andwhite as a birch sapling. "Pavilioned in splendor" were the wordsdescriptive of her which he had heard thunderously hymned in church. Thehair heavy on her brow was of the red gold of October. 

If they might be said to be shipmates sailing the same waters, they yetdiffered in the direction of their gaze. The harbor master fixed hiseyes upon the harbor; but little Day turned hers oftenest upon the bluesea itself, whose mysterious inquietude he had turned from in dismay. 

True, the harbor was not without its fascination for her. Leaning overthe side of his dory, the sea girl would shiver with delight to descrythose dismal forests over which they sailed, dark and dizzying massesfull of wavering black holes, through which sometimes a blunt-nosedbronze fish sank like a bolt, and again where sting ray darted, andjellyfish palpitated with that wavering of fringe which produced thefaintest of turmoil at the surface of the water. 

This would be at the twilight hour when warm airs alternated with cold, like hopes with despairs. Sparbuoys of silver gray were duplicated inthe water, wrinkled like a snout at the least ripple from the oars. Boats at anchor seemed twice their real size by reason of their darkshadows made one with them. One by one the yellow riding lights werehung, far in. They shone like new-minted coins; the harbor was itself apurse of black velvet, to which the harbor master held the strings. Thequiet--the immortal quiet--operated to restore his soul. But at suchtimes Day would put the tips of her fingers mysteriously to herincarnadined dumb lips and appear to hearken on the seaward side. If awillful light came sometimes in her eyes he did not see it. 

But even on the seaward side there would not be heard, on such nights, the slightest sound to break the quiet, unless that of little fishjumping playfully in the violet light, and sending out great circles toshimmer toward the horizon. 

So it drew on toward Day Rackby's eighteenth birthday. 

One morning in October they set out from Meteor for the village. A coolwind surged through the sparkling brown oak leaves of the oaks atHannan's Landing. 

"They die as the old die, " reflected Jethro Rackby, "gnarled, withered, still hanging on when they are all but sapless. "

Despite the melancholy thought, his vision was gladdened by a magicclarity extending over all the heavens, and even to the source of thereviving winds. The sea was blown clear of ships. In the harbor a fewstill sat like seabirds drying plumage. Against the explosive whitenessof wind clouds, their sails looked like wrinkled parchment, or yellowingEgyptian cloth; the patches were mysterious hieroglyphs. 

Day sat sleepily in the stern of the dory, her shoulders pinched back, her heavy braid overside and just failing the water, her eyes on thesway of cockles in the bottom of the boat. 

Rackby puckered his face, when the square bell tower of the church, white as chalk, came into view, dazzling against the somber greenupland. The red crown of a maple showed as if a great spoke of therising sun had passed across that field and touched the tree to firewith its brilliant heat. 

So he had stood--so he had been touched. His heart beat fast, and now hestood under the Preaching Tree again, and drew a whiff of warm hay, clover-spiced, as it went creaking past, a square-topped load, swishingand dropping fragrant tufts. --This odor haunted him, as if delightsforgotten, only dreamed, or enjoyed in other lives, had drifted pasthim. --Then the vivid touch of Cad Sills's lips. 

He glanced up, and at once his oars stumbled, and he nearly dropped themin his fright. For the fraction of a second he had, it seemed, surprisedCad Sills herself looking at him steadily out of those blue, half-shutlazy eyes of his scrupulously guarded foster child. The flesh cringed onhis body. Was she lurking there still? Certainly he had felt again, inthat flash, the kiss, the warm tumult of her body, the fingersdove-tailed across his eyes; and even seen the scented hay draw pasthim, toppling and quivering. 

He stared more closely at the girl. She looked nothing like the wildmother. There was no hint of Cad Sills in that golden beauty unless, perhaps, in a certain charming bluntness of sculpturing at the very tipof her nose, a deft touch. Nevertheless, some invisible fury had beathim about the head with her wings there in the bright sunshine. 

Disquieted, he resumed the oars. They had drifted close to the bank, anda shower of maple leaves, waxen red, all but fell into the boat. 

"These die as the young die, " thought the harbor master, sadly. "Theydelight to go, these adventurers, swooping down at a breath. They arenot afraid of the mystery of mold. "

His glance returned to the wandlike form of his daughter, whose eyes nowopened upon his archly. 

"So she would adventure death, " he reflected. "Almost at as light awhisper from the powers of darkness, too. "

They were no sooner ashore than the girl tugged at his hand to stay him. The jeweler's glass front had intrigued her eye, for there, displayedagainst canary plush, was a string of pearls, like winter moons forsize and luster. Her speaking eye flashed on them and her slim fingerstwisted and untwisted at her back. She lifted her head and with herforefinger traced a pleading circle round her throat. 

A dark cloud came over Rackby's features. These were the pearls, he knewat once, which Caddie Sills had sold in the interest of Cap'n Dreed solong ago. They were a luckless purchase on the part of the jeweler. Allthe women were agreed that such pearls had bad luck somewhere on thestring, and no one had been found to buy. 

"Why does he display them at this time of all times, in the face andeyes of everybody?" thought the harbor master. 

A laugh sounded behind him. It was Deep-water Peter, holding a gun inone hand, and a dead sheldrake in the other. The red wall of the CustomsHouse bulged over him. 

"Ah, there, Jethro!" he said. "Have you married the sea at last andtaken a mermaid home to live?"

"This is my daughter, if you please, " said Jethro Rackby. An ugly glintwas in his usually gentle eye, but he did not refuse the outstretchedhand. "You have prospered seemingly. "

"Oh, I have enough to carry me through, " said Peter. "I picked up atrifle here, and a trifle there, and a leetle pinch from nowhere, justto salt it down. And so all this time you've been harbor master here?"

His tone was between contempt and tolerance, as befitted the characterformed in a harder school, and the harbor master was bitterly silent. 

Day had turned from the jewels and was coming toward her father. Whenshe saw the strange man beside him she stopped short and averted herface, not before observing that Rackby might have passed for Peter'sfather. 

"Not so shy--not so shy, " murmured Deep-water Peter, as if she had beena wild filly coming up to his hand. 

"She cannot hear you, " Rackby interposed. The gleam of triumph in hiseye was plain. 

"Can't hear?"

"Neither speak nor hear. "

Peter Loud turned toward the girl again--and this time her blue eye methis, and a spark was struck, not dying out instantly, such a spark asmight linger on the surface of a flint struck by steel. 

Was it a certain trick of movement, or only the quickened current of hisblood that made Deep-water Peter know the truth?

"This is strange, " he said. 

That wind-blown voice of his, with its deepwater melodiousness, haddropped to a whisper. 

"Even providential, " the harbor master returned, and his eye glittered. 

Peter would have said something to that, but Rackby, with a stern handat his daughter's elbow, passed out of hearing. 

Peter Loud was promptly taken in the coils of that voiceless beautywhose speaking eye had met his so squarely. The mother had played himfalse, as she had Jethro--but with Peter these affairs were easierforgotten. 

Within the week, as he was striding over the bare flats ofPull-an'-be-Damned, he saw the flash of something white inside a weir. The sun was low and dazzled him. He came close and saw that this wasRackby's daughter. She had slipped into the weir to tantalize a crabwith the sight of her wriggling toes and so had stepped on a sharp shelland cut her foot to the bone. 

Peter cried amazedly. The shadow of the weir net on her face and bodytrembled, but she uttered no slightest sound. It was as if some wildswan had fallen from the azure. 

In falling she had hurt her leg and could not walk. Peter tore thesleeves from her arms and bound the foot, then bent eagerly and liftedher out of the weir. 

Immediately she hid her cheek in his coat, shivered, set her damp lipswith their flavor of sweet salt, full against his. 

Deep-water Peter held her tighter yet. How could he know that here, onPull-an'-be-Damned, within a biscuit's toss of the weirs, Cad Sills hadserved the same fare to Rackby. He turned and ran, holding her close, and the tide hissed at his heels like a serpent. 

The harbor master, lately returned from evening inspection of theharbor, heard the rattle of oars under his wharf, and in no great whilehe saw Peter advancing with Day limp in his arms. 

The sailor brushed past him into the kitchen, and laid the girl down, ashe had laid her mother, northeast and southwest. Rackby at his sidemuttered:

"How come you here like this? How come you?"

A fearful misgiving caused him to drop to his knees. The girl opened hereyes; a new brilliance danced there. With a shiver, the harbor masterperceived those signs of a fire got beyond control which had consumedthe mother. 

"She has cut her foot, friend Rackby, " said Peter. "I took the libertyto bring her here--so. "

Wrath seized the little man. "Thank you for nothing, Peter Loud!" hecried, and these again were the very words Cad Sills had hurled at himwhen he had saved her life at Pull-an'-be-Damned. 

"That's as you say, " said Deep-water Peter. 

"You have done your worst now, " said Jethro. "If I find you here again Iwill shoot you down like a dog. "

Peter laughed very bitterly. "You have got what is yours, HarborMaster, " he said, "and it takes two to make a quarrel. "

But as he was going through the door he looked back. The girl unclosedher eyes, and a light played out of them that followed him into the darkand streamed across the heavens like the meteorite that had once fallenon Meteor Island. 

Peter had taken a wreath of fire to his heart. The girl attended himlike something in the corner of his eye. Times past count, he plied hisoars among the cross currents to the westward of that island, hoping tocatch a glimpse of his siren on the crags. 

Sometimes for long moments he lay on his oars, hearing the blue tidewith a ceaseless motion heave and swirl and gutter all round its rockyborder, and the serpents' hiss come from some Medusa's head of trailingweed uttered in venomous warning. Under flying moons the shaggy hemlockgrove was like a bearskin thrown over the white and leprous nakedness ofstony flanks. At the approach of storm the shadows stealing forth fromthat sullen, bowbacked ridge were blue-filmed, like the languid veilwhich may be seen to hang before blue, tear-dimmed eyes. 

Deep-water Peter felt from the first that he could not dwell for long onthe mysteries of that island without meeting little Rackby's madchallenge. Insensibly he drew near--and at last set foot on its shoresagain. Late on a clear afternoon he landed in the very lee of theisland, at a point where the stone rampart was fifty feet in height, white as a bone, and pitted like a mass of grout. This cliff was splitfrom top to bottom, perhaps by frosts, perhaps by the fall of the buriedmeteor. A little cove lay at the base of this crevasse, and here a bedof whitest sand had sifted in, rimmed by a great heap of well-sanded, bright-blue shells of every size and shape. This was the storehouse fromwhich Day Rackby drew her speaking shells. 

He looped the painter of his dory under a stone and ascended the rock. His heart was in his throat. All the world hitherto had not profferedhim such choice adventure, if he had read the signs aright. As ifdirected by the intuition of his heart, he slipped into the shadows ofthe grove. Fragrance was broadcast there, the clean fragrance of natureat her most alone. Crows whirred overhead; their hoarse plaint, with itshint of desolation, made a kind of emptiness in the wood, and he wenton, step by step, as in a dream, wrapt, expectant. Was she here? CouldRackby's will detain her here, a presence so swift, mischievous, andaerial? Such a spirit could not be held in the hollow of a man's hand. He remembered how in his youth a man had tried to keep wild foxes onthis same island, for breeding purposes, but they had whisked theirbrushes in his face and swum ashore. 

The green dusk was multiplied many times now by tiny spruces, no thickerthan a man's thumb, which grew up in racks and created a denseblackness, its edges pierced by quivering shafts of the sun, some ofwhich, as if by special providence, fell between all the outersaplings, and struck far in. A certain dream sallowness was manifestedin that sunlit glimpse. The air was quiet. Minutest things seemed tomarshal themselves as if alone and unobserved, so that it was strange tospy them out. 

"She is not here, " he thought. His footfall was nothing on the softmold. Portly trunks of the hemlocks began to bar his way. The thickshade entreated secrecy; he stood still, and saw his dryad, a greenapparition, kneeling at the foot of a beech tree, and looking down. Inthe stillness, which absorbed all but the beating of his heart, he heardthe dry tick, tick of a beech leaf falling. Those that still clung tothe sleek upper boughs were no more than a delicate yellow cloud orglowing autumnal atmosphere suffusing the black bole of the tree with alight of pure enchantment. He was surprised that anything so vaporousand colorful should come from the same sap that circulated through thebark and body of the thick tree itself. But then he reflected that, after all, the crown and flame of Sam Dreed's life was Day Rackby. 

Had she, perhaps, descended from that yellow cloud above her? Deep-waterPeter had a moment of that speechless joy which comes when all the doorsin the house of vision are flung open at one time. 

His feet sank unheeded in a patch of mold. He saw now that her eye wason the silent welling of a spring into a sunken barrel. She had one handcurled about the rim. The arm was of touching whiteness against thatcold, black round, which faithfully reflected the silver sheen of theflesh on its under parts. Red and yellow leaves, crimped and curled, sator drifted to her breath in the pool, as if they had been gaudy littleswans. 

Suddenly the sun sent a pale shaft, tinctured with lustrous green, through the hemlock shades. This shaft of light moved over the forestfloor, grew ruddy, spied out a secret sparkle hidden in a fallen leaf, shone on twisting threads of gossamer-like lines of running silver onwhich the gloom was threaded, and, last of all, blazing in the face ofthat fascinating dryad, caused her to draw back. 

Peter, as mute as she, stretched out his arms. She darted past him in aflash, putting her finger to her lips and looking back. The lightthrough the tiny spruces dappled her body; she stopped as if shot; hecame forward, humble and adoring, thinking to crush into this moment, within these arms, all that mortal beauty, the _ignis fatuus_ ofromance. 

His lips were parted. He seemed now to have her with her back against asolid wall of rock outcropping, green-starred; but next instant she hadslipped into a cleft where his big shoulders would not go. Her eyesshone like crystals in that inviting darkness. 

"What can I do for you?" said Peter, voicelessly. 

Day Rackby pinched her shoulders back, leaned forward, and drew amischievous finger round her throat. 

 * * * * *

On that night Jethro stole more than one look at the girl while she wasgetting supper. Of late, when she came near him, she adopted abeloved-old-fool style of treatment which was new to him. 

She was more a woman than formerly, perhaps. He did not understand herwhimsies. But still they had talked kindly to each other with theireyes. They communed in mysterious ways--by looks, by slight pressures, by the innumerable intuitions which had grown up, coral-wise, from thedepths of silence. 

But this intercourse was founded upon sympathy. That once gone, shebecame unfathomable and lost to him, as much so as if visible bonds hadbeen severed. --

A certain terror possessed him at the waywardness she manifested. Evidently some concession must be made. 

"Come, " he said, turning her face toward him with a tremulous hand. "Iwill make you a little gift for your birthday. What shall it be?"

She stood still--then made the very gesture to her bosom and around herneck, which had already sent Peter scurrying landward. 

The movement evoked a deadly chill in Rackby's heart. Was the past, then, to rise against him, and stretch out its bloodless hands to linkwith living ones? That sinister co-tenant he had seen peering at himthrough the blue eyes would get the better of him yet. 

Conscious of his mood, she leaped away from him like a fawn. A guiltylight was in her eye, and she ran out of the house. 

Rackby followed her in terror, not knowing which way to go in the lonelydarkness to come up with her. In his turn he remembered the man who hadtried to keep wild foxes on Meteor. 

The harbor was calm, wondrous calm, with that blackness in the waterwhich always precedes the _rigor mortis_ of winter itself. All calm, allin order--not a ship of all those ships displaying riding lights totransgress the harbor lines he had decreed. How, then, should his ownhouse not be in order?

But this was just what he had thought when Caddie Sills first darted theaffliction of love into his bosom. Somewhere beyond the harbor mouthwere the whispers of the tide's unrest, never to be quite shut out. Lethim turn his back on that prospect as he would, the Old Roke wouldscandalize him still. 

A man overtaken by deadly sickness, he resolved upon any sacrifice toeffect a cure. On the morrow he presented himself at the jeweler's andasked to be shown the necklace. 

"It is sold at last, " said the jeweler, going through the motions ofwashing his hands. 

"Sold? Who to?"

"To Peter Loud, " said the jeweler. 

Jethro Rackby pressed the glass case hard with his finger ends. Whatshould Deep-water Peter be doing with a string of pearls? He must go atonce. Yet he must not return empty-handed. He bought a small pendant, saw it folded into its case, and dropped the case into his pocket. 

When he came to the harbor's edge he found a fleecy fog had stolen in. The horn at the harbor's mouth groaned like a sick horse. As he pulledtoward Meteor the fog by degrees stole into his very brain until hecould not rightly distinguish the present from the past, and CaddieSills, lean-hipped and dripping, seemed to hover in the stern. 

At one stroke he pulled out of the fog. Then he saw a strong, thickrainbow burning at the edge of the fog, a jewel laid in cotton wool. Its arch just reached the top of the bank, and one brilliant foot wasplanted on Meteor Island. 

"That signifies that I shall soon be out of my trouble, " he thought, joyfully. 

The fog lifted; the green shore stood out again mistily, then morevividly, like a creation of the brain. He saw the black piles of theherring wharf, and next the west face of the church clock, the hands andnumerals glittering like gold. 

The harbor was now as calm as a pond, except for the pink and dove colorrunning vaporously on the back of a long swell from the south. A whitelight played on the threshold of the sea, and the dark bank ofseaward-rolling fog presently revealed that trembling silver line in allits length, broken only where the sullen dome of Meteor rose into it. 

High above, two wondrous knotty silver clouds floated, whose imageperfectly appeared in the water. 

"Glory be!" said Jethro Rackby, aloud. He hastened his stroke. 

Rackby, returning to the gray house with his purchase, peered past itsstone rampart before going in. His eye softened in anticipation ofwelcome. Surely no angel half so lovely was ever hidden at the heart ofnight. 

The kitchen was empty. So were all the rooms of the house, he soonenough found out. Not a sound but that of the steeple clock on thekitchen shelf, waddling on at its imperfect gait, loud for a fewseconds, and then low. 

Jethro went outside. The stillness rising through the blue dusk wasmarvelous, perfect. But an icy misgiving raced through his frame. Hebegan to walk faster, scanning the ground. At first in his search he didnot call aloud, perhaps because all his intercourse with her had beensilent, as if she were indeed only the voice of conscience in a radiantguise. And when at length he did cry out, it was only as agony may wringfrom the lips a cry to God. 

He called on her in broken phrases to come back. Let her only come, shemight be sure of forgiveness. He was an old man now, and asked fornothing but a corner in her house. Then again, he had here a littlesurprise for her. Ah! Had she thought of that? Come; he would not openthe package without a kiss from her finger ends. 

He hurried forward, hoarse breathing. A note of terrible joy cracked hisvoice when the thought came to him that she was hiding mischievously. That was it--she was hiding--just fooling her old father. Come; itwouldn't do to be far from his side on these dark nights. The sea waswide and uncertain--wide and uncertain. 

But he remembered that ominous purchase of the pearls by Deep-waterPeter, and shivered. His voice passed into a wail. Little by little hestumbled through the hemlock grove, beseeching each tree to yield up outof obdurate shadow that beloved form, to vouchsafe him the lisp offlying feet over dead beech leaves. But the trees stood mournfullyapart, unanswering, and rooted deep. 

Now he was out upon the pitted crags, calling madly. She should have allhis possessions, and the man into the bargain. Yes, his books, hissilver spoons, that portrait of a man playing on the violin which shehad loved. 

With a new hope, he pleaded with her to speak to him, if only once, tocry out. Had he not said she would, one day? Yes, yes, one little cry oflove, to show that she was not so voiceless as people said. --

He stood with awful expectation, a thick hand bending the lobe of hisear forward. Then through silver silences a muttering was borne to him, a great lingering roar made and augmented by a million littlewhispers. --The Old Roke himself, taking toll at the edge of hisdominions. 

Nothing could approach the lonely terror of that utterance. He ranforward and threw himself on his knees at the very brink of that crackedand mauled sea cliff. 

It was true that Peter, in his absence, had disembarked a second time onMeteor--a fit habitation for such a woman as Day Rackby. But did thatold madman think that he could coop her up here forever? How far must hebe taken seriously in his threat?

Peter advanced gingerly. Blue water heaved eternally all round thatcraggy island, clucked and jabbered in long corridors of faulted stone, while in its lacy edge winked and sparkled new shells of peacock blue, coming from the infinite treasury of the sea to join those already ondeposit here. 

What, then, was he about? He loved her. What was love? What, in thiscase, but an early and late sweetness, a wordless gift, a silent formfloating soft by his side--something seeking and not saying, hoping andnot proving, burning and as yet scarce daring--and so, perhaps, dying. 

Then he saw her. 

She lay in an angle of the cover, habited in that swimming suit she hadplagued Jethro into buying, for she could swim like a dog. There, forminutes or hours, she had lain prone upon the sands, nostrils wide, legsand arms covered with grains of sand in black and gold glints. Staringat the transfigured flesh, she delighted in this conversion of herselfinto a beautiful monster. --

Suddenly the sea spoke in her blood, as the gossips had long prophesied, or something very like it. Lying with her golden head in her arms, thesplendid shoulders lax, she felt a strong impulse toward the water shootthrough her form from head to heel at this wet contact with the nakedearth. She felt that she could vanish in the tide and swim forever. 

At that moment she heard Peter's step, and sprang to her feet. She couldnot be mistaken. Marvelous man, in whose arms she had lain; fataltrespasser, whom her father had sworn to kill for some vileness in hisnature. What could that be? Surely, there was no other man like Peter. She interpreted his motions no less eagerly than his lips. 

The sun sank while they stared at each other. Flakes of purple darknessseemed to scale away from the side of the crag whose crest still glowedfaintly red. It would be night here shortly. Deep-water Peter gave agreat sigh, fumbled with his package, and next the string of pearlsswayed from his finger. 

"Yours, " he uttered, holding them toward her. 

Silence intervened. A slaty cloud raised its head in the east, andagainst that her siren's face was pale. Her blue eyes burned on the gemswith a strange and haunted light. There was wickedness here, shemistrusted, but how could it touch her?

Peter came toward her, bent over her softly as that shadow in whoseviolet folds they were wrapped deeper moment by moment. His fingerstrembled at the back of her neck and could not find the clasp. Her dampbody held motionless as stone under his attempt. 

"It is done, " he cried, hoarsely. 

She sprang free of him on the instant. 

"Is this all my thanks?" Peter muttered. 

She stooped mischievously and dropped a handful of shells deftly on thesand, one by one. Peter, stooping, read what was written there; he criedfor joy, and crushed her in his arms, as little Rackby had crushed hermother, once, under the Preaching Tree. 

A strong shudder went through her. The yellow hair whipped about herneck. Then for one instant he saw her eyes go past him and fixthemselves high up at the top of that crag. Peter loosened his hold witha cry almost of terror at the light in those eyes. He thought he hadseen Cad Sills staring at him. 

There was no time to verify such notions. Day Rackby had seen Jethro onhis knees, imploring her, voicelessly, with his mysterious right reason, which said, plainer than words, that the touch of Peter's lips waspoison to her soul. It seemed to Jethro in that moment that a ringingcry burst from those dumb lips, but perhaps it was one of the voices ofthe surf. The girl's arms were lifted toward him; she whirled, thrustPeter back, and fled over soft and treacherous hassocks of the purpleweed. In another instant she flashed into the dying light on the seabeyond the headland, poised. 

The weed lifted and fell, seething, but the cry, even if the old man hadheard it once, was not repeated. 

GREEN GARDENS[13]

By FRANCES NOYES HART

(From _Scribner's Magazine_)

Daphne was singing to herself when she came through the painted gate inthe back wall. She was singing partly because it was June, and Devon, and she was seventeen, and partly because she had caught a breath-takingglimpse of herself in the long mirror as she had flashed through thehall at home, and it seemed almost too good to be true that the radiantsmall person in the green muslin frock with the wreath of golden hairbound about her head, and the sea-blue eyes laughing back at her, wasreally Miss Daphne Chiltern. Incredible, incredible luck to look likethat, half Dryad, half Kate Greenaway--she danced down the turf path tothe herb-garden, swinging her great wicker basket and singing like asmall mad thing. 

 "He promised to buy me a bonnie blue ribbon, "

carolled Daphne, all her own ribbons flying, "He promised to buy me a bonnie blue ribbon, He promised to buy me a bonnie blue ribbon To tie up--"

The song stopped as abruptly as though some one had struck it from herlips. A strange man was kneeling by the beehive in the herb-garden. Hewas looking at her over his shoulder, at once startled and amused, andshe saw that he was wearing a rather shabby tweed suit and that his facewas oddly brown against his close-cropped, tawny hair. He smiled, histeeth a strong flash of white. 

"Hello!" he greeted her, in a tone at once casual and friendly. 

Daphne returned the smile uncertainly. "Hello, " she replied gravely. The strange man rose easily to his feet, and she saw that he was verytall and carried his head rather splendidly, like the young bronze Greekin Uncle Roland's study at home. But his eyes--his eyes werestrange--quite dark and burned out. The rest of him looked young andvivid and adventurous--but his eyes looked as though the adventure wereover, though they were still questing. 

"Were you looking for any one?" she asked, and the man shook his head, laughing. 

"No one in particular, unless it was you. "

Daphne's soft brow darkened. "It couldn't possibly have been me, " shesaid in a rather stately small voice, "because, you see, I don't knowyou. Perhaps you didn't know that there is no one living in GreenGardens now?"

"Oh, yes, I knew. The Fanes have left for Ceylon, haven't they?"

"Sir Harry left two weeks ago, because he had to see the old governorbefore he sailed, but Lady Audrey only left last week. She had to closethe London house, too, so there was a great deal to do. "

"I see. And so Green Gardens is deserted?"

"It is sold, " said Daphne, with a small quaver in her voice, "just thisafternoon. I came over to say good-by to it, and to get some mint andlavender from the garden. "

"Sold?" repeated the man, and there was an agony of incredulity in thestunned whisper. He flung out his arm against the sun-warmed bricks ofthe high wall as though to hold off some invader. "No, no; they'd neverdare to sell it. "

"I'm glad you mind so much, " said Daphne softly. "It's strange thatnobody minds but us, isn't it? I cried at first--and then I thought thatit would be happier if it wasn't lonely and empty, poor dear--and then, it was such a beautiful day, that I forgot to be unhappy. "

The man bestowed a wretched smile on her. "You hardly conveyed theimpression of unrelieved gloom as you came around that corner, " heassured her. 

"I--I haven't a very good memory for being unhappy, " Daphne confessedremorsefully, a lovely and guilty rose staining her to her brow at thememory of that exultant chant. 

He threw back his head with a sudden shout of laughter. 

"These are glad tidings! I'd rather find a pagan than a Puritan at GreenGardens any day. Let's both have a poor memory. Do you mind if I smoke?"

"No, " she replied, "but do you mind if I ask you what you are doinghere?"

"Not a bit. " He lit the stubby brown pipe, curving his hand dexterouslyto shelter it from the little breeze. He had the most beautiful handsthat she had ever seen, slim and brown and fine--they looked as thoughthey would be miraculously strong--and miraculously gentle. "I came tosee--I came to see whether there was 'honey still for tea, ' MistressDryad!"

"Honey--for tea?" she echoed wonderingly; "was that why you were lookingat the hive?"

He puffed meditatively, "Well--partly. It's a quotation from a poem. Ever read Rupert Brooke?"

"Oh, yes, yes. " Her voice tripped in its eagerness. "I know one byheart--

 "'If I should die think only this of me: (That there's some corner of a foreign field (That is forever England. There shall be--"

He cut in on the magical little voice roughly. 

"Ah, what damned nonsense! Do you suppose he's happy, in his foreignfield, that golden lover? Why shouldn't even the dead be homesick? No, no--he was sick for home in Germany when he wrote that poem ofmine--he's sicker for it in Heaven, I'll warrant. " He pulled himself upswiftly at the look of amazement in Daphne's eyes. "I've clean forgottenmy manners, " he confessed ruefully. "No, don't get that flying look inyour eyes--I swear that I'll be good. It's a long time--it's a long timesince I've talked to any one who needed gentleness. If you knew whatneed I had of it, you'd stay a little while, I think. "

"Of course, I'll stay, " she said. "I'd love to, if you want me to. "

"I want you to more than I've ever wanted anything that I can remember. "His tone was so matter-of-fact that Daphne thought that she must haveimagined the words. "Now, can't we make ourselves comfortable for alittle while? I'd feel safer if you weren't standing there ready forinstant flight! Here's a nice bit of grass--and the wall for a back--"

Daphne glanced anxiously at the green muslin frock. "It's--it's prettyhard to be comfortable without cushions, " she submitted diffidently. 

The man yielded again to laughter. "Are even Dryads afraid to spoiltheir frocks? Cushions it shall be. There are some extra ones in thechest in the East Indian room, aren't there?"

Daphne let the basket slip through her fingers, her eyes black throughsheer surprise. 

"But how did you know--how did you know about the lacquer chest?" shewhispered breathlessly. 

"'Oh, devil take me for a blundering ass!" He stood considering herforlornly for a moment, and then shrugged his shoulders, with thebrilliant and disarming smile. "The game's up, thanks to my inspiredlunacy! But I'm going to trust you not to say that you've seen me. Iknow about the lacquer chest because I always kept my marbles there. "

"Are you--are you Stephen Fane?"

At the awed whisper the man bowed low, all mocking grace, his hand onhis heart--the sun burnishing his tawny head. 

"Oh-h!" breathed Daphne. She bent to pick up the wicker basket, hersmall face white and hard. 

"Wait!" said Stephen Fane. His face was white and hard too. "You areright to go--entirely, absolutely right--but I am going to beg you tostay. I don't know what you've heard about me--however vile it is, it'sless than the truth--"

"I have heard nothing of you, " said Daphne, holding her gold-wreathedhead high, "but five years ago I was not allowed to come to GreenGardens for weeks because I mentioned your name. I was told that it wasnot a name to pass decent lips. "

Something terrible leaped in those burned-out eyes--and died. 

"I had not thought they would use their hate to lash a child, " he said. "They were quite right--and you, too. Good night. "

"Good night, " replied Daphne clearly. She started down the path, but atits bend she turned to look back--because she was seventeen, and it wasJune, and she remembered his laughter. He was standing quite still bythe golden straw beehive, but he had thrown one arm across his eyes, asthough to shut out some intolerable sight. And then, with a soft littlerush she was standing beside him. 

"How--how do we get the cushions?" she demanded breathlessly. 

Stephen Fane dropped his arm, and Daphne drew back a little at thesudden blaze of wonder in his face. 

"Oh, " he whispered voicelessly. "Oh, you Loveliness!" He took a steptoward her, and then stood still, clinching his brown hands. Then hethrust them deep in his pockets, standing very straight. "I do think, "he said carefully, "I do think you had better go. The fact that I havetried to make you stay simply proves the particular type of rotter thatI am. Good-by--I'll never forget that you came back. "

"I am not going, " said Daphne sternly. "Not if you beg me. Not if youare a devil out of hell. Because you need me. And no matter how manywicked things you have done, there can't be anything as wicked as goingaway when some one needs you. How do we get the cushions?"

"Oh, my wise Dryad!" His voice broke on laughter, but Daphne saw thathis lashes were suddenly bright with tears. "Stay, then--why, even Icannot harm you. God himself can't grudge me this little space ofwonder--he knows how far I've come for it--how I've fought and struggledand ached to win it--how in dirty lands and dirty places I've dreamed ofsummer twilight in a still garden--and England, England!"

"Didn't you dream of me?" asked Daphne wistfully, with a little catch ofreproach. 

He laughed again, unsteadily. "Why, who could ever dream of you, myWonder? You are a thousand, thousand dreams come true. "

Daphne bestowed on him a tremulous and radiant smile. "Please let us getthe cushions. I think I am a little tired. "

"And I am a graceless fool! There used to be a pane of class cut out inone of the south casement windows. Shall we try that?"

"Please, yes. How did you find it, Stephen?" She saw again that thrillof wonder on his face, but his voice was quite steady. 

"I didn't find it; I did it! It was uncommonly useful, getting in thatway sometimes, I can tell you. And, by the Lord Harry, here it is. Waita minute, Loveliness--I'll get through and open the south door foryou--no chance that way of spoiling the frock. " He swung himself up withthe swift, sure grace of a cat, smiled at her--vanished--it was hardly aminute later that she heard the bolts dragging back in the south door, and he flung it wide. 

The sunlight streamed into the deep hall and stretched hesitant fingersinto the dusty quiet of the great East Indian room, gilding the softtones of the faded chintz, touching very gently the polished furnitureand the dim prints on the walls. He swung across the threshold without aword, Daphne tiptoeing behind him. 

"How still it is, " he said in a hushed voice. "How sweet it smells!"

"It's the potpurri in the Canton jars, " she told him shyly. "I alwaysmade it every summer for Lady Audrey--she thought I did it better thanany one else. I think so too. " She flushed at the mirth in his eyes, butheld her ground sturdily. "Flowers are sweeter for you if you lovethem--even dead ones, " she explained bravely. 

"They would be dead indeed, if they were not sweet for you. " Her cheeksburned bright at the low intensity of his voice, but he turned suddenlyaway. "Oh, there she sails--there she sails still, my beauty. Isn't shethe proud one though--straight into the wind!" He hung over the littleship model, thrilled as any child. "_The Flying Lady_--see where it'spainted on her? Grandfather gave it to me when I was seven--he had itfrom his father when he was six. Lord, how proud I was!" He stood backto see it better, frowning a little. "One of those ropes is wrong; anyfool could tell that--" His hands hovered over it for a moment--dropped. "No matter--the new owners are probably not seafarers! The lacquerchest is at the far end, isn't it? Yes, here. Are three enough--four?We're off!" But still he lingered, sweeping the great room with hisdark eyes. "It's full of all kinds of junk--they never liked it--noperiod, you see. I had the run of it--I loved it as though it werealive; it was alive, for me. From Elizabeth's day down, all the familyadventurers brought their treasures here--beaten gold and hammeredsilver--mother-of-pearl and peacock feathers, strange woods and strangerspices, porcelains and embroideries and blown glass. There was always anadventurer somewhere in each generation--and however far he wandered, hecame back to Green Gardens to bring his treasures home. When I was ayellow-headed imp of Satan, hiding my marbles in the lacquer chest, Iused to swear that when I grew up I would bring home the finest treasureof all, if I had to search the world from end to end. And now the lastadventurer has come home to Green Gardens--and he has searched the worldfrom end to end--and he is empty-handed. "

"No, no, " whispered Daphne. "He has brought home the greatest treasureof all, that adventurer. He has brought home the beaten gold of hislove, and the hammered silver of his dreams--and he has brought themfrom very far. "

"He had brought greater treasures than those to you, lucky room, " saidthe last of the adventurers. "You can never be sad again--you willalways be gay and proud--because for just one moment he brought you thegold of her hair and the silver of her voice. "

"He is talking great nonsense, room, " said a very small voice, "but itis beautiful nonsense, and I am a wicked girl, and I hope that he willtalk some more. And please, I think we will go into the garden and see. "

All the way back down the flagged path to the herb-garden they werequiet--even after he had arranged the cushions against the rose-redwall, even after he had stretched out at full length beside her andlighted another pipe. 

After a while he said, staring at the straw hive: "There used to be ajolly little fat brown one that was a great pal of mine. How long dobees live?"

"I don't know, " she answered vaguely, and after a long pause, full ofquiet, pleasant odors from the bee-garden, and the sleepy happy noisesof small things tucking themselves away for the night, and the faint butpoignant drift of tobacco smoke, she asked: "What was it about 'honeystill for tea'?"

"Oh, that!" He raised himself on one elbow so that he could see herbetter. "It was a poem I came across while I was in East Africa; someone sent a copy of Rupert Brooke's things to a chap out there, and thisone fastened itself around me like a vise. It starts where he's sittingin a cafe in Berlin with a lot of German Jews around him, swallowingdown their beer; and suddenly he remembers. All the lost, unforgettablebeauty comes back to him in that dirty place; it gets him by the throat. It got me, too. 

 "'Ah, God! to see the branches stir Across the moon at Grantchester! To smell the thrilling-sweet and rotten Unforgettable, unforgotten River-smell, and hear the breeze Sobbing in the little trees. Oh, is the water sweet and cool, Gentle and brown, above the pool? And laughs the immortal river still Under the mill, under the mill? Say, is there Beauty yet to find? And Certainty? and Quiet kind? Deep meadows yet, for to forget The lies, and truths, and pain?--oh, yet Stands the Church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?'"

"That's beautiful, " she said, "but it hurts. "

"Thank God you'll never know how it hurts, little Golden Heart in quietgardens. But for some of us, caught like rats in the trap of the uglyfever we called living, it was black torture and yet our dear delightto remember the deep meadows we had lost--to wonder if there was honeystill for tea. "

"Stephen, won't you tell me about it--won't that help?"

And suddenly some one else looked at her through those haunted eyes--alittle boy, terrified and forsaken. "Oh, I have no right to soil youwith it. But I came back to tell some one about it--I had to, I had to. I had to wait until father and Audrey went away. I knew they'd hate tosee me--she was my stepmother, you know, and she always loathed me, andhe never cared. In East Africa I used to stay awake at night thinkingthat I might die, and that no one in England would ever care--no onewould know how I had loved her. It was worse than dying to think that. "

"But why couldn't you come back to Green Gardens--why couldn't you makethem see, Stephen?"

"Why, what was there to see? When they sent me down from Oxford for thatdirty little affair, I was only nineteen--and they told me I haddisgraced my name and Green Gardens and my country--and I went mad withpride and shame, and swore I'd drag their precious name through the dirtof every country in the world. And I did--and I did. "

His head was buried in his arms, but Daphne heard. It seemed strangeindeed to her that she felt no shrinking and no terror; only great pityfor what he had lost, great grief for what he might have had. For aminute she forgot that she was Daphne, the heedless and gay-hearted, andthat he was a broken and an evil man. For a minute he was a little lad, and she was his lost mother. 

"Don't mind, Stephen, " she whispered to him, "don't mind. Now you havecome home--now it is all done with, that ugliness. Please, please don'tmind. "

"No, no, " said the stricken voice, "you don't know, you don't know, thank God. But I swear I've paid--I swear, I swear I have. When theothers used to take their dirty drugs to make them forget, they woulddream of strange paradises, unknown heavens--but through the haze andmist that they brought, I would remember--I would remember. The filthand the squalor and vileness would fade and dissolve--and I would seethe sun-dial, with the yellow roses on it, warm in the sun, and smellthe clove pinks in the kitchen border, and touch the cresses by thebrook, cool and green and wet. All the sullen drums and whining fluteswould sink to silence, and I would hear the little yellow-headed cousinof the vicar's singing in the twilight, singing, 'There is a lady, sweetand kind' and 'Weep you no more, sad fountains' and 'Hark, hark, thelark. ' And the small painted yellow faces and the little wicked handsand perfumed fans would vanish and I would see again the gay beauty ofthe lady who hung above the mantel in the long drawing-room, the ladywho laughed across the centuries in her white muslin frock, with eyesthat matched the blue ribbon in her wind-blown curls--the lady who wasas young and lovely as England, for all the years! Oh, I would remember, I would remember! It was twilight, and I was hurrying home through thedusk after tennis at the rectory; there was a bell ringing quietlysomewhere and a moth flying by brushed against my face with velvet--andI could smell the hawthorn hedge glimmering white, and see the firststar swinging low above the trees, and lower still, and brighter still, the lights of home. --And then before my very eyes, they would fade, theywould fade, dimmer and dimmer--they would flicker and go out, and Iwould be back again, with tawdriness and shame and vileness fast aboutme--and I would pay. "

"But now you have paid enough, " Daphne told him. "Oh, surely, surely--you have paid enough. Now you have come home--now you canforget. "

"No, " said Stephen Fane. "Now I must go. "

"Go?" At the small startled echo he raised his head. 

"What else?" he asked. "Did you think that I would stay?"

"But I do not want you to go. " Her lips were white, but she spoke veryclearly. 

Stephen Fane never moved but his eyes, dark and wondering, rested on herlike a caress. 

"Oh, my little Loveliness, what dream is this?"

"You must not go away again, you must not. "

"I am baser than I thought, " he said, very low. "I have made you pityme, I who have forfeited your lovely pity this long time. It cannot eventouch me now. I have sat here like a dark Othello telling tales to asmall white Desdemona, and you, God help me, have thought me tragic andabused. You shall not think that. In a few minutes I will be gone--Iwill not have you waste a dream on me. Listen--there is nothing vilethat I have not done--nothing, do you hear? Not clean sin, likemurder--I have cheated at cards, and played with loaded dice, and stolenthe rings off the fingers of an Argentine Jewess who--" His voicetwisted and broke before the lovely mercy in the frightened eyes thatstill met his so bravely. 

"But why, Stephen?"

"So that I could buy my dreams. So that I could purchase peace withlittle dabs of brown in a pipe-bowl, little puffs of white in the palmof my hand, little drops of liquid on a ball of cotton. So that I coulddrug myself with dirt--and forget the dirt and remember England. "

He rose to his feet with that swift grace of his, and Daphne rose too, slowly. 

"I am going now; will you walk to the gate with me?"

He matched his long step to hers, watching the troubled wonder on hersmall white face intently. 

"How old are you, my Dryad?"

"I am seventeen. "

"Seventeen! Oh, God be good to us, I had forgotten that one could beseventeen. What's that?"

He paused, suddenly alert, listening to a distant whistle, sweet on thesummer air. 

"Oh, that--that is Robin. "

"Ah--" His smile flashed, tender and ironic. "And who is Robin?"

"He is--just Robin. He is down from Cambridge for a week, and I told himthat he might walk home with me. "

"Then I must be off quickly. Is he coming to this gate?"

"No, to the south one. "

"Listen to me, my Dryad--are you listening?" For her face was turnedaway. 

"Yes, " said Daphne. 

"You are going to forget me--to forget this afternoon--to forgeteverything but Robin whistling through the summer twilight. "

"No, " said Daphne. 

"Yes; because you have a very poor memory about unhappy things! You toldme so. But just for a minute after I have gone, you will remember thatnow all is very well with me, because I have found the deep meadows--andhoney still for tea--and you. You are to remember that for just oneminute--will you? And now good-by--"

She tried to say the words, but she could not. For a moment he stoodstaring down at the white pathos of the small face, and then he turnedaway. But when he came to the gate, he paused and put his arms about thewall, as though he would never let it go, laying his cheek against thesun-warmed bricks, his eyes fast closed. The whistling came nearer, andhe stirred, put his hand on the little painted gate, vaulted across itlightly, and was gone. She turned at Robin's quick step on the walk. 

"Ready, dear? What are you staring at?"

"Nothing! Robin--Robin, did you ever hear of Stephen Fane?"

He nodded grimly. 

"Do you know--do you know what he is doing now?"

"Doing now?" He stared at her blankly. "What on earth do you mean? Why, he's been dead for months--killed in the campaign in East Africa--onlydecent thing he ever did in his life. Why?"

Daphne never stirred. She stood quite still, staring at the paintedgate. Then she said, very carefully: "Some one thought--some one thoughtthat they had seen him--quite lately. "

Robin laughed comfortingly. "No use looking so scared about it, myblessed child. Perhaps they did. The War Office made all kinds ofghastly blunders--it was a quick step from 'missing in action' to'killed. ' And he'd probably would have been jolly glad of a chance todrop out quietly and have every one think he was done for. "

Daphne never took her eyes from the gate. "Yes, " she said quietly, "Isuppose he would. Will you get my basket, Robin? I left it by thebeehive. There are some cushions that belong in the East Indian room, too. The south door is open. "

When he had gone, she stood shaking for a moment, listening to hisfootsteps die away, and then she flew to the gate, searching thetwilight desperately with straining eyes. There was no one there--no oneat all--but then the turn in the lane would have hidden him by now. Andsuddenly terror fell from her like a cloak. 

She turned swiftly to the brick wall, straining up, up on tiptoes, tolay her cheek against its roughened surface, to touch it very gentlywith her lips. She could hear Robin whistling down the path but she didnot turn. She was bidding farewell to Green Gardens--and the lastadventurer. 

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY[14]

By FANNIE HURST

(From _The Cosmopolitan_)

By that same mausolean instinct that was Artimesia's when she mournedher dear departed in marble and hieroglyphics; by that samearchitectural gesture of grief which caused Jehan at Agra to erect theTaj Mahal in memory of a dead wife and a cold hearthstone, so the BonTon Hotel, even to the pillars with red-freckled monoliths andpeacock-backed lobby chairs, making the analogy rather absurdlycomplete, reared its fourteen stories of "Elegantly furnished suites, all the comforts and none of the discomforts of home. "

A mausoleum to the hearth. And as true to form as any that ever mournedthe dynastic bones of an Augustus or a Hadrian. 

It is doubtful if in all its hothouse garden of women the Hotel Bon Tonboasted a broken finger-nail or that little brash place along theforefinger that tattles so of potato peeling or asparagus scraping. 

The fourteenth story, Manicure, Steam-bath, and Beauty Parlors, saw toall that. In spite of long bridge-table, lobby-divan and _table d'hote_séances, "tea" where the coffee was served with whipped cream and thetarts built in four tiers and mortared in mocha filling, the Bon TonHotel was scarcely more than an average of fourteen pounds over-weight. 

Forty's silhouette, except for that cruel and irrefutable place wherethe throat will wattle, was almost interchangeable with eighteen's. Indeed, Bon Ton grandmothers with backs and French heels that weretwenty years younger than their throats and bunions, vied with twenty'sprofile. 

Whistler's kind of mother, full of sweet years that were richer becauseshe had dwelt in them, but whose eyelids were a little weary, had noplace there. 

Mrs. Gronauer, who occupied an outside, southern-exposure suite of fiverooms and three baths, jazz-danced on the same cabaret floor with hergranddaughters. 

Fads for the latest personal accoutrements gripped the Bon Ton inseasonal epidemics. 

The permanent wave swept it like a tidal one. 

The beaded bag, cunningly contrived, needleful by needleful, from littlecolored strands of glass caviar, glittered its hour. 

_Filet_ lace came then, sheerly, whole yokes of it for _crepe de Chine_nightgowns and dainty scalloped edges for camisoles. 

Mrs. Samstag made six of the nightgowns that winter, three for herselfand three for her daughter. Peach-blowy pink ones with lace yokes thatwere scarcely more to the skin than the print of a wave edge running upsand, and then little frills of pink satin ribbon, caught up here andthere with the most delightful and unconvincing little blue satinrosebuds. 

It was bad for her neuralgic eye, the meanderings of the _filet_pattern, but she liked the delicate threadiness of the handiwork, andMr. Latz liked watching her. 

There you have it! Straight through the lacy mesh of the _filet_ to theheart interest!

Mr. Louis Latz, who was too short, slightly too stout, and too shy oflikely length of swimming arm ever to have figured in any woman'sinevitable visualization of her ultimate Leander, liked, fascinatedly, to watch Mrs. Samstag's nicely manicured fingers at work. He liked thempassive, too. Best of all, he would have preferred to feel them betweenhis own, but that had never been. 

Nevertheless, that desire was capable of catching him unawares. Thatvery morning as he had stood, in his sumptuous bachelor's apartment, strumming on one of the windows that overlooked an expensive tree andlake vista of Central Park, he had wanted very suddenly and very badlyto feel those fingers in his and to kiss down on them. He liked theirtaper and the rosy pointedness, those fingers, and the dry, neat waythey had of slipping in between the threads. 

On this, one of a hundred such typical evenings in the Bon Ton lobby, Mr. Latz, sighing out a satisfaction of his inner man, sat himself downon a red velvet chair opposite Mrs. Samstag. His knees wide-spread, taxed his knife-pressed gray trousers to their very last capacity, buthe sat back in none the less evident comfort, building his fingers upinto a little chapel. 

"Well, how's Mr. Latz this evening?" asked Mrs. Samstag, her smileencompassing the question. 

"If I was any better I couldn't stand it"--relishing her smile and hisreply. 

The Bon Ton had just dined, too well, from fruit-flip _à la_ Bon Ton, mulligatawny soup, _filet_ of sole, _sauté_, choice of, or both, Poulette _émincé_ and spring lamb _grignon_ and on through to freshstrawberry ice-cream in fluted paper boxes, _petit fours_ and_demi-tasse_. Groups of carefully corseted women stood now beside theinvitational plush divans and peacock chairs, paying twenty minutesafter-dinner standing penance. Men with Wall Street eyes and bloodpressure, slid surreptitious celluloid toothpicks, and gathered aroundthe cigar stand. Orchestra music flickered. Young girls, the traditionsof demure sixteen hanging by one inch shoulder-straps and who could notwalk across a hardwood floor without sliding the last three steps, teetered in bare arm-in-arm groups, swapping persiflage with pimply, patent-leather haired young men who were full of nervous excitement andeager to excel in return badinage. 

Bell hops scurried with folding tables. Bridge games formed. 

The theater group got off, so to speak. Showy women and show-off men. Mrs. Gronauer, in a full length mink coat that enveloped her like asquaw, a titillation of diamond aigrettes in her Titianed hair and anaftermath of scent as tangible as the trail of a wounded shark, emergedfrom the elevator with her son and daughter-in-law. 

"Foi!" said Mr. Latz, by way of--somewhat unduly perhaps--expressing hisown kind of cognizance of the scented trail. 

"_Fleur de printemps_, " said Mrs. Samstag in quick olfactory analysis. "Eight ninety-eight an ounce. " Her nose crawling up to what he thoughtthe cunning perfection of a sniff. 

"Used to it from home--not? She is not. Believe me, I knew Max Gronauerwhen he first started in the produce business in Jersey City and theonly perfume he had was seventeen cents a pound, not always fresh killedat that. Cold storage _de printemps_. "

"Max Gronauer died just two months after my husband, " said Mrs. Samstag, tucking away into her beaded hand-bag her _filet_ lace handkerchief, itself guilty of a not inexpensive attar. 

"_Thu-thu_, " clucked Mr. Latz for want of a fitting retort. 

"Heigh-ho! I always say we have so little in common, me and Mrs. Gronauer. She revokes so in bridge, and I think it's terrible for agrandmother to blondine so red; but we've both been widows for almosteight years. Eight years, " repeated Mrs. Samstag on a small scentedsigh. 

He was inordinately sensitive to these allusions, reddening and wantingto seem appropriate. 

"Poor, poor little woman!"

"Heigh-ho, " she said, and again, "Heigh-ho. "

It was about the eyes that Mrs. Samstag showed most plainly whateverinroads into her clay the years might have gained. There were littledark areas beneath them like smeared charcoal and two unrelenting sacsthat threatened to become pouchy. 

Their effect was not so much one of years, but they gave Mrs. Samstag, in spite of the only slightly plump and really passable figure, the lookof one out of health. 

What ailed her was hardly organic. She was the victim of periodic andraging neuralgic fires that could sweep the right side of her head anddown into her shoulder blade with a great crackling and blazing ofnerves. It was not unusual for her daughter Alma to sit up the one ortwo nights that it could endure, unfailing, through the wee hours, withhot applications. 

For a week sometimes, these attacks heralded their comings with littlejabs, like the pricks of an exploring needle. Then the under-eyes beganto look their muddiest. They were darkening now and she put up twofingers with little pressing movement to her temple. 

"You're a great little woman, " reiterated Mr. Latz, rather riveting evenMrs. Samstag's suspicion that here was no great stickler for variety ofexpression. 

"And a great sufferer, too, " he said, noting the pressing fingers. 

She colored under this delightful impeachment. 

"I wouldn't wish one of my neuralgia spells to my worst enemy, Mr. Latz. "

"If you were mine--I mean--if--the--say--was mine, I wouldn't stop untilI had you to every specialist in Europe. I know a thing or two aboutthose fellows over there. Some of them are wonders. "

Mrs. Samstag looked off, her profile inclined to lift and fall as if bylittle pulleys of emotion. 

"That's easier said than done, Mr. Latz, by a--a widow who wants to doright by her grown daughter and living so--high since the war. "

"I--I--" said Mr. Latz, leaping impulsively forward on the chair thatwas as tightly upholstered in effect as he in his modish suit, thenclutching himself there as if he had caught the impulse on the fly--"Ijust wish I could help. "

"Oh!" she said, and threw up a swift, brown look from the lace making. 

He laughed, but from nervousness. 

"My little mother was an ailer too. "

"That's me, Mr. Latz. Not sick--just ailing. I always say that it'sridiculous that a woman in such perfect health as I am should be such asufferer. "

"Same with her and her joints. "

"Why, I can outdo Alma when it comes to dancing down in the grill withthe young people of an evening, or shopping. "

"More like sisters than any mother and daughter I ever saw. "

"Mother and daughter, but which is which from the back, some of myfriends put it, " said Mrs. Samstag, not without a curve to her voice, then hastily: "But the best child, Mr. Latz. The best that ever lived. A regular little mother to me in my spells. "

"Nice girl, Alma. "

"It snowed so the day of--my husband's funeral. Why, do you know that upto then I never had an attack of neuralgia in my life. Didn't even knowwhat a headache was. That long drive. That windy hill-top with two mento keep me from jumping into the grave after him. Ask Alma. That's how Icare when I care. But of course, as the saying is, time heals. Butthat's how I got my first attack. Intenseness is what the doctors calledit. I'm terribly intense. "

"I--guess when a woman like you--cares like--you--cared, it's not muchuse hoping you would ever--care again. That's about the way of it, ain'tit?"

If he had known it, there was something about his own intensity ofexpression to inspire mirth. His eyebrows lifted to little gothic archesof anxiety, a rash of tiny perspiration broke out over his blue shavedface and as he sat on the edge of his chair, it seemed that inevitablythe tight sausage-like knees must push their way through mere fabric. 

"That's about the way of it, ain't it?" he said again into the growingsilence. 

"I--when a woman cares for--a man like--I did--Mr. Latz, she'll never behappy until--she cares again--like that. I always say, once anaffectionate nature, always an affectionate nature. "

"You mean, " he said, leaning forward the imperceptible half-inch thatwas left of chair, "you mean--me?"

The smell of bay rum came out greenly then as the moisture sprang out onhis scalp. 

"I--I'm a home woman, Mr. Latz. You can put a fish in water but youcannot make him swim. That's me and hotel life. "

At this somewhat cryptic apothegm Mr. Latz's knee touched Mrs. Samstag's, so that he sprang back full of nerves at what he had notintended. 

"Marry me, Carrie, " he said more abruptly than he might have, withoutthe act of that knee to immediately justify. 

She spread the lace out on her lap. 

Ostensibly to the hotel lobby, they were casual as, "My mulligatawnysoup was cold tonight" or "Have you heard the new one that Al Jolsonpulls at the Winter Garden?" But actually, the roar was high in Mrs. Samstag's ears and he could feel the plethoric red rushing in flashesover his body. 

"Marry me, Carrie, " he said, as if to prove that his stiff lips couldrepeat their incredible feat. 

With a woman's talent for them, her tears sprang. 

"Mr. Latz--"

"Louis, " he interpolated, widely eloquent of posture. 

"You're proposing--Louis!" She explained rather than asked, and placedher hand to her heart so prettily that he wanted to crush it there withhis kisses. 

"God bless you for knowing it so easy, Carrie. A young girl would makeit so hard. It's just what has kept me from asking you weeks ago, thisgetting it said. Carrie, will you?"

"I'm a widow, Mr. Latz--Louis--"

"Loo--"

"L--Loo. With a grown daughter. Not one of those merry widows you readabout. "

"That's me! A bachelor on top but a home-man underneath. Why, up to fiveyears ago, Carrie, while the best little mother a man ever had wasalive, I never had eyes for a woman or--"

"It's common talk what a grand son you were to her, Mr. La--Louis--"

"Loo!"

"Loo. "

"I don't want to seem to brag, Carrie, but you saw the coat that justwalked out on Mrs. Gronauer? My little mother, she was a humpback, Carrie, not a real one, but all stooped from the heavy years when shewas helping my father to get his start. Well, anyway, that littlestooped back was one of the reasons why I was so anxious to make it upto her. Y'understand?"

"Yes--Loo. "

"But you saw that mink coat? Well, my little mother, three years beforeshe died, was wearing one like that in sable. Real Russian. Set me backeighteen thousand, wholesale, and she never knew different than that itcost eighteen hundred. Proudest moment of my life when I helped mylittle old mother into her own automobile in that sable coat. "

"I had some friends lived in the Grenoble Apartments when you did--theAdelbergs. They used to tell me how it hung right down to her heels andshe never got into the auto that she didn't pick it up so as not to siton it. "

"That there coat is packed away in cold storage, now, Carrie, waiting, without me exactly knowing why, I guess, for--the one little woman inthe world besides her I would let so much as touch its hem. "

Mrs. Samstag's lips parted, her teeth showing through like light. 

"Oh, " she said, "sable. That's my fur, Loo. I've never owned any, butask Alma if I don't stop to look at it in every show window. Sable!"

"Carrie--would you--could you--I'm not what you would call a youngsterin years, I guess, but forty-four ain't--"

"I'm--forty-one, Louis. A man like you could have younger. "

"No. That's what I don't want. In my lonesomeness, after my mother'sdeath, I thought once that maybe a young girl from the West, nice girlwith her mother from Ohio--but I--funny thing, now I come to think aboutit--I never once mentioned my little mother's sable coat to her. Icouldn't have satisfied a young girl like that or her me, Carrie, anymore than I could satisfy Alma. It was one of those mama-made matchesthat we got into because we couldn't help it and out of it before it wastoo late. No, no, Carrie, what I want is a woman near to my own age. "

"Loo, I--I couldn't start in with you even with the one little lie thatgives every woman a right to be a liar. I'm forty-three, Louis--nearerto forty-four. You're not mad, Loo?"

"God love it! If that ain't a little woman for you! Mad? Just doing thatlittle thing with me raises your stock fifty per cent. "

"I'm--that way. "

"We're a lot alike, Carrie. At heart, I'm a home man, Carrie, and unlessI'm pretty much off my guess, you are, too--I mean a home woman. Right?"

"Me all over, Loo. Ask Alma if--"

"I've got the means, too, Carrie, to give a woman a home to be proudof. "

"Just for fun, ask Alma, Loo, if one year since her father's death Ihaven't said, 'Alma, I wish I had the heart to go back housekeeping. '"

"I knew it!"

"But I ask you, Louis, what's been the incentive? Without a man in thehouse I wouldn't have the same interest. That first winter after myhusband died I didn't even have the heart to take the summer-covers offthe furniture. You can believe me or not, but half the time with just meto eat it, I wouldn't bother with more than a cold snack for supper andevery one knew what a table we used to set. But with no one to come homeevenings expecting a hot meal--"

"You poor little woman. I know how it is. Why, if I used to so much astelephone that I couldn't get home for supper right away I knew mylittle mother would turn out the gas under what was cooking and not eatenough herself to keep a bird alive. "

"Housekeeping is no life for a woman alone. On the other hand, Mr. Latz--Louis--Loo, on my income, and with a daughter growing up, andnaturally anxious to give her the best, it hasn't been so easy. Peoplethink I'm a rich widow and with her father's memory to consider and ayoung lady daughter, naturally I let them think it, but on myseventy-four hundred a year it has been hard to keep up appearances in ahotel like this. Not that I think you think I'm a rich widow, but justthe same, that's me every time. Right out with the truth from thestart. "

"It shows you're a clever little manager to be able to do it. "

"We lived big and spent big while my husband lived. He was as shrewd ajobber in knit underwear as the business ever saw, but--well, you knowhow it is. Pneumonia. I always say he wore himself out withconscientiousness. "

"Maybe you don't believe it, Carrie, but it makes me happy what you justsaid about money. It means I can give you things you couldn't afford foryourself. I don't say this for publication, Carrie, but in Wall Streetalone, outside of my brokerage business, I cleared eighty-six thousandlast year. I can give you the best. You deserve it, Carrie. Will you sayyes?"

"My daughter, Loo. She's only eighteen, but she's my shadow--I lean onher so. "

"A sweet, dutiful girl like Alma would be the last to stand in hermother's light. "

"She's my only. We're different natured. Alma's a Samstag through andthrough, quiet, reserved. But she's my all, Louis. I love my baby toomuch to--to marry where she wouldn't be as welcome as the day itself. She's precious to me, Louis. "

"Why, of course. You wouldn't be you if she wasn't. You think I wouldwant you to feel different?"

"I mean--Louis--no matter where I go, more than with most children, she's part of me, Loo. I--why that child won't so much as go to spendthe night with a girl friend away from me. Her quiet ways don't show it, but Alma has character! You wouldn't believe it, Louis, how she takescare of me. "

"Why, Carrie, the first thing we pick out in our new home will be a roomfor her. "

"Loo!"

"Not that she will want it long the way I see that young rascalFriedlander sits up to her. A better young fellow and a better businesshead you couldn't pick for her. Didn't that youngster go out to Daytonthe other day and land a contract for the surgical fittings for a bignew hospital out there before the local firms even rubbed the sleep outof their eyes? I have it from good authority, Friedlander & Sons doubledtheir excess-profits tax last year. "

A white flash of something that was almost fear seemed to strike Mrs. Samstag into a rigid pallor. 

"No! No! I'm not like most mothers, Louis, for marrying their daughtersoff. I want her with me. If marrying her off is your idea, it's best youknow it now in the beginning. I want my little girl with me--I have tohave my little girl with me!"

He was so deeply moved that his eyes were moist. 

"Why, Carrie, every time you open your mouth, you only prove to mefurther what a grand little woman you are. "

"You'll like Alma, when you get to know her, Louis. "

"Why, I do now. Always have said she's a sweet little thing. "

"She is quiet and hard to get acquainted with at first, but that isreserve. She's not forward like most young girls nowadays. She's thekind of a child that would rather sit upstairs evenings with a book orher sewing than here in the lobby. She's there now. "

"Give me that kind every time, in preference to all these gay youngchickens that know more they oughtn't to know about life before theystart than my little mother did when she finished. "

"But do you think that girl will go to bed before I come up? Not a bitof it. She's been my comforter and my salvation in my troubles. Morelike the mother, I sometimes tell her, and me the child. If you want me, Louis, it's got to be with her too. I couldn't give up my baby--not mybaby. "

"Why, Carrie, have your baby to your heart's content. She's got to be afine girl to have you for a mother and now it will be my duty to pleaseher as a father. Carrie will you have me?"

"Oh, Louis--Loo!"

"Carrie, my dear!"

And so it was that Carrie Samstag and Louis Latz came into theirbetrothal. 

None the less, it was with some misgivings and red lights burning highon her cheek-bones that Mrs. Samstag, at just after ten that evening, turned the knob of the door that entered into her little sitting-room, but in this case, a room redeemed by an upright piano with a green silkand gold-lace shaded floor lamp glowing by it. Two gilt-framedphotographs and a cluster of ivory knickknacks on the white mantel. Aheap of hand-made cushions. Art editions of the gift-poets and somecirculating library novels. A fireside chair, privately owned and drawnup, ironically enough, beside the gilded radiator, its head rest wornfrom kindly service to Mrs. Samstag's neuralgic brow. 

From the nest of cushions in the circle of lamp glow, Alma sprang up ather mother's entrance. Sure enough she had been reading and her cheekwas a little flushed and crumpled from where it has been resting in thepalm of her hand. 

"Mama, " she said, coming out of the circle of light and switching on theceiling bulbs, "you stayed down so late. "

There was a slow prettiness to Alma. It came upon you like a littledawn, palely at first and then pinkening to a pleasant consciousnessthat her small face was heart-shaped and clear as an almond, that thepupils of her gray eyes were deep and dark like cisterns and to youngLeo Friedlander, rather apt his comparison, too, her mouth was exactlythe shape of a small bow that had shot its quiverful of arrows into hisheart. 

And instead of her eighteen she looked sixteen. There was that kind oftimid adolescence about her, yet when she said, "Mama, you stayed downso late, " the bang of a little pistol-shot was back somewhere in hervoice. 

"Why--Mr. Latz--and I--sat and talked. "

An almost imperceptible nerve was dancing against Mrs. Samstag's righttemple. Alma could sense, rather than see the ridge of pain. 

"You're all right, mama?"

"Yes, " said Mrs. Samstag, and plumped rather than sat herself down on adivan, its naked greenness relieved by a thrown scarf of black velvet, stenciled in gold. 

"You shouldn't have remained down so long if your head is hurting, " saidher daughter, and quite casually took up her mother's beaded hand-bagwhere it had fallen in her lap, but her fingers feeling lightly andfurtively as if for the shape of its contents. 

"Stop that, " said Mrs. Samstag, jerking it back, a dull anger in hervoice. 

"Come to bed, mama. If you're in for neuralgia, I'll fix the electricpad. "

Suddenly Mrs. Samstag shot out her arm, rather slim looking in theinvariable long sleeve she affected, drawing Alma back toward her by theribbon sash of her pretty chiffon frock. 

"Alma, be good to mama tonight! Sweetheart--be good to her. "

The quick suspecting fear that had motivated Miss Samstag's gropingalong the beaded hand-bag shot out again in her manner. 

"Mama--you haven't?"

"No, no. Don't nag me. It's something else, Alma. Something mama is veryhappy about. "

"Mama, you've broken your promise again. "

"No. No. No. Alma, I've been a good mother to you, haven't I?"

"Yes, mama, yes, but what--"

"Whatever else I've been hasn't been my fault--you've always blamedHeyman. "

"Mama, I don't understand. "

"I've caused you worry, Alma--terrible worry. But everything is changednow. Mama's going to turn over a new leaf that everything is going to behappiness in this family. "

"Dearest, if you knew how happy it makes me to hear you say that. "

"Alma, look at me. "

"Mama, you--you frighten me. "

"You like Louis Latz, don't you, Alma?"

"Why yes, mama. Very much. "

"We can't all be young and handsome like Leo, can we?"

"You mean--"

"I mean that finer and better men than Louis Latz aren't lying aroundloose. A man who treated his mother like a queen and who worked himselfup from selling newspapers on the street to a millionaire. "

"Mama?"

"Yes, baby. He asked me tonight. Come to me, Alma, stay with me close. He asked me tonight. "

"What?"

"You know. Haven't you seen it coming for weeks? I have. "

"Seen what?"

"Don't make mama come out and say it. For eight years I've been asgrieving a widow to a man as a woman could be. But I'm human, Alma, andhe--asked me tonight. "

There was a curious pallor came over Miss Samstag's face, as if smearedthere by a hand. 

"Asked you what?"

"Alma, it don't mean I'm not true to your father as I was the day Iburied him in that blizzard back there, but could you ask for a finer, steadier man than Louis Latz? It looks out of his face. "

"Mama, you--what--are you saying?"

"Alma?"

There lay a silence between them that took on the roar of a simoon andMiss Samstag jumped then from her mother's embrace, her little facestiff with the clench of her mouth. 

"Mama--you--no--no. Oh, mama--Oh--"

A quick spout of hysteria seemed to half strangle Mrs. Samstag, so thatshe slanted backward, holding her throat. 

"I knew it. My own child against me. Oh, God! Why was I born? My ownchild against me!"

"Mama--you can't marry him. You can't marry--anybody. "

"Why can't I marry anybody? Must I be afraid to tell my own child when agood man wants to marry me and give us both a good home? That's mythanks for making my child my first consideration--before I acceptedhim. "

"Mama, you didn't accept him. Darling, you wouldn't do a--thing likethat!"

Miss Samstag's voice thickened up then, quite frantically, into a littlescream that knotted in her throat and she was suddenly so small andstricken, that with a gasp for fear she might crumple up where shestood, Mrs. Samstag leaned forward, catching her again by the sash. 

"Alma!"

It was only for an instant, however. Suddenly Miss Samstag was hercoolly firm little self, the bang of authority back in her voice. 

"You can't marry Louis Latz. "

"Can't I? Watch me. "

"You can't do that to a nice, deserving fellow like him!"

"Do what?"

"That!"

Then Mrs. Samstag threw up both her hands to her face, rocking in anagony of self-abandon that was rather horrid to behold. 

"Oh, God, why don't you put me out of it all? My misery! I'm a leper tomy own child!"

"Oh--mama--"

"Yes, a leper. Hold my misfortune against me. Let my neuralgia andDoctor Heyman's prescription to cure it ruin my life. Rob me of whathappiness with a good man there is left in it for me. I don't wanthappiness. Don't expect it. I'm here just to suffer. My daughter willsee to that. Oh, I know what is on your mind. You want to make me outsomething--terrible--because Dr. Heyman once taught me how to helpmyself a little when I'm nearly wild with neuralgia. Those were doctor'sorders. I'll kill myself before I let you make me out somethingterrible. I never even knew what it was before the doctor gave hisprescription. I'll kill--you hear--kill myself. "

She was hoarse, she was tear splotched so that her lips were slipperywith them, and while the ague of her passion shook her, Alma, her ownface swept white and her voice guttered with restraint, took her motherinto the cradle of her arms, and rocked and hushed her there. 

"Mama, mama, what are you saying? I'm not blaming you, sweetheart. Iblame him--Dr. Heyman--for prescribing it in the beginning. I know yourfight. How brave it is. Even when I'm crossest with you, I realize. Alma's fighting with you, dearest, every inch of the way until--you'recured! And then--maybe--some day--anything you want! But not now. Mama, you wouldn't marry Louis Latz now!"

"I would. He's my cure. A good home with a good man and money enough totravel and forget myself. Alma, Mama knows she's not an angel--sometimeswhen she thinks what she's put her little girl through this last year, she just wants to go out on the hill-top where she caught the neuralgiaand lay down beside that grave out there and--"

"Mama, don't talk like that!"

"But now's my chance, Alma, to get well. I've too much worry in this bighotel trying to keep up big expenses on little money and--"

"I know it, mama. That's why I'm so in favor of finding ourselves asweet, tiny little apartment with kitch--"

"No! Your father died with the world thinking him a rich man and it willnever find out from me that he wasn't. I won't be the one to humiliatehis memory--a man who enjoyed keeping up appearances the way he did. Oh, Alma, Alma, I'm going to get well now. I promise. So help me God, if Iever give in to--to it again. "

"Mama, please. For God's sake, you've said the same thing so often onlyto break your promise. "

"I've been weak, Alma; I don't deny it. But nobody who hasn't beentortured as I have, can realize what it means to get relief just by--"

"Mama, you're not playing fair this minute. That's the frightening part. It isn't only the neuralgia any more. It's just desire. That's what's soterrible to me, mama. The way you have been taking it these last months. Just from--desire. "

Mrs. Samstag buried her face, shuddering down into her hands. 

"Oh, God, my own child against me!"

"No, mama. Why, sweetheart, nobody knows better than I do how sweet andgood you are when you are away--from it. We'll fight it together andwin! I'm not afraid. It's been worse this last month because you've beennervous, dear. I understand now. You see, I--didn't dream of youand--Louis Latz. We'll forget--we'll take a little two room apartment ofour own, darling, and get your mind on housekeeping and I'll take upstenography or social ser--"

"What good am I anyway? No good. In my own way. In my child's way. Ayoung man like Leo Friedlander crazy to propose and my child can't lethim come to the point because she is afraid to leave her mother. Oh, Iknow--I know more than you think I do. Ruining your life! That's what Iam, and mine too!"

Tears now ran in hot cascades down Alma's cheeks. 

"Why, mama, as if I cared about anything--just so you--get well. "

"I know what I've done. Ruined my baby's life and now--"

"No!"

"Then help me, Alma. Louis wants me for his happiness. I want him formine. Nothing will cure me like having a good man to live up to. Theminute I find myself getting the craving for--it--don't you see, baby, fear that a good husband like Louis could find out such a thing about mewould hold me back. See, Alma?"

"That's a wrong basis to start married life on--"

"I'm a woman who needs a man to baby her, Alma. That's the cure for me. Not to let me would be the same as to kill me. I've been a bad, weakwoman, Alma, to be so afraid that maybe Leo Friedlander would steal youaway from me. We'll make it a double wedding, baby!"

"Mama, mama, I'll never leave you. "

"All right then, so you won't think your new father and me want to getrid of you. The first thing we'll pick out in our new home, he said ithimself tonight, is Alma's room. "

"I tell you it's wrong. It's wrong!"

"The rest with Leo can come later, after I've proved to you for a littlewhile that I'm cured. Alma, don't cry! It's my cure. Just think, a goodman. A beautiful home to take my mind off--worry. He said tonight hewants to spend a fortune if necessary to cure--my neuralgia. "

"Oh, mama, mama, if it were only--that!"

"Alma, if I promise on my--my life! I never felt the craving so littleas I do--now. "

"You've said that before--and before. "

"But never, with such a wonderful reason. It's the beginning of a newlife. I know it. I'm cured!"

"Mama, if I thought you meant it. "

"I do. Alma, look at me. This very minute I've a real jumping case ofneuralgia. But I wouldn't have anything for it except the electric pad. I feel fine. Strong! Alma, the bad times with me are over. "

"Oh, mama, mama, how I pray you're right. "

"You'll thank God for the day that Louis Latz proposed to me. Why, I'drather cut off my right hand than marry a man who could ever live tolearn such a--thing about me. "

"But it's not fair. We'll have to explain to him, dear that we hopeyou're cured now, but--"

"If you do--if you do--I'll kill myself! I won't live to bear that! Youdon't want me cured. You want to get rid of me, to degrade me until Ikill myself! If I was ever anything else than what I am now--to LouisLatz--anything but his ideal--Alma, you won't tell! Kill me, but don'ttell--don't tell!"

"Why, you know I wouldn't, sweetheart, if it is so terrible to you. Never. "

"Say it again. "

"Never. "

"As if it hasn't been terrible enough that you should have to know. Butit's over, Alma. Your bad times with me are finished. I'm cured. "

"But wait a little while, mama, just a year. "

"No. No. "

"A few months. "

"Now. He wants it soon. The sooner the better at our age. Alma, mama'scured! What happiness. Kiss me, darling. So help me God, to keep mypromises to you. Cured, Alma, cured. "

And so in the end, with a smile on her lips that belied almost toherself the little run of fear through her heart, Alma's last kiss toher mother that night was the long one of felicitation. 

And because love, even the talk of it, is so gamey on the lips of womanto woman, they lay in bed that night heart-beat to heart-beat, theelectric pad under her pillow warm to the hurt of Mrs. Samstag's browand talked, these two, deep into the stillness of the hotel night. 

"My little baby, who's helped me through such bad times, it's your turnnow, Alma, to be care-free, like other girls. "

"I'll never leave you mama, even if--he shouldn't want me. "

"He will, darling, and does! Those were his words. 'A room for Alma. '"

"I'll never leave you!"

"You will! Much as Louis and me want you with us every minute, we won'tstand in your way! That's another reason I'm so happy, Alma. I'm notalone, any more now. Leo's so crazy over you, just waiting for thechance to--pop--"

"Shh-sh-h-h. "

"Don't tremble so, darling. Mama knows. He told Mrs. Gronauer last nightwhen she was joking him to buy a ten dollar carnation for theConvalescent Home Bazaar, that he would only take one if it was white, because little white flowers reminded him of Alma Samstag. "

"Oh, mama--"

"Say, it is as plain as the nose on your face. He can't keep his eyesoff you. He sells goods to Doctor Gronauer's clinic and he says the samething about him. It makes me so happy, Alma, to think you won't have tohold him off any more. "

"I'll never leave you. Never!"

None the less she was the first to drop off to sleep, pink, there in thedark, with the secret of her blushes. 

Then for Mrs. Samstag the travail set in. Lying there with her raginghead tossing this way and that on the heated pillow, she heard withcruel awareness, the _minutiæ_, all the faint but clarified noises thatcan make a night seem so long. The distant click of the elevator, depositing a night-hawk. A plong of the bed spring. Somebody's cough. Atrain's shriek. The jerk of plumbing. A window being raised. That creakwhich lies hidden in every darkness, like a mysterious knee-joint. Bythree o'clock she was a quivering victim to these petty concepts, andher pillow so explored that not a spot but what was rumpled to theaching lay of her cheek. 

Once Alma, as a rule supersensitive to her mother's slightest unrest, floated up for the moment out of her young sleep, but she was verydrowsy and very tired and dream-tides were almost carrying her back, asshe said:

"Mama, are you all right?"

Simulating sleep, Mrs. Samstag lay tense until her daughter's breathingresumed its light cadence. 

Then at four o'clock, the kind of nervousness that Mrs. Samstag hadlearned to fear, began to roll over her in waves, locking her throat andcurling her toes and her fingers, and her tongue up dry against the roofof her mouth. 

She must concentrate now--must steer her mind away from the craving!

Now then: West End Avenue. Louis liked the apartments there. Luxurious. Quiet. Residential. Circassian walnut or mahogany dining room? Almashould decide. A baby-grand piano. Later to be Alma's engagement giftfrom, "Mama and--Papa. " No, "Mama and Louis. " Better so. 

How her neck and her shoulder-blade, and now her elbow, were flamingwith the pain! She cried a little, far back in her throat with the smallhissing noise of a steam-radiator, and tried a poor futile scheme foreasing her head in the crotch of her elbow. 

Now then: She must knit Louis some neckties. The silk-sweater-stitchwould do. Married in a traveling-suit. One of those smart dark-bluetwills like Mrs. Gronauer Junior's. Top-coat--sable. Louis' hairthinning. Tonic. Oh God, let me sleep. Please, God. The wheeze rising inher closed throat. That little threatening desire that must not shapeitself! It darted with the hither and thither of a bee bumbling againsta garden wall. No. No. Ugh! The vast chills of nervousness. The flaming, the craving chills of desire!

Just this last giving-in. This once. To be rested and fresh for himtomorrow. Then never again. The little beaded handbag. Oh God, help me. That burning ache to rest and to uncurl of nervousness. All thethousand, thousand little pores of her body, screaming each one, to beplacated. They hurt the entire surface of her. That great storm at seain her head; the crackle of lightning down that arm--

Let me see--Circassian walnut--baby-grand--the pores demanding, crying--shrieking--

It was then that Carrie Samstag, even in her lovely pink night-dress, acrone with pain, and the cables out dreadfully in her neck, began byinfinitesimal processes to swing herself gently to the side of the bed, unrelaxed inch by unrelaxed inch, softly and with the cunning born oftravail. 

It was actually a matter of fifteen minutes, that breathless swingtoward the floor, the mattress rising after her with scarcely a whisperof its stuffings and her two bare feet landing patly into the pale blueroom-slippers, there beside the bed. 

Then her bag, the beaded one on the end of the divan. The slow tautfeeling for it and the floor that creaked twice, starting the sweat outover her. 

It was finally after more tortuous saving of floor creaks and theinterminable opening and closing of a door that Carrie Samstag, thebeaded bag in her hand, found herself face to face with herself in themirror of the bathroom medicine chest. 

She was shuddering with one of the hot chills, the needle and littleglass piston out of the hand-bag and with a dry little insuck of breath, pinching up little areas of flesh from her arm, bent on a good firmperch, as it were. 

There were undeniable pock-marks on Mrs. Samstag's right forearm. Invariably it sickened her to see them. Little graves. Oh, oh, littlegraves. For Alma. Herself. And now Louis. Just once. Just one morelittle grave--

And Alma, answering her somewhere down in her heart-beats: "No, mama, no, mama. No. No. No. "

But all the little pores gaping. Mouths! The pinching up of the skin. Here, this little clean and white area. 

"No, mama. No, mama. No. No. No. "

"Just once, darling?" Oh--oh--graves for Alma and Louis. No. No. No. 

Somehow, some way, with all the little mouths still parched and gapingand the clean and quite white area unblemished, Mrs. Samstag found herway back to bed. She was in a drench of sweat when she got there and theconflagration of neuralgia curiously enough, was now roaring in herears so that it seemed to her she could hear her pain. 

Her daughter lay asleep, with her face to the wall, her flowing hairspread in a fan against the pillow and her body curled up cozily. Theremaining hours of the night, in a kind of waking faint she could neverfind the words to describe, Mrs. Samstag, with that dreadful dew of hersweat constantly out over her, lay with her twisted lips to the faintperfume of that fan of Alma's flowing hair her toes curling in and out. Out and in. Toward morning she slept. Actually, sweetly and deeply as ifshe could never have done with deep draughts of it. 

She awoke to the brief patch of sunlight that smiled into theirapartment for about eight minutes of each forenoon. 

Alma was at the pretty chore of lifting the trays from a hamper ofroses. She places a shower of them on her mother's coverlet with a kiss, a deeper and dearer one somehow, this morning. 

There was a card and Mrs. Samstag read it and laughed:

 Good morning, Carrie. 

 Louis. 

They seemed to her, poor dear, these roses, to be pink with the glory ofthe coming of the dawn. 

 * * * * *

On the spur of the moment and because the same precipitate decisionsthat determined Louis Latz's successes in Wall Street determined himhere, they were married the following Thursday in Greenwich, Connecticut, without even allowing Carrie time for the blue twilltraveling suit. She wore her brown velvet instead, looking quite modish, and a sable wrap, gift of the groom, lending genuine magnificence. 

Alma was there, of course, in a beautiful fox scarf, also gift of thegroom, and locked in a white kind of tensity that made her seem morethan ever like a little white flower to Leo Friedlander, the sole otherattendant, and who during the ceremony yearned at her with his gaze. Buther eyes were squeezed tight against his, as if to forbid herself theconsciousness that life seemed suddenly so richly sweet to her--oh, sorichly sweet!

There was a time during the first months of the married life of Louisand Carrie Latz, when it seemed to Alma, who in the sanctity of herlovely little ivory bedroom all appointed in rose-enamel toilet trifles, could be prayerful with the peace of it, that the old Carrie, who couldcome pale and terrible out of her drugged nights, belonged to somegrimacing and chimeric past. A dead past that had buried its dead andits hatchet. 

There had been a month at Hot Springs in the wintergreen heart ofVirginia, and whatever Louis may have felt in his heart, of his right tothe privacy of these honeymoon days, was carefully belied on his lips, and at Alma's depriving him now and then of his wife's company, packingher off to rest when he wanted a climb with her up a mountain slope or adrive over piny roads, he could still smile and pinch her cheek. 

"You're stingy to me with my wife, Alma, " he said to her upon one ofthese provocations. "I don't believe she's got a daughter at all, but alittle policeman instead. "

And Alma smiled back, out of the agony of her constant consciousnessthat she was insinuating her presence upon him, and resolutely, so thather fear for him should always subordinate her fear of him, she bit downher sensitiveness in proportion to the rising tide of his growing, butstill politely held in check, bewilderment. 

One day, these first weeks of their marriage, because she saw thedreaded signal of the muddy pools under her mother's eyes and the littlequivering nerve beneath the temple, she shut him out of her presence fora day and a night, and when he came fuming up every few minutes from thehotel veranda, miserable and fretting, met him at the closed door of hermother's darkened room and was adamant. 

"It won't hurt if I tiptoe in and sit with her, " he pleaded. 

"No, Louis. No one knows how to get her through these spells like I do. The least excitement will only prolong her pain. "

He trotted off then down the hotel corridor with a strut to hisresentment that was bantam and just a little fighty. 

That night as Alma lay beside her mother, fighting sleep and watching, Carrie rolled her eyes sidewise with the plea of a stricken dog in them. 

"Alma, " she whispered, "for God's sake. Just this once. To tide me over. One shot--darling. Alma, if you love me?"

Later, there was a struggle between them that hardly bears relating. Alamp was overturned. But toward morning, when Carrie lay exhausted, butat rest in her daughter's arms, she kept muttering in her sleep:

"Thank you, baby. You saved me. Never leave me, Alma. Never--never--never. You saved me Alma. "

And then the miracle of those next months. The return to New York. Thehappily busy weeks of furnishing and the unlimited gratifications of thewell-filled purse. The selection of the limousine with the special bodythat was fearfully and wonderfully made in mulberry upholstery withmother-of-pearl caparisons. The fourteen-room apartment on West EndAvenue, with four baths, drawing-room of pink brocaded walls andCarrie's Roman bathroom that was precisely as large as her old hotelsitting room, with two full length wall-mirrors, a dressing tablecanopied in white lace over white satin and the marble bath itself, twosteps down and with the rubber curtains that swished after. 

There were evenings when Carrie, who loved the tyranny of things withwhat must have been a survival within her of the bazaar instinct, wouldfall asleep almost directly after dinner her head back against herhusband's shoulder, roundly tired out after a day all cluttered up withmatching the blue upholstery of their bedroom with taffeta bed hangings. 

Latz liked her so, with her fragrantly coiffured head, scarcely gray, back against his shoulder and with his newspapers--Wall Street journalsand the comic weeklies which he liked to read--would sit an entireevening thus, moving only when his joints rebelled, and his pipe smokecarefully directed away from her face. 

Weeks and weeks of this and already Louis Latz's trousers were a littleout of crease and Mrs. Latz after eight o'clock and under cover of avery fluffy and very expensive négligée, would unhook her stays. 

Sometimes friends came in for a game of small-stake poker, but after thesecond month they countermanded the standing order for Saturday nightmusical comedy seats. So often they discovered it was pleasanter toremain at home. Indeed, during these days of household adjustment, asmany as four evenings a week Mrs. Latz dozed there against her husband'sshoulder, until about ten, when he kissed her awake to forage with himin the great, white porcelain refrigerator and then to bed. 

And Alma. Almost, she tiptoed through these months. Not that herscorching awareness of what must have crouched low in Louis' mind everdiminished. Sometimes, although still never by word, she could see thedispleasure mount in his face. 

If she entered in on a tête-à-tête, as she did once, when by chance shehad sniffed the curative smell of spirits of camphor on the air of aroom through which her mother had passed, and came to drag her off thatnight to share her own lace-covered and ivory bed. 

Again: upon the occasion of an impulsively planned motor trip andweek-end to Lakewood, her intrusion had been so obvious. 

"Want to join us, Alma?"

"O--yes--thank you, Louis. "

"But I thought you and Leo were--"

"No, no, I'd rather go with you and mama, Louis. "

Even her mother had smiled rather strainedly. Louis' invitation, politely uttered, had said so plainly: "Are we two never to be alone. Your mother and I?"

Oh, there was no doubt that Louis Latz was in love and with all thedelayed fervor of first youth. 

There was something rather throat-catching about his treatment of hermother that made Alma want to cry. 

He would never tire of marveling, not alone at the wonder of her, but atthe wonder that she was his. 

"No man has ever been as lucky in women as I have, Carrie, " he told heronce in Alma's hearing. "It seemed to me that after--my little mother, there couldn't ever be another--and now you! You!"

At the business of sewing some beads on a lamp-shade, Carrie looked up, her eyes dewy. 

"And I felt that way about one good husband, " she said, "and now I seethere could be two. "

Alma tiptoed out. 

The third month of this, she was allowing Leo Friedlander his twoevenings a week. Once to the theater in a modish little sedan car whichLeo drove himself. One evening at home in the rose and mauvedrawing-room. It delighted Louis and Carrie slyly to have in theirfriends for poker over the dining-room table these evenings, leaving theyoung people somewhat indirectly chaperoned until as late as midnight. Louis' attitude with Leo was one of winks, quirks, slaps on the back andthe curving voice of innuendo. 

"Come on in, Leo, the water's fine!"

"Louis!" This from Alma stung to crimson and not arch enough to feignthat she did not understand. 

"Loo, don't tease, " said Carrie, smiling, but then closing her eyes asif to invoke help to want this thing to come to pass. 

But Leo was frankly the lover, kept not without difficulty on the edgeof his ardor. A city youth with gymnasium bred shoulders, fine, polevaulter's length of limb and a clean tan skin that bespoke colddrubbings with Turkish towels. 

And despite herself, Alma, who was not without a young girl's feelingsfor nice detail, could thrill to this sartorial svelteness and to thepatent-leather lay of his black hair which caught the light like apolished floor. 

The kind of sweetness he found in Alma he could never articulate even tohimself. In some ways she seemed hardly to have the pressure of vitalityto match his, but on the other hand, just that slower beat to her mayhave heightened his sense of prowess. His greatest delight seemed to liein her pallid loveliness. "White Honeysuckle, " he called her and thenames of all the beautiful white flowers he knew. And then one night, tothe rattle of poker chips from the remote dining-room, he jerked her tohim without preamble, kissing her mouth down tightly against her teeth. 

"My sweetheart. My little, white carnation sweetheart. I won't be heldoff any longer. I'm going to carry you away for my little moon-flowerwife. "

She sprang back prettier than he had ever seen her in the dishevelmentfrom where his embrace had dragged at her hair. 

"You mustn't, " she cried, but there was enough of the conquering male inhim to read easily into this a mere plating over her desire. 

"You can't hold me at arm's length any longer. You've maddened me formonths. I love you. You love me. You do. You do, " and crushed her tohim, but this time his pain and his surprise genuine as she sprang back, quivering. 

"You--I--mustn't!" she said, frantic to keep her lips from twisting, herlittle lacy fribble of a handkerchief a mere string from winding. 

"Mustn't what?"

"Mustn't, " was all she could repeat and not weep her words. 

"Won't--I--do?"

"It's--mama. "

"What?"

"You see--I--she's all alone. "

"You adorable, she's got a brand-new husky husband. "

"No--you don't--understand. "

Then, on a thunder-clap of inspiration, hitting his knee, "I have it. Mama-baby! That's it. My girlie is a cry-baby, mama-baby!" And made toslide along the divan toward her, but up flew her two small hands, likefans. 

"No, " she said with the little bang back in her voice which steadied himagain. "I mustn't! You see, we're so close. Sometimes it's more as if Iwere the mother and she my little girl. "

Misery made her dumb. 

"Why don't you know, dear, that your mother is better able to take careof herself than you are. She's bigger and stronger. You--you're a littlewhite flower. "

"Leo--give me time. Let me think. "

"A thousand thinks, Alma, but I love you. I love you and want soterribly for you to love me back. "

"I--do. "

"Then tell me with kisses. "

Again she pressed him to arm's length. 

"Please, Leo. Not yet. Let me think. Just one day. Tomorrow. "

"No, no. Now. "

"Tomorrow. "

"When?"

"Evening. "

"No, morning. "

"All right Leo--tomorrow morning--"

"I'll sit up all night and count every second in every minute and everyminute in every hour. "

She put up her soft little fingers to his lips. 

"Dear boy, " she said. 

And then they kissed and after a little swoon to his nearness shestruggled like a caught bird and a guilty one. 

"Please go, Leo, " she said, "leave me alone--"

"Little mama-baby sweetheart, " he said. "I'll build you a nest rightnext to hers. Good night, little White Flower. I'll be waiting, andremember, counting every second of every minute and every minute ofevery hour. "

For a long time she remained where he had left her, forward on the pinkdivan, her head with a listening look to it, as if waiting an answer forthe prayers that she sent up. 

At two o'clock that morning, by what intuition she would never know, andwith such leverage that she landed out of bed plump on her two feet, Alma, with all her faculties into trace like fire-horses, sprang out ofsleep. 

It was a matter of twenty steps across the hall. In the white tiledRoman bathroom, the muddy circles suddenly out and angry beneath hereyes, her mother was standing before one of the full-lengthmirrors--snickering. 

There was a fresh little grave on the inside of her right fore arm. 

Sometimes in the weeks that followed, a sense of the miracle of what washappening would clutch at Alma's throat like a fear. 

Louis did not know. 

That the old neuralgic recurrences were more frequent again, yes. Already plans for a summer trip abroad, on a curative mission bent, weretaking shape. There was a famous nerve specialist, the one who hadworked such wonders on his little mother's cruelly rheumatic limbs, reassuringly foremost in his mind. 

But except that there were not infrequent and sometimes twenty-four hoursieges when he was denied the sight of his wife, he had learned with amale's acquiescence to the frailties of the other sex, to submit, andwith no great understanding of pain, to condone. 

And as if to atone for these more or less frequent lapses there wassomething pathetic, even a little heart-breaking, in Carrie's zeal forhis wellbeing. No duty too small. One night she wanted to unlace hisshoes and even shine them, would have, in fact, except for his fiercecatching of her into his arms and for some reason, his tonsils aching ashe kissed her. 

Once after a "spell" she took out every garment from his wardrobe andkissing them piece by piece, put them back again and he found her so, and they cried together, he of happiness. 

In his utter beatitude, even his resentment of Alma continued to growbut slowly. Once, when after forty-eight hours she forbade him ratherfiercely an entrance into his wife's room, he shoved her aside almostrudely, but at Carrie's little shriek of remonstrance from the darkenedroom, backed out shamefacedly and apologized next day in theconciliatory language of a tiny wrist-watch. 

But a break came, as she knew and feared it must. 

One evening during one of these attacks, when for two days Carrie hadnot appeared at the dinner table, Alma, entering when the meal wasalmost over, seated herself rather exhaustedly at her mother's placeopposite her stepfather. 

He had reached the stage when that little unconscious usurpation initself could annoy him. 

"How's your mother?" he asked, dourly for him. 

"She's asleep. "

"Funny. This is the third attack this month and each time it lastslonger. Confound that neuralgia. "

"She's easier now. "

He pushed back his plate. 

"Then I'll go in and sit with her while she sleeps. "

She who was so fastidiously dainty of manner, half rose, spilling hersoup. 

"No, " she said, "you mustn't! Not now!" And sat down again hurriedly, wanting not to appear perturbed. 

A curious thing happened then to Louis. His lower lip came pursing outlike a little shelf and a hitherto unsuspected look of pigginessfattened over his rather plump face. 

"You quit butting into me and my wife's affairs, you, or get the hellout of here, " he said, without changing his voice or his manner. 

She placed her hand to the almost unbearable flutter of her heart. 

"Louis! You mustn't talk like that to--me!"

"Don't make me say something I'll regret. You! Only take this tip, you!There's one of two things you better do. Quit trying to come between meand her or--get out. "

"I--she's sick. "

"Naw, she ain't. Not as sick as you make out. You're trying, God knowswhy, to keep us apart. I've watched you. I know your sneaking kind. Still water runs deep. You've never missed a chance since we're marriedto keep us apart. Shame!"

"I--she--"

"Now mark my word, if it wasn't to spare her, I'd have invited you outlong ago. Haven't you got any pride?"

"I have. I have, " she almost moaned and could have crumpled up there andswooned in her humiliation. 

"You're not a regular girl. You're a she-devil. That's what you are!Trying to come between your mother and me. Ain't you ashamed? What is ityou want?"

"Louis--I don't--"

"First you turn down a fine fellow like Leo Friedlander, so he don'tcome to the house any more and then you take out on us whatever iseating you, by trying to come between me and the finest woman that everlived. Shame. Shame. "

"Louis, " she said. "Louis, " wringing her hands in a dry wash of agony, "can't you understand? She'd rather have me. It makes her nervous tryingto pretend to you that she's not suffering when she is. That's all, Louis. You see, she's not ashamed to suffer before me. Why, Louis--that's all. Why should I want to come between you and her? Isn'tshe dearer to me than anything in the world and haven't you been thebest friend to me a girl could have? That's all--Louis. "

He was placated and a little sorry and did not insist further upon goinginto the room. 

"Funny, " he said. "Funny, " and adjusting his spectacles, snapped openhis newspaper for a lonely evening. 

The one thing that perturbed Alma almost more than anything else, as thedreaded cravings grew, with each siege her mother becoming more brutishand more given to profanity, was where she obtained the drug. 

The well-thumbed old doctor's prescription she had purloined even backin the hotel days, and embargo and legislation were daily making moreand more furtive and prohibitive the traffic in narcotics. 

Once Alma, mistakenly too, she thought later, had suspected a chauffeurof collusion with her mother and abruptly dismissed him. To Louis' rage. 

"What's the idea, " he said out of Carrie's hearing, of course. "Who'srunning this shebang anyway?"

Once after Alma had guarded her well for days, scarcely leaving herside, Carrie laughed sardonically up into her daughter's face, her eyesas glassy and without swimming fluid as a doll's. 

"I get it! But wouldn't you like to know where? Yah!"

And to Alma's horror she slapped her quite roundly across the cheek. 

And then one day, after a long period of quiet, when Carrie had lavishedher really great wealth of contrite love upon her daughter and husband, spending on Alma and loading her with gifts of jewelry and finery tosomehow express her grateful adoration of her; paying her husband thesecret penance of twofold fidelity to his well-being and every whim, Alma, returning from a trip, taken reluctantly, and at her mother'sbidding, down to the basement trunk room, found her gone, a modishblack-lace hat and the sable coat missing from the closet. 

It was early afternoon, sunlit and pleasantly cold. 

The first rush of panic and the impulse to dash after, stayed, sheforced herself down into a chair, striving with the utmost difficultyfor coherence of procedure. 

Where in the half hour of her absence had her mother gone? Matinee?Impossible! Walking. Hardly probable. Upon inquiry in the kitchenneither of the maids had seen nor heard her depart. Motoring? With ahand that trembled in spite of itself, Alma telephoned the garage. Carand chauffeur were there. Incredible as it seemed, Alma, upon more thanone occasion had lately been obliged to remind her mother that she wasbecoming careless of the old pointedly rosy hand. Manicurist? Shetelephoned the Bon Ton Beauty Parlor. No! Where, oh God, where? Whichway to begin? That was what troubled her most. To start right, so as notto lose a precious second. 

Suddenly, and for no particular reason, Alma began a hurried searchthrough her mother's dresser-drawers of lovely personal appointments. 

A one-inch square of newspaper clipping apparently gouged from the sheetwith a hairpin, caught her eye from the top of one of the gold-backedhair-brushes. Dawningly, Alma read. 

It described in brief detail the innovation of a newly equipped NarcoticClinic on the Bowery below Canal Street, provided to medicallyadminister to the pathological cravings of addicts. 

Fifteen minutes later Alma emerged from the subway at Canal Street andwith three blocks toward her destination ahead, started to run. 

At the end of the first block she saw her mother, in the sable coat andthe black-lace hat, coming toward her. 

Her first impulse was to run faster and yoo-hoo, but she thought betterof it and by biting her lips and digging her fingernails, was able toslow down to a casual walk. 

Carrie's fur coat was flaring open and because of the quality of herattire down there where the bilge waters of the city-tide flow and eddy, stares followed her. 

Once, to the stoppage of Alma's heart, she halted and said a brief wordto a truckman as he crossed the sidewalk with a bill of lading. Hehesitated, laughed and went on. 

Then she quickened her pace and went on, but as if with sense of beingfollowed, because constantly as she walked, she jerked a step, to lookback, and then again, over her shoulder. 

A second time she stopped, this time to address a little nub of a womanwithout a hat and lugging one-sidedly a stack of men's bastedwaistcoats, evidently for homework in some tenement. She looked andmuttered her un-understanding of whatever Carrie had to say and shambledon. 

Then Mrs. Latz spied her daughter, greeting her without surprise or anyparticular recognition. 

"Thought you could fool me! Heh, Louis? Alma. "

"Mama, it's Alma. It's all right. Don't you remember, we had thisappointment? Come, dear. "

"No, you don't! That's a man following. Shh-h-h-h, Louis. I was fooling. I went up to him (snicker) and I said to him, 'Give you five dollars fora doctor's certificate. ' That's all I said to him, or any of them. He'sin a white carnation, Louis. You can find him by the--it's on his coatlapel. He's coming! Quick--"

"Mama, there's no one following. Wait, I'll call a taxi!"

"No, you don't! He tried to put me in a taxi, too. No, you don't!"

"Then the subway, dearest. You'll sit quietly beside Alma in the subway, won't you, Carrie. Alma's so tired. "

Suddenly Carrie began to whimper. 

"My baby! Don't let her see me. My baby. What am I good for? I've ruinedher life. My precious sweetheart's life. I hit her once--Louis--in themouth. God won't forgive me for that. "

"Yes, He will, dear, if you come. "

"It bled. Alma, tell him mama lost her doctor's certificate. That's allI said to him--give you five dollars for a doctor's certificate--he hada white carnation--right lapel--stingy! Quick! He's following!"

"Sweetheart, please, there's no one coming. "

"Don't tell! Oh, Alma darling--mama's ruined your life. Her sweetheartbaby's life. "

"No, darling, you haven't. She loves you if you'll come home with her, dear, to bed, before Louis gets home and--"

"No. No. He mustn't see. Never this bad--was I, darling--oh--oh--"

"No, mama--never--this bad. That's why we must hurry. "

"Best man that ever lived. Best baby. Ruin. Ruin. "

"Mama, you--you're making Alma tremble so that she can scarcely walk ifyou drag her back so. There's no one following, dear. I won't let anyone harm you. Please, sweetheart--a taxicab. "

"No. I tell you he's following. He tried to put me into a taxicab. "

"Then mama, listen. Do you hear! Alma wants you to listen. If youdon't--she'll faint. People are looking. Now I want you to turn squarearound and look. No, look again. You see now, there's no one following. Now, I want you to cross the street over there to the subway. Just withAlma, who loves you. There's nobody following. Just with Alma who lovesyou. "

And then Carrie, whose lace hat was crazily on the back of her head, relaxed enough so that through the enormous maze of the traffic oftrucks and the heavier drags of the lower city, she and her daughtercould wind their way. 

"My baby. My poor Louis, " she kept saying. "The worst I've ever been. Oh--Alma--Louis--waiting--before we get there--Louis. "

It was in the tightest tangle of the crossing and apparently on thisconjuring of her husband, that Carrie jerked suddenly free of Alma'sfrailer hold. 

"No--no--not home--now. Him. Alma!" And darted back against the breastof the down side of the traffic. 

There was scarcely more than the quick rotation of her arm around withthe spoke of a truck wheel, so quickly she went down. 

It was almost a miracle, her kind of death, because out of all that jamof tonnage, she carried only one bruise, a faint one, near the brow. 

And the wonder was that Louis Latz in his grief was so proud. 

"To think, " he kept saying over and over again and unabashed at the wayhis face twisted, "to think they should have happened to me. Two suchwomen in one lifetime, as my little mother--and her. Fat little oldLouis to have had those two. Why just the memory of my Carrie--is almostenough--to think old me should have a memory like that--it is almostenough--isn't isn't it, Alma?"

She kissed his hand. 

That very same, that dreadful night, almost without her knowing it, herthroat-tearing sobs broke loose, her face to the waistcoat of LeoFriedlander. 

He held her close. Very, very close. 

"Why sweetheart, " he said, "I could cut out my heart to help you. Why, sweetheart. Shh-h-h, remember what Louis says. Just the beautifulmemory--of--her--is--wonderful--"

"Just--the b-beautiful--memory--you'll always have it too--of her--mymama--won't you, Leo? Won't you?"

"Always, " he said, when the tight grip in his throat had eased enough. 

"Say--it again--Leo. "

"Always. "

She could not know how dear she became to him then, because not tenminutes before, from the very lapel against which her cheek lay pressed, he had unpinned a white carnation. 

THE LITTLE MASTER OF THE SKY[15]

By MANUEL KOMROFF

(From _The Dial_)

Even idiots it seems have their place and purpose in society, or as achess player would say tapping his fingers on the board--"That pawn maycost you your queen. " The little village of M---- only realized thisafter it was too late. 

The police of M---- all knew that Peter, a half-wit, or "Silly Peter" ashe was called, was perfectly harmless; even though at times he wouldlitter the streets and market-place with bread crumbs. But the pigeonsof M---- soon cleared the walks. 

Peter, it seems, had at an early age dedicated his silly life to thepigeons. All his cares and sorrows were bound up in the lives of thebirds. In fact it seemed as though he himself became birdlike. He couldflap his arms to his sides and produce that same dull penetrating notethat was given only to this particular species of bird when they flappedtheir wings. 

At an early age he was left without parents and managed to grow up amongthe horses and cows in the barns. But these larger animals were entirelyout of his sphere--he did not understand them. 

One day when the lad was about seven years old, the village folkssuddenly noticed that he was lame. When asked about it, all he wouldreply was: "The pigeons made me lame. "

Luba, a farmer's fat cook, once told at the market-place how Peterbecame lame. She told of how the boy stood on the roof of her master'sbarn flapping his arms in imitation of the birds encircling his head;how he sprang in the air in a mad attempt to fly, and fell to theground. But Luba had a reputation for being a liar, and none believedher although all enjoyed listening. "Such good imagination, " they wouldsay, after she was gone. 

Peter grew up a little lame, but this defect seemed only to add to hisnimbleness. He could climb a telegraph pole sideways like a parrotwalking up a stick. Once on top he would swing his good leg around thecross beam and wave his hat--and from below a flight of flapping andfluttering birds would arise. 

In this way he lived and grew to the age of sixteen, although his small, protruding bones and round, child-like eyes kept him looking younger. Where he slept and where he ate, all remained a mystery to the villagefolk; but this mystery was not near as great as another--

The schoolmaster once noticed that at times the pigeons seemed all grey, and at other times the greater number of them carried large pinkbreasts; also at times there were few, while on other days the streetsand market-place were thickly dotted with nodding, pecking birds; alsothat never could they find the very young ones. 

It seemed as though only Peter knew the secret--but when asked about ithe would show a silly grin and shy away, pretending to be much occupiedchasing the birds that ever flocked about him. 

He would travel about from barn to barn collecting the feed that fellfrom the bins of careless animals. He would sometimes travel along theback yards, twist his mouth and call to nobody in particular: "A fewcrumbs for the birdies, lady?" And presently through an open window acrust would fly, and with this buried in his hat he would be off. 

Only among the poor would he hobble about. He never ventured up the hillwhere the better people lived; and it is perhaps for this reason that hewas seldom disturbed. 

 * * * * *

To himself Silly Peter was monarch of the air. In his own distorted mindhe was master of all creatures that flew. Worldly cares he left tothose who had inherited worldly material; as for himself, he wasconcerned only with the aerial strata and with the feathery creaturesthereof. Nobody wanted it; so he acquired it as he acquired the cast-offhat that he wore. He fathomed it, tasted it, drank it, navigated hiscreatures through it, and even fanned life into it by flapping his bonyarms. 

He understood the air and the sky, and it all belonged to him. Everyatom of sky that poured itself over the village of M---- belonged toSilly Peter. It seemed as though he purposely limped lightly over theground that was foreign to his nature; for he was captain and master ofthe sky. 

II

"We must first loosen the ground, " said a petty officer. "If the soil istoo hard, then the action will drag. And quick action and a brisk finishalways make for a better picture. "

"Hey, you!" commanded the Captain. "Go get another shovel and help dig. "

While two soldiers stood digging in a rectangular plot in themarket-place, the camera-men had set up and were adjusting a motionpicture apparatus. Twenty-five feet away stood six soldiers leaning ontheir rifles talking and laughing. 

"Enough digging!" shouted the Captain. "Turn the loose earth back intothe pit. " The soldiers obeyed. 

"Are you ready?" he said as he turned to the camera-men. 

"All ready, " came the reply. 

"Now, " said the Captain winking maliciously to two of his men. "You runaround and pick me up a beggar. "

The soldiers started off, pushing their way through the sheepish crowdand into a side street. After walking a few hundred paces one remarkedto the other: "When you don't need them, a hundred are upon you. Whenyou want them--the devil take it. "

At last they came upon Silly Peter and decided that he would answer. 

"Come along, boy; the Captain wants you, " they said, taking hold of hisarms. 

"Let me go!" The boy struggled. "I did nothing. "

"Come along, you fool!"

They brought Silly Peter to the square, placed him on the spot thatsmelled fresh with upturned earth, placed a shovel in his hands and toldhim to dig his grave. 

When they stepped aside, the terrified boy could see the camera beforehim and the six soldiers standing at attention a few paces away. Alreadythe clicking handles started turning. 

"Dig!" shouted the Captain. 

"I don't want a grave, " whimpered the frightened creature as severalpigeons approached. "I don't want a grave, " as he turned up the looseearth with trembling shovel-strokes. "I don't want a grave, " and tearsran in trickling rivulets down his silly face. 

Even an idiot could understand. At one side of him he was confrontedwith death for no apparent reason at all. And on the other side of himflew his pigeons. 

Suddenly the signal was given; the six rifles were raised, and a volleyof blank cartridges shot at the boy. The frightened birds flew into theair as the twisted frame of Silly Peter sank into the soft, upturnedearth. 

When the smoke had cleared, a soldier came up and shouted: "Hey fool?Get up!--You're not dead. " But the boy only sobbed, with his face besidethe shovel in the fresh earth. 

The soldiers were dismissed, and the Captain climbed into his carriageand drove away. The sheep-like inhabitants of the village of M----feared to venture near the spot of military manoeuvre. 

Presently an old farmer, driving his horse across the square, stopped, lifted the boy, and said: "Don't cry, Peter. It is only a little joke. See, you're not dead--here, pick up your hat. See all the pigeons arearound us--you're not dead. "

The boy seemed numb and twisted like the limb of a tree as the old manfollowing his horse helped him across the market-place and through thelane. 

"Don't be foolish, Peter. You're not dead. See the pigeons; see thesky. Look, here is Luba--she will bring us soup. "

But the boy squinted at the sun through a film of tears and with hisone-sided mouth mumbled: "I don't want a grave. "

III

The Captain lit a cigarette as he leaned back in the carriage. Thehorses snorted as they drew up the hill. "Why, " he asked himself, "arepeople afraid of dying? For many, life can hold little attraction, yeteven an imbecile fears death as though it were the devil himself. Yeteach man nurses his own pet fears. "

The carriage rocked from side to side as it climbed the hill, and theCaptain turned his mind to his young wife. "It's all imagination; that'swhat I think, " he said to himself. "It's all in her mind. Now she'safraid of this and afraid of that, and in this way she worries herselfill. 

"And the doctor thinks he knows it all, but he knows nothing. He shouldhave given her iron, she's too pale. Now we shall have to call himagain. It is all a trick that doctors have. Yes, each man looks out forhimself. But I will call him again and say to him: 'Don't you think alittle iron would be good for her, she is so pale?' And he will reply:'Yes, it can't harm. ' But I would have to say this to the doctor when heis putting on his coat in the hallway so that Vera does not hear. 

"No. Vera must not hear that I think her pale. It would worry her andshe might become worse. Then she would have to go to bed again, thedoctor would come again, and the servants would do as they pleased. AndVera would grow worse and more nervous and--"

"Here we are!" called the coachman, and the Captain stepped out upon hisown lawn. 

The house was built of stone, and although its architecture was plain, it had the solidity of a castle. Even the vines that grew up thelattice-work and walls seemed to intertwine their curly branches into aliving network that helped fortify the stone nest of the Captain and hisbeautiful Vera. 

The lovely creature was passing her hands lightly over the keyboard ofthe piano as the Captain entered. 

"It is only I, " he called, but she was startled nevertheless. 

"I am glad you came, " she said as she rose to meet him, and placing herpale head on his decorated breast added--"I am afraid to remain herealone. "

"But where are the servants, my dear?"

"Oh, servants don't count. "

"Well, well, my darling, " spoke the Captain, petting her. "You havenothing to fear. It is all imagination. "

"But I am so nervous. "

"Come, my dear. Let's have tea and I will tell you a funny story. "

Presently they were seated at the table drinking tea, and the Captainbegan his story. 

"You know, my dear, " he said; "we are going to put an end to all thisfoolish political talk and people's committees. Any beggar forms acommittee, and they do what they like. Civil authorities and militaryauthorities are all alike to them. "

"Oh, I am so afraid of beggars, " interrupted the beautiful Vera. 

"Well, my dear; soon there will be nothing to be afraid of; a propagandacouncil was organized at headquarters this morning, and what do youthink? This morning two men arrived with a moving picture camera to takepictures of our orderly town, and in the afternoon we took anobject-lesson picture. I marched the soldiers into the square and we dugup a plot so that the earth might be soft. 

"Then we had a beggar dig his own grave as we took the picture. When hehad dug enough, I gave the signal and the firing squad drew up theirrifles and blazed away. "

"Why did you kill him?"

"No, my dear; we only pretended to kill him. I myself was careful to seethat the leads were taken off the cartridge. But you see we could nottell the beggar that he was not going to die because we wanted to makethe picture look realistic--he might have run away in the middle andruined the film. 

"Well, my dear, to make a long story short, the fool beggar fell intothe pit, believing himself really killed. It will make a fine picture. It will be shown in all the surrounding towns as an object lesson, andbefore the picture itself appears on the screen it will be entitled--Isuggested it myself--it will read--'This is what happened to a fool whothought he could oppose the military authorities, ' and then will beshown the picture of the beggar digging his own grave. 

"It will be a great lesson and education to the people whose heads havebeen turned. It will be sent all over the country and if the results arefavourable and it pleases headquarters who can say, " at this point heclasped his wife's pale hand, "who can say that I will not receiveanother decoration, or perhaps a promotion? Who can tell, my dear?Things move so quickly these days. "

In the evening as they were eating, Vera looked up from her plate andspoke: "You know, if it happened to me, I think I should die. "

"Don't talk nonsense, " replied the Captain angered by the idea. "Howcould it happen to you?"

"Well, supposing the revolutionists took control, and then--"

"Supposing! Supposing the sky should fall, " he interrupted, and smiledon his lovely and delicate Vera. 

IV

Silly Peter refused to eat the bowl of soup that Luba placed out forhim, but he went aloft in the barn and cried in his dull, monotonoustone: "I don't want a grave--I don't want a grave, " until he fellasleep. 

Then over his simple, slumbering brain came a vision. 

He saw himself standing on an elevated place and over him rested thegreat ultramarine dome of sky. About him he could see the horizon asthough it were a white circle of foam. 

Gradually this circle grew smaller and smaller and rose up like asparkling and living halo. As it came nearer, he discovered that thecircle was composed of hundreds of white doves. 

Soon they were close over him encircling the elevation on which hestood, and he could hear the wild beating of the wings as though theywere rolling a tattoo on muffled drums. Then suddenly the circle broke, and rose like a puff of smoke against a sky of blue. 

With startling rapidity it rose until it rent and perforated the sky, and was lost from sight. Only a large oval opening of light-greynothingness remained overhead--a hole in the sky--an opening to heaven. 

Then from all quarters came a loud uproar; a thousand piercing, whistling yells; a rackety, rumbling, rattling commotion mixed with thebeat and swish of wings. This was followed by an upward rush whichdarkened the sky. 

Peter saw himself standing like a monarch reviewing his nation from anelevated platform. Around him flew the feathered tribes of the air. Fromthe fluttering starling to the giant albatross, all were liberated andeach paid homage to him--the master of the sky, before they shot upwardand through the oval opening in the rent heaven. It was a grand andcolourful sight to behold. 

Finally they were all gone and he saw himself take a last look about himas he stood alone on his elevation. He then craned his neck and turnedhis face to the oval nothingness--flapped his arms, and with a thrillingsensation flew heavenward. His body went through the air a littlesideways--but it flew, and the rest did not matter. 

Poor Peter awoke to find himself in the loft of the barn among his cagesof pigeons, confronted with the sordidness of material reality. Heopened a small window and then flung open the cages. 

Through the night he limped from barn to barn, darting under wagons, andbetween the legs of slumbering horses, opening doors, boxes, and evenbarrels. He was liberating the imprisoned, full-breasted creatures. 

The little village of M---- slept soundly as it was being flooded withfluttering birds. Only the hypersensitive Vera was disturbed by themonotonous beating of restless wings. 

No longer was there any mystery regarding the pigeons. 

V

In the morning the streets were covered with pink-breasted birds as wellas grey. Besides this, there were breeds and species of pigeons that thevillagers of M---- had never seen before. Wherever one turned, one sawpigeons. They were on the ground and in the sky, as well as upon theroofs. Their colours were mixed, and their leaders were lost. 

Silly Peter ran joyfully about the streets waving a little white flag atthe disorganized flying tribes, waving a white flag as though it were atruce to the sky. 

For some reason or other, an extra large number of birds took refuge onthe gable and chimney of the Captain's stone house on the hill. 

Late in the afternoon, as the charming Vera was playing at the piano, adark shadow crept over her page of music, and this was accompanied by ascrambling noise from outside. As she turned about, she could seethrough the corner of her eye a struggling figure across the window, clambering on the vines. The body was silhouetted against the sky. 

One glance was sufficient--her throat let loose a piercing scream as sheran from the room into the kitchen. "A man! A man is climbing up thehouse--quick, send for the police!" she shouted breathlessly to theservants. 

Holding her throbbing temples with both hands, she waited with theservants in the kitchen. Soon two policemen arrived, having been toldthat a robber had entered the house, but they found nothing exceptingSilly Peter on top of the roof, propped against the chimney, waving hisflag and signalling to his birds. 

"He's harmless, " said the officer. "I can't make him come down, madam. I'm a policeman, not a fireman. " And with this they went away, leavingVera with her servants and Peter with his pigeons. 

Presently the Captain came home, raved and shouted as he swung hisarms--but Peter sat with his back against the chimney, making bubbleswith his mouth and holding two new-born birds close to his face in orderthat they might prick the bubbles with their little soft beaks anddrink. 

"Come down from my house, you beggar!" But this did not even frightenthe birds that flocked about Silly Peter in ever increasing numbers. 

At length he came into the house, and took a rifle from his case. "Justwait till it grows dark, " he mumbled. But the lovely Vera jumped fromher chair and, with tears in her eyes, cried: "No! No! God will see you. He will never forgive us. After all, what harm does the boy do? He didnot intend to frighten me, I am sure, put it away, my dear--God willnever forgive us if you don't. "

Who could resist a pleading tear from lovely Vera? Surely not theCaptain. 

"You are right, my dear. He can do us no harm, " he finally allowed. 

At night there was a noise and commotion on the roof. Vera awoke, butthen all was silent again. A fearful silence hung over the house, interrupted only by the heavy breathing of her devoted soldier husband. 

She remained awake until morning and was glad when she heard theservants stir. Then thinking that a little music might be restful, shedressed herself lightly and went down to the drawing room, opened thepiano and finally opened the shutter. There beneath her on the groundlay Peter, with his face up--dead. His round child-like eyes staredheavenward as his birds sat about in mournful groups of twos and fours. 

The unfortunate Vera again rushed into the kitchen and sent for thepolice before she ran, terrified by the sight she had just beheld, toawaken her husband. In about an hour, although it seemed longer, thepoor folk of the village arrived and carried the body from the yard. FatLuba insisted upon halting the procession long enough so that she couldkiss the white forehead of the little dead master of the sky. A ring ofpigeons swirled around the procession as it marched down the hill. 

Vera nursed up a little fever for herself and was put to bed, whileLuba, the cook, stood in the market-place and with tears in her eyestold everybody that the Captain killed her little Major of theBirds--"and now nobody will look after them, and they will make dirteverywhere. And people will have to move away. And he is such a bad manto take the crumbs away from little doves. And if he has any children, Iwish them the best of everything for they surely will be unfortunate. "

Marking the spot where Peter fell were two new-born birds crushed besidethe stone house on the hill. Through the air swung a grand flightdescribing an oval in the sky. At each end of the oval the pigeons beattheir wings as they rounded the curve. With mournful thuds they beat, asthey circled over the old farmer's house and again over the solid stonehouse on the hill. 

All day they flapped a tattoo with their wings and beat their sorrowfuldead sounds into lovely Vera's ears. In the evening the Captain sent forthe doctor. 

All night long the uncontrollable feathery tribes encircled the townwith their monotonous beating and swishing of wings. 

The next day Vera grew worse, as Luba in the market place kept insistingthat the Captain killed her Little Master of the Birds; until acommittee of three working-men took it upon themselves to investigate. They started for the hill, but stopped off in order to induce theschoolmaster to join them. 

The schoolmaster, however, did not allow himself to be disturbed. He wasplaying chess with a friend, and kept tapping the dull-sounding tablewith his fingers, and repeating in a monotone: "If he disturbs thatpawn, he may lose his queen. "

As the committee went on to the hill, they were overtaken by the doctorin his carriage. At last they arrived at the stone house and found thedoctor walking briskly up and down the drawing room smoking acigarette--he had not yet told the Captain. 

Upstairs they could hear the Captain in Vera's darkened room, kneel downbeside the bed. 

"Do you know, my darling, " he spoke. "I have never kept anything fromyou--but the other day when I told you about the beggar, I should havetold you that he was--Are you listening, my dear? I should have told youthat he was the same boy--the poor boy that lived with the pigeons. 

"See; we have already been--are you listening, my dear? God has alreadypunished us--now you can get better and we will go away from here. Wewill go to some quiet place. --Are you listening, my dear? We will go tosome--do you hear me, Vera? My darling girl, don't sleep now. Tell me, what did the doctor say? Wake up Vera. "--But the hand of death hadalready passed over Vera. 

The Little Master of the Sky didn't need a grave and didn't want one. But they dug one for him just the same, at the end of the town. Whilehis pigeons encircled the sky and swished the air, the villagersstraightened his twisted, little body and slipped it into a narrow box, and lowered him down. The poor folk gave him a little grave, but hedoesn't need it for he never uses it. 

THE MAN WITH THE GOOD FACE[16]

By FRANK LUTHER MOTT

(From _The Midland_)

A subway express train roared into the Fourteenth Street Station andcame to a full stop, and the doors slid open. It was just at the lull oftraffic before the rush of the late afternoon, and the cars were onlycomfortably filled. As the train stopped, a small, unobtrusive man, sitting near one end of the third car, quickly rose from his seat on theside of the car facing the station platform, and peered through theopposite windows. All the way up from Wall Street this little man hadsat quietly observing through his deep-set grey eyes every man or womanwho had entered or left the car. His figure was slight, and the officepallor that overspread his serious face seemed to give to his eyes asingular intensity of gaze. Now he peered intently out at the people onthe Fourteenth Street platform. 

Suddenly his eyes dilated; he leaned toward the window, and raised bothhands as if to shade his eyes. Then he turned and ran toward the door, which was sliding shut. The little man's face was white as chalk; hiseyes were round and blazing with excitement. Against the protests of theguard, he squeezed through the door and made his escape just as thetrain was beginning to move. Heedless of the commotion he caused, theman dodged wildly across the platform toward a local, which stood there, gongs ringing and doors closing. For all his haste, the little man wastoo late to enter. He pounded on the glass of one of the closed doorsimperiously. 

"Next train, " said the guard shortly. 

"Let me on!" demanded the little man, waving his arms wildly. "Let meon! You have time!"

"Next train, " repeated the guard. 

The train began to move swiftly. The little man ran alongside, peeringin through the windows at something or somebody inside. 

"Look out!" called the guard, watching him. 

The man, however, paid no attention to the warning. It is strange thathe was not hurt as he ran blindly alongside the train. Perilously nearthe end of the platform he stopped short and put his hand to his head. The train thundered away, its colored rear-lights vanishing far-off inthe black tunnel. Oblivious to the interest of the spectators, obliviousto all the hurrying and running and crowding as other trains roared intothe underground station, the little man leaned limply against a pillar. 

"He's gone!" he muttered to himself. "He's gone!"

For upward of twenty years Mr. James Neal had been a clerk in theoffices of Fields, Jones & Houseman on Lower Broadway. Every day ofthese twenty-odd years, if we except Sundays and holidays, Mr. Neal hadspent an hour and a half on subway trains. An hour and a half every dayfor more than twenty years he had spent in the great underground systemof the Interborough. Its ceaseless roar benumbed his senses as he washurtled from the Bronx, where he had a room, to the Imperial Building, where he worked, and back again. This, as he had often computed, amounted to fifty-eight and a half working days each year, or about twomonths' time. Such was the fee he paid to Time for the privilege ofusing other hours for working and living. It had seemed a cruel loss atfirst--this hour and a half from every working day--but that was in theearly days of his experience in the city. Then he had been driven byboundless energy and hope--the same energy and the same hope that hadbrought him here from his little mid-western community in the firstplace. Year by year, however, as custom calloused him to the only partin life he seemed fit to play, he forgot about the waste of time in theInterborough cars. Destiny, he said to himself, had hollowed out thesubway as the rut in which his life was ordained to travel; destiny hadcondemned him inescapably to an underground roar. 

He never confessed to anyone that he held the subway as the sign andsymbol of the rut into which his life had grown. There was, indeed, nobody to whom he might impart such thoughts as he had about the deepermeanings of life. When Mr. Neal first came to Fields, Jones &Houseman's, timid and green from the country, he had been repelled bythe lack of interest in his new problems on the part of his fellowclerks, and he had then put on for the first time that armor ofindifference which now clung to him with the familiarity of anaccustomed garment. Nor did he feel a greater kinship with the family inthe Bronx with which he lodged. They were at pains not to annoy him; hekept apart from them. 

Perhaps the pallid little clerk with the large grey eyes would havebecome very lonesome if he had not eventually found a real interest inlife. This, then, was the manner and substance of his finding. 

As he traveled back and forth on the subway morning and evening, day inand day out, week after week, he wasted the hours much more completelythan most of his fellow travelers. The average subway passenger readshis newspaper and forgets the world; he knows by some sixth sense whenthe train has arrived at his station, and only then does he look up fromhis reading. Mr. Neal seldom read newspapers. The blatancy, thecrassness of the daily prints revolted him. Perhaps there was anotherreason, too, which Mr. Neal himself did not realize; perhaps the settledselfishness which his manner of life had fixed upon him had destroyed anatural craving for the so-called "human interest" that is spread overthe pages of the journals of the metropolis. He despised the littlebrawls aired in the papers, the bickerings of politics, the fights andstrikes and broils of all humanity reflected in daily mirrors. 

Self-deprived of the newspapers, it was natural that he should fall towatching the people on the cars. He got to studying faces. At first hedid it unconsciously, and he had probably been analyzing features idlyfor years before he discovered and fully realized how extremelyinteresting this occupation was becoming. One half holiday he went up tothe library and read a book on physiognomy, and after that he laid outhis course of study carefully, classifying and laying away in his memorythe various types of faces that he saw. He pursued his investigations inthe detached, careful spirit of the scientist, but as time passed he wasabsorbingly interested. Every morning and every evening he worked in hislaboratory--the subway trains. 

He never had to stand up in the cars, for he boarded them, whether atone end of his trip or the other, before they were crowded; but as soonas crowds began to fill up the aisles he always gave up his seat. Thisnaturally gained him repeated credit for courtesy, but the real reasonfor his apparent gallantry was that he could not see people's faces whenhe was sitting while others stood in the aisles. But when he hung to astrap and looked at the window in front of him, the blackness outsidecombined with the bright light of the car to make the glass of thewindows an excellent mirror to reflect the faces of those who stood nearhim. 

To classify faces according to nationality was not easy in the polyglotcrowds of this East Side line. But Mr. Neal devised many schemes to helphim. He watched the papers they read: everybody read papers! He evenventured when greatly curious, to ask a question of the object of hisinterest, so that the man might reveal his origin. Usually he wasrebuffed, but sometimes he was successful. He read all the books onimmigrants he could get his hands on. More than once he even followed arare specimen--shadowed him to his work and there made guardedinquiries. Such investigations had several times made him late to work, so that his chief had made sarcastic remarks. The chief clerk at Fields, Jones & Houseman's was a tall, gaunt, old-young man with a hawk-likenose that carried eyeglasses perched perilously astride it, and he had atongue that spit caustic. But the chief clerk's ugly words did not annoyMr. Neal if his inquiry had been successful. 

At length he became so skillful that he could separate the Slavic typesinto their various nationalities, and he could tell Polish, Lithuanianand Roumanian Jews apart. He could name the provinces from whichItalians and Germans came with few errors. 

But the most interesting set of categories, according to which he filedaway the various faces he saw was that of their ruling passions. Therewas the scholar, the sport, the miser, the courtesan, the littleshopkeeper, the clerk, the housewife, the artist, the brute, thehypocrite, the clergyman, the bar-hound, the gambler. The charm of thisclassification was that the categories were not mutually exclusive, andpermitted infinite variation. 

Mr. Neal became as devoted to this fascinating game as ever anyenthusiast has been to billiards, golf, baseball or poker. He lookedforward all day, while in the midst of the ancient grind of Fields, Jones & Houseman, to the moment when he could establish himself in aposition of vantage on a subway car, and get back to his study of faces. All night long he dreamed of faces--faces wise and foolish, good andevil. 

Yet more and more the ugliness in the subway faces oppressed Mr. Neal. Sometimes he looked into faces loosened by liquor and saw such an emptyfoulness looking out at him that he was heartsick. Then he would look atall the faces about him and see sin in manifold guise marking all ofthem. The sodden eyes of disillusion, the protruding underlip of lust, the flabby wrinkles of dissipation, the vacuous faces of women: it was aheart-breaking picture gallery. 

Every face was stamped with the little passion peculiar to it--the markof its peculiar spirit. The mouths, especially, betrayed the soulswithin. Somewhere Mr. Neal had once read weird stories of souls seen toescape from the bodies of dying persons, and always they had been seento issue from the open mouths of the corpses. There was a singularappropriateness in this phenomenon, it seemed to Mr. Neal, for the soulstamped the mouth even before it marked the eyes. Lewd mouths, andcunning mouths, and hateful mouths there were aplenty. Even the mouthsof children were old in evil. 

"I'm sorry I've learned it, " breathed Mr. Neal one day. "Now I mustalways look into a man's soul when I look into his face. "

It was true. Men who could hide secret sins from bosom friends--evenfrom their wives--were defenseless against this little clerk hanging toa strap--this man with the serious pale face and the large grey eyes whohad learned by years of systematic observation to pierce every barrierof reserve. 

His study and classification went on for several years before itoccurred to him that there was one kind of face that he never saw--onetype that he never found in all the Manhattan crowds. When he had firstdiscovered that this face was missing he had called it "the good face;"and though he realized the insufficiency of this designation he couldnot think of a better, and the term stuck. It was not that he never sawfaces with good qualities stamped upon them: he sometimes saw facesmarked with benevolence, honesty and resolution, for example, and thesewere all good faces in a way. But they were not what Mr. Neal waslooking for--what he searched for more intently with the passing months. He remembered the face of his own mother dimly through the years; it wasa little like what he wanted to see here in the subway. He searched forsimplicity, for transparent truth, for depth of spirituality, for meekstrength and gentle power. But simplicity in the subway? Guilelesstransparency of any sort? Spirituality? Mockery!

The face he never saw became an obsession with Mr. Neal. He hunted forit in various parts of the city. He tried the Broadway line of thesubway where the faces are notably pleasanter, more prosperous, andsmugger. But neither there nor about the Universities on MorningsideHeights and on the banks of the Harlem, nor in Brooklyn, nor anywhere helooked, did he find the face he sought. He could always see it when heclosed his eyes. At night he dreamed of it continuously--of meeting iton the subway and looking into eyes of ineffable kindness. 

It came finally to affect his life--this search for the unseen face. Itgradually altered his attitude toward all his subway folk. He came tohave a great pity for the ignorant, and pain filled his heart at all themarks of Cain he saw. He came to have an inexpressible hunger for thesight of spiritual quality lighting the faces of the people of thesubway crowds. He did not express his hunger in words, as people do whenthey want to make a thing definite and tangible. It was perfectly clearand distinct to him when he closed his eyes; then he saw the face. 

The time came when Mr. Neal could not sleep of nights for the evil facesthat leered at him from every side out of the darkness. It was only whenhe slept that he could see, in his dreams, the "good face. " Finally, hewas driven to make a resolution. He would consciously seek for the goodfaces; evil ones he would pass over quickly. Thenceforward he washappier. As his train roared through the tunnels of night under NewYork, his eyes dwelt most upon the faces that were marked, howeverlightly, with the qualities that reached their united culmination in the"good face. " He found his old faith in the perfectibility of manrenewed, and often he would keep his eyes closed for many minutestogether, so that he could see the face of his dreams. 

So months went on, and joined together into years. 

Then, one day in the subway, with his eyes full open, James Nealsuddenly saw the face! He had been going home from work in the eveningquite as usual. The express train on which he was riding was about toleave Fourteenth Street Station when a tall man who was about to enterthe local train standing at the other side of the station platformturned and looked directly at him. Mr. Neal's heart almost stoppedbeating. His eyes were blinded, and yet he saw the face so distinctlythat he could never forget it. It was just as he had known it would be, and yet gentler and stronger. A moment Mr. Neal stood spellbound. Thedoor of his own car was sliding shut; he leaped toward it, and, as wehave already seen, squeezed through and ran toward the other train. Though he was too late to get in, still he could see the face within themoving car. Thinking about it later, as he did very, very often, herealized that he could not tell how the man with the "good face" wasdressed; he could see only his face, and that for a moment only, as thelocal moved swiftly out of the station. Suddenly he found himself aloneand disconsolate. 

He went home sick in spirit. As he lay in his bed that night, trying togo to sleep, he said to himself that if ever he should see the faceagain--and he prayed that he might--no merely physical barriers shouldkeep him from seeking out the rare spirit that animated such features. Ah, but it had been much even to have seen that face; even that had beenworth living for. At last he fell asleep peacefully. 

The next morning Mr. Neal entered upon a new life. He had seen the face;it had not been a dream after all. He felt young again--not young withthe ambition he had once felt so strongly, but glad and cleansed andstrengthened by a sure faith in the supremacy of truth and goodness inthe world. A happy smile lighted his serious face that morning; a faintflush touched the pallor of his cheeks; and his deep grey eyes wereunusually luminous. 

Even the roar of the subway did not pull his spirits down, and when hebriskly entered the office of Fields, Jones & Houseman, theold-fashioned high desks and stools and all the worn, dingy furniture ofthe room seemed to the little clerk with the shining face to bestrangely new. The chief clerk, sitting at a dusty old roll-top desk inthe corner, looked up at Mr. Neal sharply as he entered. The chief clerkalways looked up sharply. There was a preternatural leanness about thechief clerk which was accentuated by his sharp hawk's nose, and when helooked up quickly from his position hunched over his desk, his sharplittle eyes pierced his subordinate through and through, and hisglasses, perched halfway down his nose, trembled from the quickness ofhis movements. 

"Morning!" he said briefly, and dived down again into his work, with hisshoulders humped. 

But Mr. Neal was more expansive. 

"Good morning!" he called, so cheerily that the whole office felt theeffect of his good humor. 

A young man with a very blond pompadour was just slipping into a wornoffice coat. 

"Well, Mr. Neal!" he exclaimed. "I swear you're getting younger everyday!"

Mr. Neal laughed happily as he changed his own coat and climbed upon hisfamiliar stool. His desk neighbor turned and regarded himgood-naturedly. 

"He'll be running off and getting married pretty soon, " prophesied theneighbor, for the benefit of the whole office force. 

Mr. Neal laughed again. 

"You're judging me by your own case, Bob, " he rejoined. Then in a lowertone, "That romance of yours now--how is it coming?"

That was enough to cause the young man to pour into Mr. Neal's willingear all the latest developments of Bob's acquaintance with the only girlin the world. 

For a long time Mr. Neal lived in daily hope of seeing the face again. He got into the habit of changing to a local at Fourteenth Streetbecause it was at that station he had seen the face before, but hecaught not a glimpse of any face resembling the one that he could see atany time he closed his eyes. Yet he was not discouraged. He was happy, because he felt that something big and noble had come into hislife--that now he had something to live for. It was only a question oftime, he told himself, until he should find the face. It was but aquestion of time--and he could wait. 

So the weeks and months passed by. Mr. Neal never relaxed his search forthe face; it had become a part of his life. There was no monotony in hisgreat game. He always found new faces interesting to classify, someunusual combination, some degree of emotional development he had notseen before. But _the_ face never. 

Until one Saturday half holiday in December. This is the way ithappened. 

Mr. Neal employed this particular half holiday at Columbus Park. Longago he had found this park, adjoining Chatham Square and near Chinatown, Mulberry Bend and the Bowery, a great gathering place for the lowertypes of humanity, and such half holidays as he did not spend at thelibrary studying Lombroso, Darwin, Piderit, Lavater, and otherphysiognomists, he usually employed at Columbus Park. Sometimes hewandered over to Hester Street, or up Orchard or some other Ghettostreet off Delancey, or sometimes he spent a few hours in Battery Parkor in the tenement district of the lower West Side. On this particularSaturday he found Columbus Park less populous than it had been on hislast visit a month before, for many of its habitues had sought warmerclimes. The weather was seasonably cold, and Mr. Neal felt really sorryfor some of the old, broken-down men and women he saw. 

Toward the end of the short December afternoon, he found an old man, shaking with the cold, huddled up on one of the benches of the park. Thehaggard, unshaven face told the usual story of the derelict, butsomething in the face--perhaps the abject fear that glowered in theeyes--sounded before he knew it the depths of pity in the little clerk'sheart. Mr. Neal tried to talk to him, but there was no ready beggar'stale to be poured into the ears of benevolence; there was only fear ofthe cold, and of misery, and of death. Yielding suddenly to an impulseso strong that it bore down all thoughts of prudence, Mr. Neal slippedout of his own overcoat and put it about the man's threadbare shoulders, and then hurried off toward the Worth Street Station of the subway. 

The wintry breeze chilled him as he hastened along, a slight figure inworn business suit, leaning against the wind, but his heart was warm andlight within him. Down he hurried into the subway station, and droppedhis tithe of tribute into the multiple maw of the Interborough. Thetrain was thundering in, its colored lights growing momentarily brighteras they came down the black tunnel. The train was crammed to the doors, for it was the rush hour and even down here the trains were crowded. Mr. Neal edged into the nearest door and then squirmed over to a placeagainst the opposite door in the vestibule, where he could see people asthey came out. 

The train shot again into the dark tunnels. A thousand men and womenwere being hurtled at terrific thundering speed, by some strange powerbut half understood, through the black corridors of the night thatreigned under old Manhattan, to some unseen goal. It was magnificent;it was colossal; but it was uncanny. Mr. Neal had always been moved bythe romance of the subway, but tonight, in his elevation of spirit, itseemed something of epic quality, full of a strange, unreal grandeur. Faint red lights here and there revealed nothing of the tunnel; they butlent mystery to dimly seen arches and darkling bastions, fleeting by theroaring train. 

They stopped a minute at Canal Street, and more people pushed into theovercrowded car, and then the train was off again. The man pushingagainst Mr. Neal was heavy-jowled as a prize-fighter, but if ever he hadfollowed the ring his fighting days were over now. Good feeding had donefor him; he breathed heavily in the fetid atmosphere of the car. He wasalmost squeezing the breath out of the little man with a heavy redmustache who stood just behind him. The red mustache made the littleman's face seem out of proportion; there was not enough of chin to makea proper balance. 

At Spring Street two women struggled to get off. 

"Let 'em off!" came the familiar admonition of the guard. 

Those about the women made every effort to give them room, but at thebest they had a hard fight to make their way out. Both the women weremodishly dressed, and their complexions were correctly made. There was, too, that hardness about the mouths of both of them that Mr. Neal foundin the faces of most of the women he saw--a hardness that even thestress of their effort to get out of the car could not disturb. Whenthey finally got out, others crowded in. 

Mr. Neal was happy, and he looked about him to find other happy faces. But they were nowhere to be seen; the faces were stolid, or indifferent, or intent, or vacuous. None of them were glad. If their mouths wouldonly turn up at the corners! Well, it was the same old story. Mouthsthat turned up at the corners were seldom met with in Mr. Neal's book ofsubway faces. 

Bleecker Street, and a worse jam than ever, but there was encouragementin the thought that Fourteenth Street would soon relieve the pressure. Two girls crowded on at Bleecker, amid shrill laughter and manysmothered exclamations. Their lips were carmined and their eyes bold. Every swerve of the train brought fresh giggles or stifled screams fromthem. 

As the train was slowing down for Astor Place Station an express trainpassed it, speeding for Fourteenth Street. Mr. Neal turned with aneffort (for he was wedged in tightly) and looked through the glass doorat the brightly lighted cars as they passed, and then slowly gainedupon, his own train. The express was crowded too, with people standingin the aisles, hanging to straps. The faces were very clearlydistinguishable in the bright light; and Mr. Neal, strangely excited atthis rapid panorama of faces, saw each one distinctly. Suddenly heleaned forward, close to the glass. He saw it! The face! It was there!But it was gone in a moment. It had been like a flash in the darktunnel. His own train had come to a jarring stop, and the express wasonly thunder in the distance. 

Mr. Neal felt that he must rush out of the car, must get out into theopen. But the big prize-fighter still pressed against him, and in amoment they were rushing on again into the darkness. 

Now the clerk had no eyes for the occupants of his car. His face waspressed against the glass door. He saw, out there in the darkness, thatserenely beautiful face, beatific, transcendent. And even as he looked, he saw again the rear-lights of the express. They were going to overtakeit--to pass it again. It had been halted by the block signals of thetrain ahead, perhaps--at any rate it was now moving very slowly. As thelocal shot by, the panorama of faces was unfolded much more rapidly thanit had been before, but Mr. Neal caught a glimpse of the face once more. It looked directly at him, as it had before, and he thought it smiledupon him a little. 

The little clerk was greatly excited. As soon as the local had come to astop at the Fourteenth Street Station and the doors had been opened, hedarted out and hurried to the other side of the platform. There he stoodleaning out to watch for the approach of the express. In a moment itcame, rumbling in quite as usual, mechanically and regularly, and thedoors slid open to allow the flood of people to pour out. Mr. Nealsquirmed through the crowd, looking in at the windows and watching thepeople coming out; but he did not see the face, and frantic lest heshould lose it once more, he crowded into one of the cars again at thelast minute. He tried at first to pass through the train searching forthe man with the "good face, " but the guards rebuffed him, and theusually good-natured crowd was provoked to impatience by his squirmingefforts; and he himself soon became so exhausted in his attempt that hegave it up. At Grand Central Station he again hurried out upon theplatform to watch the crowds getting off. The gong had begun to ringagain when he caught sight of a tall figure mounting a short flight ofstairs toward the upper platform, and he immediately knew that there wasthe man he sought. The face was turned away, yet he thought he could notbe mistaken. He rushed toward the stairway, bumping into others so manytimes in his haste that he really made little speed. When he reached thetop of the stairs he looked about. For one heartsick moment he thoughthe had lost the man after all. Then, away across the station, near oneof the exits, he saw the tall figure again. The man was leaving thestation, and as he passed out, for a moment he turned his face towardthe crowd within; and Mr. Neal knew then that he had not been mistaken. 

To the little clerk it seemed an age before he could reach the exitthrough which the tall figure had passed. He ran around people anddodged and ducked, oblivious of the curious watching of the crowd. Atlast he gained the exit. The tall man was nowhere to be seen. 

Mr. Neal found himself on Forty-Second Street, east of Fourth Avenue. Itwas night, and the December wind pierced his clothing and cut to hisvery bones like a knife. He buttoned his sack coat up tightly and turnedup the collar. He decided to walk east down Forty-Second Street, in thehope of seeing the face again. He walked very rapidly, impelled both bythe desire to keep as warm as possible, and the thought that whateverchance he had of finding the man would be lost if he did not hurry. 

As he stood for a moment on the curb before crossing Lexington Avenue, halted by a long string of passing automobiles, he thought he saw thetall man at about the middle of the next block. Taking his life in hishands, he scurried across the street, dodging in and out among thevehicles with the curses of drivers in his ears. But he got acrosssafely, and now he was certain that he had been right: there was thetall figure he could not mistake. Now he gained on the man, who turnedsouth into Third Avenue. As Mr. Neal breathlessly turned the corner hesaw the tall man mounting the stoop of a shabby four-story apartmenthouse a little way down the street. About to enter, he turned his facetoward the running clerk, and even by the dim light at the entrance tothe dingy house, Mr. Neal could see how ineffably spiritual and strongthe face was. Joy filled the little clerk's heart so full that tearscame to his eyes. At last he was to meet the man with the "goodface"--after so long! He managed to find breath to call out. 

"I say!" he shouted. 

But he was too late, for the door had closed almost before the wordsleft his mouth. 

Leaping up the steps, he found that the door was not locked, and heentered a dark hallway. He heard a step on the landing above, and calledout again, but there was no answer. He hurried up the creaking stairs, but he was just in time to see the first door on his left closedsilently but firmly. 

Mr. Neal hesitated. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead, whichwas damp with perspiration. Then he rang the bell. 

The hallway was dimly lighted with one small gas jet over against thediscolored wall. Mr. Neal waited. Presently he heard footsteps. Then thedoor was opened and a flood of warm light poured into the dim littlehall. A short, white-bearded old man stood in the doorway. He seemed thevery personification of serene happiness, and over his shoulder peeredan old lady whose face was lighted by the same kindly joy. There was anatmosphere of quiet goodness about them both; it flooded out into thehallway as sensibly as the glow of light itself. The old couple lookedquestioningly at Mr. Neal. The little clerk was somewhat embarrassed. 

"I--I wanted to see the gentleman who just came in here, " he said. 

The white-bearded old man seemed surprised. 

"Why, nobody has come in here, " he said in a gentle voice. "Not since Icame home over an hour ago. "

"Oh, the tall man, with--with--"

"But nobody has come in, sir, " reiterated the old man. 

"Just now, you know, " insisted Mr. Neal. "A tall man--"

A shadow crossed the old man's face--a shade of alarm. The womanwithdrew a little. Some of the happiness seemed to leave their faces, allowing the wrinkles of age to show themselves. 

"I don't know what you mean, sir, " the old man said slowly, "but we twoare alone here. There is no tall man here, I assure you. Please--"

"But haven't you a lodger?" asked Mr. Neal hopefully. "This was a verytall man; that was the reason I could see him so well in the subway. Hehas a good face--a really wonderful face--"

Mr. Neal hesitated a moment, realizing that he had been led to revealhis secret to one who might not understand. 

Pity came into the old gentleman's eyes. 

"Ah, " he said, and nodded. "If I could be of any help to you--Would youcome in?"

"Didn't he come in here, really? Hasn't a tall man been here?"

"Nobody is here, sir, but us. But if I could do anything for you, I'd beglad to. "

Mr. Neal saw that the old gentleman thought he was dealing with ademented man; he saw, too, that the denial was an honest one. 

"Thank you, " said Mr. Neal. "No. I must be going. I am very sorry Itroubled you. "

The old man bade him a cheery good-night, but he looked after Mr. Nealin solicitude as the clerk went slowly down the steps. 

The air was bitter cold outside, and Mr. Neal realized for the firsttime that he did not have his overcoat. He shivered. 

Hunching his shoulders up against the blast, he hurried back to thesubway. 

Heartbreaking though his disappointment was, Mr. Neal was notembittered. There was one thing that he knew now beyond all cavil ordoubt: he knew that he should find the man with the good face. He knewthat he should eventually meet him somewhere, sometime, and come to knowhim. How Mr. Neal longed for that time words cannot describe, but hissettled faith that his desire would one day be fulfilled kept himtranquil and happy. Why should he be impatient? Perhaps today, ortomorrow--perhaps in this car he was entering, perhaps just around thenext corner--he would see the face. 

"It will be soon, " he would say to himself. "I know it will be soon. "

The beggars in front of the Imperial building came to know the littleclerk and thank him in advance for his alms. The elevator men and thenewsies came to watch for him. Mr. Neal himself took an interest ineverybody. He formed the habit of watching crowds wherever they weregreatest, partly because thereby his chance of discovering the face wasenhanced, and partly because crowds thrilled him. What a tremendous massof emotions--hopes, fears, ambitions, joys, sorrows--were in thesethousand faces swirling about him in ceaseless tide! They were allindividuals; that was the wonder of it! All were individuals withpersonalities of their own, with their own lives to live and their ownproblems to think out. He would like to help them all. 

Mr. Neal at last formed the acquaintance of the members of the familywith whom he had lodged so long. One evening just outside his room hemet a red-cheeked boy whom he supposed to be the son of his landlord, and it came to him with a shock that he scarcely knew these people underwhose roof he had lived for many years. The boy seemed surprised and alittle frightened when Mr. Neal tried to talk to him, and the clerkresolved there and then to make amends for past neglect. The very nextevening he made an excuse to visit the father of the household. A finehearty fellow he found him, sitting in the kitchen with his stockingedfeet up on a chair, smoking an old clay pipe and reading the eveningpaper. Mr. Neal learned he was a hard-working teamster. The man seemedpleased with his lodger's attentions, and invited him to come again, andMr. Neal did come again and often, for he liked his landlord from thestart. There were three children, two of them pictures of health, butthe third thin and pale and unable to romp about because of a twistedleg. 

Mr. Neal became a veritable member of the household, and when hediscovered from a chance remark of the father that they were savingmoney, penny by penny, to buy a brace for the crooked leg, he insistedon "loaning" the money to make up the balance still lacking. 

"Funny thing, " commented the teamster one evening. "We used to think youwasn't human exactly. " He laughed heartily. "Gotta get acquainted with aguy, ain't you?"

Then his wife, a thin, washed-out little woman, embarrassed the littleclerk greatly by saying gravely:

"Mr. Neal, you're a good man. "

Her eyes were on the little cripple. 

In the same vein was the comment of the office force at Fields, Jones &Houseman's on the occasion of Arnold's injury in the elevator accident, when Mr. Neal took up a collection for the injured man, heading thesubscription himself. 

"Funny thing, " exclaimed the chief clerk to a stenographer as they wereleaving the office that afternoon. "Funny thing: when I first came hereJames Neal was close as a clam; never a word out of him. Paid noattention to anybody, all gloom. Now look at him helping everybody! Bestold scout in the office!"

As he nodded his head in emphasis, his eyeglasses trembled on hisnose--but they stuck. 

"I've not got a better friend in the whole town than James Neal, and Iknow it, " he added, "and I guess that's true of everybody in theoffice!"

It was true that Mr. Neal and the chief clerk had become fast friends. They had come to spend their Sundays together, and even to shareconfidences, and so it was natural that when Mr. Neal saw the face forthe third time he should be moved to tell his friend about it. Thistelling of his secret was epochal in Mr. Neal's life. 

The two men sat on a bench in a more or less secluded part of BronxPark. Mr. Neal looked off among the trees as he told the story of theface hesitatingly, often in difficulty for the right word, the light ofthe mystic in his glowing eyes. The chief clerk listened attentively, his cane across his knees, his lean face serious. His eyes bored intothe very mind of his friend with their keen gaze. When Mr. Neal told ofhis failure to find the man with the good face in the house on ThirdAvenue, his friend shook his head definitely. 

"No!" he said. "No! I'll tell you what it is: it is what they call ahallucination. "

"Oh, no, " replied Mr. Neal calmly. "It is real, John. There's no doubtit's real. "

The chief clerk shook his head sharply again, and there was a pause. 

"I felt I must tell you, " resumed Mr. Neal at length, "because I saw himagain last night. "

His friend looked quickly at the little clerk, who gazed away among thetrees, his eyes luminous. 

"I saw him in the Pennsylvania subway station, and I followed him out. There was no doubt about it: I saw his face. He went down Eighth Avenue, and I saw him turn in at a door. I wasn't far behind him. The door wasright next to a pawnshop. It was unlatched, and I went in. I foundmyself in a dark hallway, but toward the other end there was lightcoming from a half opened door. I was excited, John. Tremendously. Yousee, John, it was the great experience of my life--no wonder I wastrembling. 

"I stepped quietly back to where the light was, and looked into the roomthat it came from. What do you think I saw, John? There was a youngmother and two fresh-cheeked boys; one of the boys was reading at thetable, and the other one sat in a low chair at his mother's knee and shewas talking to him--telling him stories, I think. The room was poor, John, but the mother's face! It was wonderful! It reminded me of my ownmother's. There is just one word to describe it, John: it was aMadonna's face--a Madonna of Eighth Avenue!"

Mr. Neal paused and glanced at his friend. The chief clerk said nothing, but dug at the turf with his stick. 

"But the tall man was not there, " resumed Mr. Neal. "I knocked at thedoor and asked about him. The woman didn't know; no man was in theirrooms, she said. She was a poor widow. She wanted to know how I got in. I could see I was frightening her, so I left, and I could hear the doorlocked behind me. "

The little clerk sighed, and passed his hand over his eyes. 

His friend rose suddenly. 

"Come, " he said. "Let's walk--and talk about something else. "

This was but the first of many talks the two clerks had about the face. Mr. Neal's friend became more and more sympathetic toward the quest. Oneafternoon Mr. Neal detained the chief clerk as he was leaving the officeafter work. The little clerk's eyes were very serious, and his voice waslow as he said:

"John, I know that I am going to find him very soon. I know it. "

"How do you know it?" asked the chief clerk. "Something--well--psychic?"

"Oh, no. It's not mysterious. It's just a--a certainty, John. I know Ishall find him very, very soon. "

"Well, you know--" and the chief clerk looked at Mr. Neal steadily, "youknow that I--I should like to know him, too. "

Mr. Neal wrung his friend's hand. They went down together in theelevator, and parted. Mr. Neal hurried down into his subway station. There were not many waiting on the platforms. Far down the black tunnelsin either direction the little white lights glimmered. The echoingsilence of a great cave was in the station. Then suddenly the red andgreen lights of a train appeared far away; then a rumble and a roar, thedoors of the train slid open and Mr. Neal stepped in. All the way homehe kept his eyes shut. The hurtling roar, the crush of people growinggreater as they approached the great business sections, the calls ofthe guards, did not disturb Mr. Neal. He kept his eyes closed so hemight see the face. 

It was about one o'clock of the next day that the accident occurred ofwhich James Neal was the victim. He had been trying to cross the streetin defiance of traffic regulations, and had been struck by a heavilyloaded truck and knocked down, with some injury to his skull. He hadbeen taken, unconscious, to St. Cecilia's Hospital. 

Little work was done by the clerks of Fields, Jones & Houseman thatafternoon. One of the clerks had seen the accident; indeed he had beentalking to Mr. Neal just before the latter had rushed into the street. He had seen the little clerk suddenly raise his hand and point acrossthe street. 

"I see it! There he is!" Mr. Neal had said in a voice exultant with joy, and then he had dodged into the traffic, reckless of life and limb. 

The chief clerk was greatly distressed. He could not work. He would sitwith his lank form huddled up in his office chair, gazing fixedly overhis eyeglasses at nothing in particular. About two o'clock he bethoughthimself to look up the family with which Mr. Neal lodged in thetelephone directory and to inform them of the accident. The whole officeforce listened to the conversation over the telephone, and heard thechief's voice break as he told of the seriousness of the injury. Thenthe chief clerk shut his books sharply, clapped on his street coat andrusty straw hat, and set out for the hospital. 

Long before the chief clerk arrived at the hospital, a white-coateddoctor, standing momentarily in a doorway of the ward in which Mr. JamesNeal lay, met a nurse coming out. The doctor's face was such a one aswould have delighted Mr. Neal if he had been able to see it. It was abenevolent face. A profound knowledge of the problems of humanity hadmarked it with depth of understanding, and withal, a kindliness andsympathy, that made it worthy a second and a third glance in anycompany, however distinguished. 

"How about the skull fracture?" asked the doctor in a low voice, as thenurse was passing out. 

"He is dead, " said the nurse. 

"When?" asked the doctor. 

"Just now. I just left him. "

"There was no chance, " said the doctor. 

The nurse was about to pass on when the doctor detained her. 

"That tall man, " he said, "who was with him: where has he gone?"

The nurse looked at the doctor in surprise. 

"There was no one with him but me, " she said. 

"Oh, yes, " said the doctor. "I saw a man bending over the bed--a verytall man with a remarkable face. I wondered who he could be. "

The nurse turned, and with the doctor looked over toward the bed wherethe body of James Neal lay. 

"That is strange, " said the nurse. 

"I saw him there, " said the doctor, "just as you were leaving thepatient; now he is gone. "

"Queer! I saw no one, " said the nurse, and moved away to attend to otherduties. 

The doctor walked over to the bed where the body of the little clerklay. 

"It _is_ strange, " he mused. "I surely saw him. --The most beautiful faceI ever saw. "

Then he looked down at what had been James Neal. 

"He was very fortunate, " said the doctor in a low tone, "to die with aface like that looking into his. "

There was a smile on the death-white lips of the little clerk. 

MASTER OF FALLEN YEARS[17]

By VINCENT O'SULLIVAN

(From _The Smart Set_)

Several years ago, I was intimately acquainted with a young man namedAugustus Barber. He was employed in a paper-box manufacturer's businessin the city of London. I never heard what his father was. His mother wasa widow and lived, I think, at Godalming; but of this I am not sure. Itis odd enough that I should have forgotten where she lived, for myfriend was always talking about her. Sometimes he seemed immensely fondof her; at other times almost to hate her; but whichever it was, henever left her long out of his conversation. I believe the reason Iforget is that he talked so much about her that I failed at last to payattention to what he said. 

He was a stocky young man, with light-coloured hair and a pale, ratherblotchy complexion. There was nothing at all extraordinary about him oneither the material or spiritual side. He had rather a weakness forgaudy ties and socks and jewelry. His manners were a little boisterous;his conversation, altogether personal. He had received some training ata commercial school. He read little else than the newspapers. The onlybook I ever knew him to read was a novel of Stevenson's, which he saidwas "too hot for blisters. "

Where, then, in this very commonplace young man, were hidden theelements of the extraordinary actions and happenings I am about torelate? Various theories offer; it is hard to decide. Doctors, psychologists whom I have consulted, have given different opinions; butupon one point they have all agreed--that I am not able to supplyenough information about his ancestry. And, in fact, I know hardlyanything about that. 

This is not, either, because he was uncommunicative. As I say, he usedto talk a lot about his mother. But he did not really inspire enoughinterest for anybody to take an interest in his affairs. He was there;he was a pleasant enough fellow; but when he had gone you were finishedwith him till the next time. If he did not look you up, it would neveroccur to you to go and see him. And as to what became of him when he wasout of sight, or how he lived--all that, somehow, never troubled ourheads. 

What illustrates this is that when he had a severe illness a few yearsafter I came to know him, so little impression did it make on anyonethat I cannot now say, and nobody else seems able to remember, what thenature of the illness was. But I remember that he was very ill indeed;and one day, meeting one of his fellow clerks in Cheapside, he told methat Barber's death was only a question of hours. But he recovered, after being, as I heard, for a long time in a state of lethargy whichlooked mortal. 

It was when he was out again that I--and not only myself butothers--noticed for the first time that his character was changing. Hehad always been a laughing, undecided sort of person; he had a facilelaugh for everything; he would meet you and begin laughing before therewas anything to laugh at. This was certainly harmless, and he had adeserved reputation for good humor. 

But his manners now became subject to strange fluctuations, which werevery objectionable while they lasted. He would be overtaken with fits ofsullenness in company; at times he was violent. He took to rambling instrange places at night, and more than once he appeared at his office ina very battered condition. It is difficult not to think that he provokedthe rows he got into himself. One good thing was that the impulses whichdrove him to do such actions were violent rather than enduring; in fact, I often thought that if the force and emotion of these bouts ever cameto last longer, he would be a very dangerous character. This was notonly my opinion; it was the opinion of a number of respectable peoplewho knew him as well as I did. 

I recollect that one evening, as three or four of us were coming out ofa music hall, Barber offered some freedom to a lady which the gentlemanwith her--a member of Parliament, I was told--thought fit to resent. Heturned fiercely on Barber with his hand raised--and then suddenly grewtroubled, stepped back, lost countenance. This could not have beenphysical fear, for he was a strongly built, handsome man--a giantcompared to the insignificant Barber. But Barber was looking at him, andthere was something not only in his face, but, so to speak, _encompassing_ him--I can't well describe it--a sort of abstractright--an uncontrolled power--a command of the issues of life and death, which made one quail. 

Everybody standing near felt it; I could see that from their looks. Onlyfor a moment it lasted, and then the spell was broken--really as if someformidable spectacle had been swept away from before our eyes; and therewas Barber, a most ordinary looking young man, quiet and respectable, and so dazed that he scarcely heeded the cuff which the gentlemanmanaged to get in before we could drag our friend off--

It was about this time that he began to show occasionally the strangestinterest in questions of art--I mean, strange in him whom we had neverknown interested in anything of the kind. I am told, however, that thisis not so very remarkable, since not a few cases have been observed ofmen and women, after some shock or illness, developing hithertounsuspected aptitude for painting or poetry or music. But in such casesthe impulse lasts continuously for a year or two, and now and then forlife. 

With Barber the crisis was just momentary, never lasting more than halfan hour, often much less. In the midst of his emphatic and pretentioustalk, he would break off suddenly, remain for a minute lost anddreaming, and then, after spying at us suspiciously to see if we hadnoticed anything strange, he would give an undecided laugh and repeat ajoke he had read in some comic paper. 

His talk on these art subjects was without sense or connection, so faras I could discover. Sometimes he spoke of painting, but when we put tohim the names of famous painters, he had never heard of them, and Idon't believe he had ever been in an art gallery in his life. More oftenhe spoke of theatrical matters. Coming back from a theatre, he wouldsometimes fall to abusing the actors, and show the strongest jealousy, pointing out how the parts should have been played, and claiming roundlythat he could have played them better. Of course, there were othertimes--most times--when he was alike indifferent to plays and players, or summed them up like the rest of us, as just "ripping" or "rotten. " Itwas only when the play had much excited him that he became critical, andat such times none of us seemed willing to dispute with him, though wehardly ever agreed with what he was saying. 

Sometimes, too, he would talk of his travels, telling obvious lies, forwe all knew well enough that he had never been outside the homecounties, except once on a week-end trip to Boulogne-sur-mer. On oneoccasion he put me to some confusion and annoyed me considerably beforea gentleman whom I had thoughtlessly brought him with me to visit. Thisgentleman had long resided in Rome as agent for an English hosiery firm, and he and his wife were kindly showing us some photographs, picturepost-cards, and the like, when, at the sight of a certain view, Barberbent over the picture and became absorbed. 

"I have been there, " he said. 

The others looked at him with polite curiosity and a little wonder. Topass it off I began to mock. 

"No, " he persisted, "I have seen it. "

"Yes, at the moving-pictures. "

But he began to talk rapidly and explain. I could see that the gentlemanand his wife were interested and quite puzzled. It would seem that theplace he described--Naples, I think it was--resembled broadly the placethey knew, but with so many differences of detail as to be almostunrecognizable. It was, as Mrs. W. Said afterward, "like a cityperceived in a dream--all the topsy-turvydom, all the mingling offantasy and reality. "

After outbursts of this kind, he was generally ill--at least he kept hisbed and slept much. As a consequence, he was often away from the office;and whenever I thought of him in those days, I used to wonder how hemanaged to keep his employment. 

One foggy evening in January, about eight o'clock, I happened to bewalking with Barber in the West End. We passed before a concert hall, brilliantly lighted, with a great crowd of people gathered about thedoors, and I read on a poster that a concert of classical music wasforward at which certain renowned artists were to appear. I reallycannot give any sort of reason why I took it into my head to go in. I amrather fond of music, even of the kind which requires a distinctintellectual effort; but I was not anxious to hear music that night, andin any case, Barber was about the last man in the world I should havechosen to hear it with. When I proposed that we should take tickets, hestrongly objected. 

"Just look me over, " he said. "I ain't done anything to you that youwant to take my life, have I? I know the kind of merry-go-round thatgoes on in there, and I'm not having any. "

I suppose it was his opposition which made me stick to the project, forI could not genuinely have cared very much, and there was nothing to begained by dragging Barber to a concert against his will. Finally, seeingI was determined, he yielded, though most ungraciously. 

"It'll be the chance of a lifetime for an hour's nap, " he said as wetook our seats, "if they only keep the trombone quiet. "

I repeat his trivial sayings to show how little there was about him inmanner or speech to prepare me for what followed. 

I remember that the first number on the programme was Beethoven'sSeventh Symphony. This work, as is well known, is rather long, and so, at the end of the third movement, I turned and looked at Barber to seeif he was asleep. But his eyes were wide open, feverish, almost glaring;he was twining and untwining his fingers and muttering excitedly. Throughout the fourth movement he continued to talk incoherently. 

"Shut up!" I whispered fiercely. "Just see if you can't keep quiet, orwe shall be put out. "

I was indeed very much annoyed, and some people near by were turning intheir chairs and frowning. --

I do not know whether he heard what I said: I had no chance to talk tohim. The applause had hardly died away at the end of the symphony when asinger appeared on the stage. Who he was, or what music he sang, I amutterly unable to say; but if he is still alive it is impossible that heshould have forgotten what I relate. If I do not remember him, it isbecause all else is swallowed up for me in that extraordinary event. 

Scarcely had the orchestra ceased preluding and the singer brought outthe first notes of his song, than Barber slowly rose from his seat. 

"That man is not an artist, " he said in a loud and perfectly finalvoice, "I will sing myself. "

"Sit down, for God's sake!--The management--the police"--

Some words like these I gasped, foreseeing the terrible scandal whichwould ensue, and I caught him by the arm. But he shook himself freewithout any difficulty, without even a glance at me, and walked up theaisle and across the front of the house toward the little stairs at theside which led up to the platform. By this time the entire audience wasaware that something untoward was happening. There were a few cries of"Sit down! Put him out!" An usher hastened up as Barber was about tomount the steps. 

Then a strange thing happened. 

As the usher drew near, crying out angrily, I saw Barber turn and lookat him. It was not, as I remember, a fixed look or a determined look; itwas the kind of untroubled careless glance a man might cast over hisshoulder who heard a dog bark. I saw the usher pause, grow pale andshamefaced feel like a servant who has made a mistake; he made aprofound bow and then--yes, he actually dropped on his knees. All thepeople saw that. They saw Barber mount the platform, the musicianscease, the singer and the conductor give way before him. But never aword was said--there was a perfect hush. And yet, so far as my stunnedsenses would allow me to perceive, the people were not wrathful or evencurious; they were just silent and collected as people generally are atsome solemn ceremonial. Nobody but me seemed to realize theoutrageousness and monstrosity of the vulgar-looking, insignificantBarber there on the platform, holding up the show, stopping theexcellent music we had all paid to hear. 

And in truth I myself was rapidly falling into the strangest confusion. For a certain time--I cannot quite say how long--I lost my hold onrealities. The London concert hall, with its staid, rather sad-lookingaudience, vanished, and I was in a great white place inundated withsun--some vast luminous scene. Under a wide caressing blue sky, in thedry and limpid atmosphere, the white marble of the buildings and thewhite-clad people appeared as against a background of an immense blueveil shot with silver. It was the hour just before twilight, that rapidhour when the colors of the air have a supreme brilliance and serenity, and a whole people, impelled by some indisputable social obligation, seemed to be reverently witnessing the performance of one magnificentman of uncontrollable power, of high and solitary grandeur. --

Barber began to sing. 

Of what he sang I can give no account. The words seemed to me here andthere to be Greek, but I do not know Greek well, and in such words as Ithought I recognized, his pronunciation was so different from what I hadbeen taught that I may well have been mistaken. 

I was so muddled, and, as it were, transported, that I cannot say evenif he sang well. Criticism did not occur to me; he was there singing andwe were bound to listen. As I try to hear it, now, it was a carefullytrained voice. A sound of harps seemed to accompany the singing; perhapsthe harpists in the orchestra touched their instruments. --

How long did it last? I have no idea. But it did not appear long beforeall began to waver. The spell began to break; the power by which he wascompelling us to listen to him was giving out. It was exactly as ifsomething, a mantle or the like, was falling from Barber. 

The absurdity of the whole thing began to dawn on me. There was Barber, an obscure little Londoner, daring to interrupt a great musicalperformance so that the audience might listen to him instead! Probablybecause I was the only one on the spot personally acquainted withBarber, I was perceiving the trick put upon us sooner than the rest ofthe audience; but they, too, were becoming a little restless, and itwould not be long ere they fully awoke. One thing I saw with perfectclearness and some terror, and that was that Barber himself realizedthat his power was dying within him. He appeared to be dwindling, shrinking down; in his eyes were suffering and a terrible panic--thedistress of a beaten man appealing for mercy. The catastrophe must fallin a minute--

With some difficulty I rose from my place and made for the nearest exit. My difficulty came, not from the crowd or anything like that, but froman inexplicable sensation that I was committing some crime by stirringwhile Barber was on the stage, and even risking my life. 

Outside it was raining. 

I walked away rapidly, for although I was, to a certain extent, underthe influence of the impression I have just described, some remains ofcommon sense urged me to put a long distance between myself and theconcert hall as soon as possible. I knew that the hoots and yells offury and derision had already broken loose back there. Perhaps Barberwould be taken to the police station. I did not want to be mixed up inthe affair--

But suddenly I heard the steps of one running behind me. As I say, itwas a wet night, and at that hour the street was pretty empty. Barberran up against me and caught my arm. He was panting and tremblingviolently. 

"You fool!" I cried furiously. "Oh, you fool!" I shook myself free ofhis hold. "How did you get out?"

"I don't know, " he panted. "They let me go--that is, as soon as I sawthat I was standing up there before them all, I jumped off the stage andbolted. Whatever made me do it? My God, what made me do it? I heard ashout. I think they are after me. "

I hailed a passing cab and shoved Barber inside, and then got inmyself. I gave the cabman a fictitious address in Kensington. 

"Yes, " I said fiercely. "What made you do it?"

He was bunched in a corner of the cab, shuddering like a man who hasjust had some great shock, or who has been acting under the influence ofa drug which has evaporated and left him helpless. His words came ingasps. 

"If you can tell me that!--God, I'm frightened! I'm frightened! I mustbe crazy. Whatever made me do it? If they hear of it at the office I'lllose my job. "

"They'll hear of it right enough, my boy, " I sneered, "and a good manyother people too. You can't do these little games with impunity. "

I caught sight of the clock at Hyde Park corner. It was near a quarterto ten. 

"Why, " I said, "you must have been up there over twenty minutes. Thinkof that!"

"Don't be so hard on me, " said Barber miserably. "I couldn't help it. "

And he added in a low voice: "It was the _Other_. "

I paid off the cab, and we took a 'bus which passed by the street whereBarber lived. All the way I continued to reproach him. It was not enoughfor him to play the fool on his own account, but he must get me into amess, too. I might lose my work through him. 

I walked with him to his door. He looked extremely ill. His handtrembled so badly that he could not fit his latchkey. I opened the doorfor him. 

"Come up and sit with a fellow, " he ventured. 

"Why?"

"I'm frightened. --"

"I believe, " I said roughly, "that you've been drinking--or drugging. "

I shoved him inside the house, pulled the door closed, and walked awaydown the street. I was very angry and disturbed, but I felt also theneed to treat Barber with contempt so as to keep myself alive to thefact that he was really a mere nothing, a little scum on the surface ofLondon, of no more importance than a piece of paper on the pavement. For--shall I confess it?--I was even yet so much under the emotion ofthe scene back there in the concert hall that I could not help regardinghim still with some mixture of respect and--yes, absurd as it may sound, of fear. 

It was nearly a year before I saw Barber again. I heard that he had losthis place at his office. The cashier there, who told me this, said thatalthough the young man was generally docile and a fair worker, he had inthe last year become very irregular, and was often quarrelsome andimpudent. He added that Barber could now and then influence themanagement--"when he was not himself, " as the cashier put it--or theywould not have tolerated him so long. 

"But this was only momentary, " said the cashier. "He was more often weakand feeble, and they took a good opportunity to get rid of him. He wasuncanny, " ended the cashier significantly. 

I cannot imagine how Barber existed after he lost his place. Perhaps hismother was able to help a little. On the day I met him, by mere chancein the street, he looked sick and miserable; his sallow face was moreblotchy than ever. Whether he saw me or not I don't know, but he wascertainly making as if to go by when I stopped him. I told him he lookedweak and unwell. 

"Trust you to pass a cheery remark!" And he continued irritably:

"How can you expect a chap to look well if he has something inside himstronger than himself forcing him to do the silliest things? It _must_wear him out. I never know when it will take me next. I'm here in Londonlooking for a job today, but even if I find one, I'm sure to do sometom-fool thing that will get me the sack. "

He passed his hand across his face. "I'd rather not think about it. "

I took pity on him, he looked so harassed, and I asked him to come on toa Lyons restaurant with me and have a bit of lunch. As we walked throughthe streets, we fell in with a great crowd, and then I remembered thatsome royal visitors were to proceed in great state to the Mansion House. I proposed to Barber that we should go and look at the procession, andhe agreed more readily than I expected. 

In fact, after a while, the crowd, and the rumor, and stirring of troopsas they fell into position, evidently wrought on him to a remarkabledegree. He began to talk loud and rather haughtily, to study hisgestures; there was infinite superiority and disdain in the looks hecast on the people. He attracted the attention and, I thought, thederision of those close to us, and I became rather ashamed and impatientof those ridiculous airs. Yet I could not help feeling sorry for him. The poor creature evidently suffered from megalomania--that was the onlyway to account for his pretentious notions of his own importance, seeingthat he was just a needy little clerk out of work. --

The place from which we were watching the procession was a corner ofPiccadilly Circus. The street lay before our eyes bleached in the sun, wide and empty, looking about three times as large as usual, borderedwith a line of soldiers and mounted police, and the black crowd massedbehind. In a few minutes the procession of princes would sweep by. Therewas a hush over all the people. 

What followed happened so quickly that I can hardly separate theprogressive steps. Barber continued to talk excitedly, but all myattention being on the scene before me, I took no heed of what he said. Neither could I hear him very plainly. But it must have been the ceasingof his voice which made me look around, when I saw he was no longer bymy side. 

How he managed, at that moment, to get out there I never knew, butsuddenly in the broad vacant space, fringed by police and soldiery, Isaw Barber walking alone in the sight of all the people. 

I was thunderstruck. What a madman! I expected to hear the crowd roar athim, to see the police ride up and drag him away. 

But nobody moved; there was a great stillness; and before I knew it myown feelings blended with the crowd's. It seemed to me that Barber wasin his right place there: this mean shabby man, walking solitary, waswhat we had all come to see. For his passage the street had beencleared, the guards deployed, the houses decked. 

It all sounds wild, I know, but the whole scene made so deep animpression on my mind that I am perfectly certain as to what I feltwhile Barber was walking there. He walked slowly, with no trace of hisusual shuffling uncertain gait, but with a balanced cadenced step, andas he turned his head calmly from side to side his face seemedtransfigured. It was the face of a genius, an evil genius, unjust andruthless--a brutal god. I felt, and no doubt everyone in the crowd felt, that between us and that lonely man there was some immense differenceand distance of outlook and will and desire. 

I could follow his progress for several yards. Then I lost sight of him. Almost immediately afterward I heard a tumult--shouts and uproar--

Then the royal procession swept by. 

I said to Mr. G. M. , "Whether he was arrested that day, or knocked downby the cavalry and taken to a hospital, I don't know. I have not seen orheard of him till I got that letter on Wednesday. "

Mr. G. M. , who is now one of the managers of a well-known tobacconistfirm, had been in the same office as Barber, and notwithstanding thedisparity of age and position, had always shown a kindly interest in himand befriended him when he could. Accordingly, when I received a letterfrom Barber begging in very lamentable terms to visit him at an addressin Kent, I thought it prudent to consult this gentleman before sendingany reply. He proposed very amiably that we should meet at Charing CrossStation on the following Saturday afternoon and travel in to Kenttogether. In the train we discussed Barber's case. I related all I knewof the young man and we compared our observations. 

"Certainly, " said Mr. G. M. , "what you tell me is rather astonishing. Butthe explanation is simple as far as poor Barber is concerned. You say hehas been often ill lately? Naturally, this has affected his brain andspirits. What is a little more difficult to explain is the impressionleft by his acts on you and other spectators. But the anger you alwaysexperienced may have clouded your faculties for the time being. Have youinquired of anybody else who was present on these occasions?"

I replied that I had not. I had shrunk from being identified in any waywith Barber. I had to think of my wife and children. I could not affordto lose my post. 

"No, " rejoined Mr. G. M. , "I can quite understand that. I should probablyhave acted myself as you did. Still, the effect his performances havehad on you, and apparently on others, is the strangest element inBarber's case. Otherwise, I don't see that it offers anythinginexplicable. You say that Barber acts against his will--against hisbetter judgment. We all do that. All men and women who look back overtheir lives must perceive the number of things they have done which theyhad no intention of doing. We obey some secret command; we sail undersealed orders. We pass by without noticing it some tiny fact which, years later, perhaps, influences the rest of our lives. And for all ourthinking, we seldom can trace this tiny fact. I myself cannot tell tothis day why I did not become a Baptist minister. It seems to me Ialways intended to do this, but one fine afternoon I found I had endedmy first day's work in a house of business. 

"Much of our life is unconscious; even the most wide-awake of us passmuch of our lives in dreams. Several hours out of every twenty-four wepass in a dream state we cannot help carrying some of those happy orsinister adventures into our waking hours. It is really as much ourhabit to dream as to be awake. Perhaps we are always dreaming. Haven'tyou ever for a moment, under some powerful exterior shock, become halfconscious that you should be doing something else from what you areactually doing? But with us this does not last; and as life goes on suchintimations become dimmer and dimmer. With subjects like Barber, on theother hand, the intimations become stronger and stronger, till at lastthey attempt to carry their dreams into action. That is the way Iexplain this case. "

"Perhaps you are right. "

The house where Barber was lodging stood high up on the side of a hill. We reached it after a rather breathless climb in the rain. It was ashepherd's cottage, standing quite lonely. Far down below the villagecould be seen with the smoke above the red roofs. 

The woman told us that Barber was in, but she thought he might beasleep. He slept a lot. 

"I don't know how he lives, " she said. "He pays us scarce anything. Wecan't keep him much longer. "

He was fast asleep, lying back in a chair with his mouth half open, wrapped in a shabby overcoat. He looked very mean; and when he awoke itwas only one long wail on his hard luck. He couldn't get any work. People had a prejudice against him; they looked at him askance. He had agreat desire for sleep--couldn't somehow keep awake. 

"If I could tell you the dreams I have!" he cried fretfully. "Silliestrotten stuff. I try to tell 'em to the woman here or her husbandsometimes, but they won't listen. Shouldn't be surprised if they thinkI'm a bit off. They say I'm always talking to myself. I'm sure I'mnot. --I wish I could get out of here. Can't you get me a job?" he asked, turning to Mr. G. M. 

"Well, Gus, I'll see. I'll do my best. "

"Lummy!" exclaimed Barber excitedly, "you ought to see the things Idream. I can't think where the bloomin' pictures come from. And yet I'veseen it all before. I know all those faces. They are not all white. Someare brown like Egyptians, and some are quite black. I've seen themsomewhere. Those long terraces and statues and fountains and marblecourts, and the blue sky and the sun, and those dancing girls with thenails of their hands and feet stained red, and the boy in whose hair Iwipe my fingers, and the slave I struck dead last night--"

His eyes were delirious, terrible to see. 

"Ah, " he cried hoarsely, "I am stifling here. Let us go into the air. "

And indeed he was changing so much--not essentially in his person, though his face had become broader, intolerant, domineering andcruel--but there was pouring from him so great an emanation of powerthat it seemed to crack and break down the poor little room. Mr. G. M. And myself had no desire to thwart him, and it never occurred to us todo so. We should as soon have thought of stopping a thunderstorm. Wefollowed him outside on to the space of level ground before the houseand listened humbly while he spoke. 

As well as I can recollect, he was lamenting some hindrance to hisimpulses, some flaw in his power. "To have the instincts of the rulerand no slaves to carry out my will. To wish to reward and punish and tobe deprived of the means. To be the master of the world, but only in myown breast--Oh, fury! The ploughboy there is happy, for he has nolongings outside of his simple round life. While I--if I had the earthin my hand, I should want a star. Misery! Misery!"

He leaned upon a low stonewall and looked down on the town, over thepastures blurred with rain. 

"And those wretches down there, " he pronounced slowly, "who jeer at mewhen I pass and insult me with impunity, whose heads should be struckoff, and I cannot strike them off! I loathe that town. How ugly it is!It offends my eyes. "

He turned and looked us full in the face and our hearts became as water. 

"Burn it, " he said. 

Then he turned away again and bowed his head in his arms on the wall. 

I don't remember anything clearly till a long time afterward, when Ifound myself walking with Mr. G. M. In the wet night on a deserted roadon the outskirts of the town. We were carrying some inflammable things, flax, tar, matches, etc. , which we must have purchased. 

Mr. G. M. Stopped and looked at me. It was exactly like coming out of afainting fit. 

"What are we doing with this gear?" he said in a low voice. 

"I don't know. "

"Better chuck it over a hedge. --"

We made our way to the station in silence. I was thinking of thatdesolate figure up there on the hill, leaning over the wall in the darkand the rain. 

We caught the last train to London. In the carriage Mr. G. M. Began toshiver as though he were cold. 

"Brrr! that fellow got on my nerves, " he said; and we made no furtherallusion to the matter. 

But as the train, moving slowly, passed a gap which brought us again insight of the town, we saw a tongue of flame stream into the sky. 

THE SHAME DANCE[18]

By WILBUR DANIEL STEELE

(From _Harper's Magazine_)

"Stories of New York life preferable. "

Well, then, here is a story of New York. A tale of the night heart ofthe city, where the vein of Forty-Second touches the artery of Broadway;where, amid the constellations of chewing-gum ads and tooth paste andmemory methods, rise the incandescent façades of "dancing academies"with their "sixty instructresses, " their beat of brass and strings, their whisper of feet, their clink of dimes. --Let a man not work awayhis strength and his youth. Let him breathe a new melody, let him drawout of imagination a novel step, a more fantastic tilt of the pelvis, awilder gesticulation of the deltoid. Let him put out his hand to theTouch of Gold. --

It is a tale of this New York. That it didn't chance to happen in NewYork is beside the point. Where? It wouldn't help you much if I toldyou. Taai. That island. Take an imaginary ramrod into Times Square, pushit straight down through the center of the earth; where it comes out onthe other side will not be very many thousand miles wide of that earthspeck in the South Seas. Some thousands, yes; but out here a fewthousand miles and a month or so by schooner make less difference thanthey do where the trains run under the ground. --

"Glauber's Academy"--"Einstein's Restaurant"--"Herald Square"--

I can't tell you how bizarrely those half-fabulous names fell fromSignet's lips in the turquoise and gold of the afternoon. It was likethe babble of some monstrous and harmless mythology. And all the while, as he kicked his bare heels on the deckhouse and harassed me with hissomnolent greed for "talk, " one could see him wondering, wondering, inthe back of his mind. So he would have been wondering through all thehours of weeks, months--it had come to the dignity of years, on thebeach, in the bush--wondering more than ever under the red iron roof ofthe Dutchman: "What in hell am I doing here? What in hell?"

A guttersnipe, pure and simple. That's to say, impure and unpleasantlycomplex. It was extraordinary how it stuck. Even with nothing on but apair of cotton pants swimming out to me among the flashing bodies of theislanders, men, women, girls, youths, who clung to the anchor cable andshowed their white teeth for pilot biscuit, condensed milk, andgin--especially gin--even there you could see Signet, in imagination, dodging through the traffic on Seventh Avenue to pick the _TelegraphRacing Chart_ out of the rubbish can under the Elevated. --

I hadn't an idea who the fellow was. He burst upon me unheralded. I sailout of west-coast ports, but once I had been in New York. That wasenough for him. He was "pals" in ten minutes; in fifteen, from hiseminence on the deckhouse, with a biscuit in one hand and a tumbler ofmuch-diluted Hollands in the other, he gazed down at his erstwhile beachfellows with almost the disdainful wonder of a tourist from a whiteship's rail. --

"Gi' me an article you can retail at a nickel--any little thingeverybody needs--or gi' me a song with a catchy chorus--something youcan turn out on them ten-cent records. --That makes _me_. Don't want anyWall Street stuff. That's for Rockefeller and the boobs. But just onetime le' me catch on with one little old hunch that'll go in vaudevilleor the pi'tures--get Smith and Jones diggin' for the old nickel. --Thatmakes _me_. Then the line can move up one. That's the thing about NewYork. Say, man, len' me a cigarette. --But that's the thing aboutBroadway. When you make, you make _big_. I know a guy turned out apowder-puff looked like a lor'nette--a quarter of a dollar. You know howthe Janes'll fall for a thing like that--"

It was completely preposterous, almost uncomfortable. It made a man lookaround him. On the schooner's port side spread the empty blue of theSouth Pacific; the tenuous snowdrift of the reef, far out, and thehorizon. On the starboard hand, beyond the little space of theanchorage, curved the beach, a pink-white scimitar laid flat. Then thescattering of thatched and stilted huts, the red, corrugated-iron store, residence and godowns of the Dutch trader, the endless Indian-file ofcoco palms, the abrupt green wall of the mountain. --A twelve-year-oldgirl, naked as Eve and, I've no doubt, thrice as handsome, stoodwatching us from the mid-decks in a perfection of immobility, an emptymilk tin propped between her brown palms resting on her breast. Twentyfathoms off a shark fin, blue as lapis in the shadow, cut the watersoundlessly. The hush of ten thousand miles was disturbed by nothing butthat grotesque, microscopic babbling:

"Say you play in bad luck. Well, you can't play in bad luck _f'rever_. Not if you're wise. One time I get five good wheezes. Good ones! Surefire! One of 'em was the old one about the mother-'n-law and the doctor, only it had a perfectly novel turn to it. Did I make? I did not. Why?Well, a good friend o' mine lifts them five wheezes, writes a vaudevilleturn around 'em, and makes big. Big! What does that learn me? Learns meto go bear on friendship. So next time I get an idea--"

The girl had put the milk tin down between her toes on deck and turnedher head. 

"Digger!" I called to the mate. "Clear the vessel! Shove them alloverboard! Here comes the Dutchman!"

Before the advance of the trader's canoe, painted vermillion like hisestablishment and flying over the water under the paddle strokes of hissix men, Signet took himself hastily overboard with the rest. There wasno question of protest or false pride. Over he went. Rising and treadingwater under the taffrail, and seeing the trader still some fathoms off, he shook the wet from the rag of a beard with which long want of a razorhad blurred his peaked chin and gathered up the ends of theconversation:

"No, Dole, you can't play in bad luck _f'rever_. One sure-fire hunch, that's all. That makes _me_. When I get back to Broadway--"

A paddle blade narrowly missed his head. He dived. 

The Dutchman told me more about him that evening. I dined at thetrader's house. He was a big-bodied tow-haired man who spoke Englishwith the accent of a east-coast Scot, drank like a Swede, and viewedlife through the eyes of a Spaniard--that is, he could be diabolicalwithout getting red in the face. 

"No, my dear sir, that Signet shall not 'get back to Broadway. ' Too manyhave I seen. He is too tired. Quite too tired. "

"But how in the world did he ever come here, Mynheer?"

"That is simple. This Signet got drunk in Papeete. He was on his way toAustralia with a pugilist. How should he be in a pugilist's company, this crab? Because he plays a good game of pinochle--to keep thepugilist's mind bright. At any event, the steamship stops at Tahiti. This Signet gets drunk. 'Soused!' And the steamship is gone without him. No more pinochle for the pugilist, what?--From then, my dear sir, it iswhat it shall always be; one island throws him to another island. Herehe shall stay for a while--"

"Till you decide to 'throw' him to another island, eh, Mynheer?"

"No, but I am alone. Sometimes to amuse myself I will invite him to dinewith me. I put on him a suit of the evening clothes which belong to mynephew who is dead. But I will not allow him the razor, since his absurdbeard is amusing to me. Afterward, however, I take away the eveningclothes and I will kick him out. But he is talking continuously. "

"I believe you, Mynheer. "

"But at last I will say: 'My dear sir, suppose that you should have themost brilliant idea; that "hunch" of yours. "Sure-fire. " What advantagewill it do you here in the island of Taai? You are not here on Broadway. You are too many thousand miles. You cannot come here. You are tootired. It takes money. Now, my dear sir, I am putting a trench aboutthe godowns. If you wish, I will let you work for me. '"

"What does he say to that, Mynheer?"

"He says, 'Do you take me for an _I_talian?'

"Then I will say: 'No; you see you are too tired. Also you are too soft. You are a criminal. That's natural to you. But you think of police. Youhave a wish, say. Well my dear sir, but would you kill a man--three--tenmen--to have that wish? No, you are too tired, and you must have thepolice. But here there are no police. _I_ am the police. Why do you notkill _me_? Ha-ha-ha! Then you could take my property. Then you would"make big, " as you say. My dear sir, that is a "hunch!" That is "surefire!" Ha-ha-ha!'--Then I will kick him out in his coolie cotton pants. "

After coffee the trader said: "One gallon of the Hollands which you sentme ashore has disappeared. The kitchen boys are 'careless. ' Also I winkone eye when a schooner arrives. Of course they will dance tonight, however. You would care to go up, my dear sir?"

Of course we went. There's no other amusement in an islet like Taai butthe interminable native dance. The Dutchman led the way up a narrow, bushy ravine, guiding me by sound rather than by sight. 

"Up this same very path, " I heard him, "has gone one uncle of mine. Theypulled him to the advance with one rope around his arms. Then they cuthim up and ate him. But that was many years ago, my dear sir. Now I amthe law. Maybe there shall come, now and then, a Dutch gunboat to have alook-in. I raise up that flag. The captain shall dine with me. All isgood. But, my dear sir, I am the law. "

The "music" began to be heard, a measured monotone of drums, a breath ofvoices in a recitative chant, slightly impassioned by that vanishedgallon. The same old thing, indeed; one of the more than fifty-sevenvarieties of the island _hula_. Then that had died away. 

The light from the "place" grew among the higher leaves. And the trader, becoming visible, halted. I saw him standing, listening. 

"No, my dear sir, but that is a new thing. "

He started forward. He stopped again. I heard it now. Out of thefamiliar, hollow tautophony of drumbeats there began to emerge a threadof actual melody--an untraditional rise and fall of notes--a tentativeattack as it were, on the chromatic scale of the west. No he-goat's skinstretched on bamboo would do that. 

We pushed on, curious. We came out into the "place. " The scene under thecandlenut torches was as familiar to us as the Ohio River of Uncle Tomto the small-town schoolboy; the meager rows of three-quarter nakedKanakas, yellow with saffron and blue with tattooer's ink; the old womenin the background of sultry lights and enormous shadows compoundingendless balls of _popoi_ for the feast; the local and descepteredchieftain squatting on his hams and guarding the vanished gallon betweenhis knees; this was all as it should have been. This was theconvention. --But what was really happening on that sylvan, torchlitstage that night was something as new as anything can be under the sun, because it was something that had not happened for ten thousand years. --

We who are worn with novelty can never reconquer for ourselves thethrill of an unmitigated wonder. We have sold the birthright. Butimagine the toppling of a hundred centuries! You could have seen it inthe eyes of those watchers, in their rapt, rapacious attention, in theconflict that went on within them visibly; traitorous applause pent andpitted against all the instinctive protest of an established art. --

"Yes, but this isn't _dancing_!"

Yet their bodies, one here, one there, would begin to sway--

Three Kanaka men, strangers to the island, sat cross-legged on the turf. One had taken over a drum from a local musician. The other two hadinstruments fashioned of dried gourds with fingering pieces of bambooand strings of gut--barbaric cousins to the mandolin. So, on this onenight in history, the music of another tribe had come to Taai. It justescaped being an authentic "tune. " How it escaped was indefinable. Thesophisticated ear would almost have it, and abruptly it had got away insome provoking lapse, some sudden and bizarre disintegration of tone. And the drumbeat, bringing it back, ran like a fever pulse in a man'sblood. 

In the center of the sward, her back to the musicians, a solitary femaledanced; a Kanaka woman, clothed in a single shift of the sheerestcrimson cotton, tied at one shoulder and falling to mid-thigh. Not fromTaai did this woman come; one saw that; not from any near island orgroup. Her beauty was extraordinary, like that of the Marquesans, withthat peculiar straightness of all the lines, at once Grecian, austere, and incalculably voluptuous. --

The dance, as I saw it for the first time that night, I will not speakof. I have traded to many islands in many groups--even the LowArchipelago--but the island where that dance was indigenous I am sureI've never touched. Compared with any of the _hulas_, set and fixed ineach locality as the rites of Rome, it was sophisticated; it gave anillusion of continuous invention and spontaneity; it was flesh swept bya wind and shattered; it ravished the eyes. 

I don't know how long I watched; how long all the immortal flame in melent itself to the histrionic purposes of that woman. But I shall neverforget it. Never! Never!

I looked away. I saw two faces. One of them hung over my shoulder. Itwas the trader's. It was the face of a man who has lived a very longwhile wielding power of life and death over unsatisfying satisfactions. A man awakened! The toppling of a hundred centuries, indeed. 

The other was Signet's. Scarred by leaf shadows, thrust like a swimmer'sfrom the meager sea of heads and naked shoulders, it held as still as adeath mask, minute by minute, except that, in the penumbra cast by theveil of goat tuft on his chin, the Adam's apple was convulsed atintervals, as if he were swallowing, as if the man were _drinking_!

The night grew. The torches were consumed, the "place" deserted. Somewhere the amazing voyagers had taken themselves to rest. A half moonmutilated the island--long stripes of palms, shadow scars of defiles, mottles of bushes. It was like a sleeping animal, a tiger of deep blueand blue-white, an enormous leopard. 

We sat on the veranda at the Residence, the trader and I. By and by, soft-footed, Signet was there, occupying the lowermost step. 

The Dutchman talked. Like the able administrator he was, he had alreadyall the data to be procured. Into his ears had poured the whisperedtrickles of a score of informants. 

"You are right, my dear sir. Marquesan. You have been there?"

"No. "

"She is called in Polynesian, 'Queen Daughter. ' My people, who knownothing as a rule, of course--but they tell me the woman is in actualitythe daughter of a queen. But what is a Kanaka queen? After all, Signet, my dear sir, down there, what is one queen, out here?"

The trader was obviously in a good humor. He had not been excited foryears. The man was alive. I've said he was like a Spaniard in that hecould be diabolical without getting red in the face. Diabolicallydevious and strategic! Before he resumed he blew three mouthfuls ofcigar smoke out into the moonlight, where they burst from the shadowunder the roof like mute cannon shots, round and silvery. Beneath them, from the step, Signet's eyes were fixed upon the trader's face, dry, rapt, glazed with some imperious preoccupation. 

"But they tell me this woman has danced in a great many islands. Shewill go from here to another island to dance. The three men are herhusbands. But she is no wife. A maid, that woman! They have thehardihood to tell me that. Ha-ha-ha! But, then, she is daughter to aqueen. With those 'husbands' she crosses a hundred leagues of sea in hersailing canoe. That royal canoe! To dance at another island. --"

As the Dutchman talked, blowing his smoke bursts into the moonlight, thevision of that Marquesan woman came again before me. I perceived her, under the heavy procession of his words, a figure of astounding romance, an adventuress incomparable, a Polynesian bacchante. No, I saw her asthe missionary of a strange thing, crossing oceans, daring thirst andgale and teeth of sharks, harrying deeper and deeper into the outseasof mystery that small, devoted, polyandrous company of husbands, at onceher paddlers, cooks, flunkies, watchdogs, music makers. "QueenDaughter!" Royal and self-anointed priestess of that unheard-of dance, the tribal dance, no doubt, of some tiny principality rearing a cone inthe empty hugeness of the sea. --I couldn't get away from my time andrace. I found myself wondering what she got out of it--in somejungle-bowered, torch-lit "high place, " to feel again the toppling often thousand years? Was it something to feel the voluptuous andabominable beauty of that rhythm going out of her flesh, beat by beat, and entering into the flesh of those astounded and half-hostilewatchers? Perhaps. --

"They tell me that she has also danced at Papeete--before the white menof the steamships, " the Dutchman was informing us. 

At that, from the step, from the moon-blue huddle of the castaway, therecame a sound. With a singular clarity of divination I built up thethought, the doubt, the bitter perturbation in the fellow's mind. Thewoman had danced then at Papeete, the cross roads, the little Paris ofmid-seas. And before the white men from steamers--the white men that goback!

Moved by projects deeper and more devious than ours, the Dutchman madehaste to cover up what seemed to have been an overshot. Frankly, heturned his attention to the outcast. 

"By the God, then, my dear Signet, have you considered?"

He knew well enough that Signet had "considered. " He could see as wellas I that Signet was a changed man. But he must "pile it on. "

"There, my dear sir, you have it. That 'hunch!' That 'sure fire!' Do youthink I do not know that New York of yours? Such a dance as that! Youmust believe me. If you were but a man of energy, now--" With the utmostdeliberation he launched upon a tirade of abuse. "But, no, you are not aman of energy, not a man to take things in your hands. The obstacles aretoo big. Those three husbands! You might even take that woman, thatlovely, royal dancing woman--you, my dear sir, a common street snipe. What would a woman like that, with that novel, impassioned, barbaric, foreign dance, be worth to a man on your Broadway? Eh? But obstacles!Obstacles! You have her not on Broadway. It is too many thousand miles, and you have no money. But see, if you were a man to grasp things, a manto 'hit the nail in the head, ' to 'boost, ' to 'go big'--then would not aman like me, who turns everything to gold--would he not say to youquickly enough, 'See here, my dear sir, but let me put so much moneyinto the undertaking myself?'"

Under the explosions of cigar smoke, Signet continued to hold the traderwith his eyes; seemed to consume him with the fixed, dry fire of hisgaze. Not fathoming, as with a singular intuition I had fathomed, theprofound purposes of the Dutchman, Signet saw only the implied promisein his words. --The trader broke out once more with a sardonic andcalculated spleen:

"But, no! Obstacles! A sniveling little animal sees only obstacles. Theobstacle not to be mounted over--those three husbands. There they lietonight on Nakokai's platform--this beautiful, incredible 'QueenDaughter'--this gold goddess of the 'Shame Dance'--and about her thosethree husbands. Ah, my dear sir, but their big, lithe muscles! That istoo much! To imagine them leaping up at the alarm in the moonlight, theoverpowering and faithful husbands. No, he cannot put out his hand totake the gift. _Pah!_ He is a criminal in nature, but he is afraid ofthe police, even here. He is not a man for the big life in theseislands. He will never do anything. Those faithful, strong watch-dogs ofhusbands! Those strong, destructive muscles! Dear, good God, that is toomuch to think of--Look, my dear sir!"

He was speaking to me, as if Signet were less than the very pebbles atthe step. He got up, striking the floor heavily with his boots, and Ifollowed him into the house, where he took a lighted candle from astand. Buried in our shadows, silent footed, Signet pursued us as thetrader had meant him to do. I persist in saying that I perceived thething as a whole. From the first I had divined the maneuver of theDutchman. 

"Look!" he repeated, flinging open a door and thrusting in the candle tocast its light over ranks and ranges of metal. It was the gun room ofthe Residence. Here dwelt the law. Shotguns, repeating rifles, old-stylerevolvers, new, blue automatics. An arsenal!

"Big brown muscles!" he cried, with a ponderous disdain. "What are they?What is the strongest brown man? _Puff!_ To a man of purpose andindomitable will like me! Obstacles? Three husbands? _Puff-puff-puff!_Like that!--But all that will never be of use to _him_. That Signet! No, he is a street snipe who will steal a pocketbook and call it a crime. Heis afraid to grasp. --But it is close in here, is it not?"

It was too bald. He stepped across the floor, unlatched and threw openthe blind of the window, letting the candlelight stream forth upon amass of bougainvillaea vine without. 

"I keep this door locked; you can imagine that, " he laughed, returningand shutting us out of the gun room. He twisted the key; put it in hispocket. And there, at the back, that window blind stood open. 

He stared at Signet, as if the beach comber were just discovered. 

"You are hopeless, my dear sir. "

"Let us have a drink, " he shifted. 

For Signet he poured out a tumblerful of raw gin. The fellow took itlike a man in a daze--the daze of a slowly and fiercely solidifyingresolution. It shivered in his hand. A habit of greed sucked his lips. Into his mouth he took a gulp of the spirits. He held it there. His eyessearched our faces with a kind of malignant defiance. Of a sudden hespat the stuff out, right on the floor. He said nothing. It was as if hesaid: "By God! if you think I need _that_! _No!_ You don't know me!"

He stalked out of the door. When we followed as far as the veranda wesaw him making off into the striped light to the left. --

"Why did you call it the 'Shame Dance, ' Mynheer?" We were seated again. 

"Of course, my dear sir, it is not that, but it has a sound so when theKanakas speak it. The woman spoke the name. If it is a Polynesian wordI have not heard it before. 'Shemdance. ' Like that. "

"A good name, though. By jingo! a darn good name. Eh, Mynheer?"

But the trader's head was turned in an attitude of listening. Triumphantlistening--at the keyhole of the striped, moonlit night. I heard it, too--a faint disturbance of bougainvillaea foliage around two sides ofthe house, near the window standing open to the gun room. 

Of course the amazing thing was that the man fooled us. In theDutchman's heart, I believe, there was nothing but astonishment at hisown success. Signet, on the face of it, was the typical big talker andlittle doer; a flaw in character which one tends to think imperishable. He fitted so precisely into a certain pigeonhole of human kind. --What wehad not counted on was the fierceness of the stimulus--like the taste ofblood to a carnivore or, to the true knight, a glimpse of the veritableGrail. 

All the following day I spent on board, overseeing the hundred minorpatchings and calkings a South Sea trader will want in port. When I wentashore that evening, after sundown, I found the Dutchman sitting in thesame chair on the veranda, blowing smoke out into the afterglow. Therewas the illusion of perfect continuity with the past. Yesterday, today, tomorrow. Life flowed like a sleeping river, it would seem. 

But this was the status of affairs. The three brown music makers, sons-in-law to an island queen, lay on a platform somewhere within theedge of the bush, heavier by ounces with thirty-two caliber slugs, awaiting burial. And Signet, guttersnipe, beach comber, and midnightassassin, was lodged in the "calaboose, " built stoutly in a corner ofthe biggest and reddest of the Dutchman's godowns. As for the royaldancing woman, I was presently in the trader's phrase, to "have a lookat her. "

At his solicitation I followed around the house, past the gun-roomwindow (locked fast enough now, you may be sure), and up steeply througha hedged, immaculate garden, which witnessed to the ordered quality ofthe owner's mind. At the upper end, under a wall of volcanic tufa, wecame to a summerhouse done in the native style, stilts below, palmitethatch above, and walled on three sides only with hanging screens ofbamboo. Striking through this screen from the west, the rose and greenof the afterglow showed the woman as in a semi-luminous cavern, seatedcross-legged in the center of the platform, her hands drooped betweenher knees, and her large, dark eyes fixed upon the sea beyond the roofof the Residence below. 

Was it the perfect immobility of defiance and disdain? Not once did hertransfixed gaze take us in. Was it the quiescence of defeat anddespair--that level brooding over the ocean which had been to her, firstand last, a cradle and roadway for her far, adventurious pilgrimages?She sat there before our peering eyes, the sudden widow, the daughter ofpotentates brought low, the goddess of an exuberant and passionatevitality struck with quietude; mute, astounded by catastrophe, yetunbowed. The beauty of that golden-skinned woman abashed me. 

It did not abash the Dutchman. His was another and more indomitablefiber. It is fine to succeed, beyond expectation, detail by detail ofstrategy. His hands were clean. He remained the perfect administrator. Had there been no other way, he would not have flinched at any necessarylengths of wholesale or retail butchery. Still, it was nice to thinkthat his hands were spotless. For instance, if that gunboat, with itspurple-whiskered Amsterdammer of a captain, should just now happen in. 

His face glowed in the dusk. His eyes shone with frank calculations. Fists on hips, head thrust out, one saw him casting up the sum of histreasure-trove. --But he was an epicure. He could wait. It was evendelightful to wait. When I turned away he came down with me, his handsstill on his hips and his eyes on the gently emerging stars. 

The man was extraordinary. Sitting on the veranda, bombarding thedirection of the foreshore with that huge deliberate fusillade of cigarsmoke, he talked of home, of his boyhood on the dike at Volendam, and ofhis mother, who, bless her! was still alive to send him cheeses atChristmas-time. 

It was midnight and the moon was rising when I got away and moved downtoward the beach where the dinghy waited. The horizontal ray struckthrough the grating of the "calaboose" at the corner of the godown I wasskirting. I saw the prisoner. The upright shadow of an iron bar cut hisface in two, separating the high, soiled cheeks, each with an eye. 

"You mustn't leave him get at her!"

I tell you it was not the same man that had come swimming and snivelingout to the schooner less than forty hours before. Here was a fierce one, a zealot, a flame, the very thin blade of a fine sword. 

"Listen, Dole, if you leave that devil get at her--"

His eyes burned through me. He failed completely to accept the fact thathe was done. His mind, ignoring the present, ran months ahead. With aflair of understanding, thinking of those three travesties of husbandsand the wife who was no wife, I perceived what he meant. 

I left him. He was a wild man, but the quality of his wildness showeditself in the fact that he squandered none of it in shaking the bars, shouting, or flinging about. His voice to the last, trailing me aroundthe next corner, held to the same key, almost subdued. 

"By God! if that--gets at her, I'll--I'll--"

"You'll what?" I mused. You see, even now I couldn't get rid of him asthe drifter, the gutter Hamlet, the congenital howler against fate. "You'll what?" I repeated under my breath, and I had to laugh. 

I got the vessel under way as soon as I came aboard. The Dutchman'sshipment of copra was arranged for--a week, two, three weeks (as thewind allowed)--and I was to return from the lower islands, where mypresent cargo was assigned, and take it on. 

As we stood offshore under the waxing moonlight, as I watched theisland, gathering itself in from either extremity, grow small andsmaller on the measureless glass of the sea, the whole episode seemed toswell up in my mind, explode, and vanish. It was too preposterous. Thirty-eight hours chosen at random out of ten thousand empty Polynesianyears--that in that wink of eternity five human lives should have goneto pot simultaneously--a man wasn't to be taken in by that sort ofthing. --

Through twelve days it remained at that. Discharging cargo in thefurnace of Coco Inlet, if my thoughts went back to Taai, it was almostwith the deprecating amusement a man will feel who has been had by ahoax. If those minstrel husbands were murdered and buried; if thatBroadway imp sweated under the red-hot roof of the godown; if thatincomparable, golden-skinned heiress of cannibal emperors sat staringseaward from the gilded cage of the Dutchman, awaiting (or no longerwaiting) the whim of the epicure--if indeed any one of them all had everso much as set foot upon that microscopic strand lost under the blueequator--then it was simply because some one had made it up in his headto while me away an empty hour. I give you my word, when at noon of thethirteenth day the mountain of Taai stood up once more beyond the bows, I was weary of the fantasy. I should have been amazed, really, to find afellow named Signet housed in the Dutchman's private jail. 

As a matter of fact, Signet was not in the jail. 

When I went ashore in mid afternoon, wondering a little why no nakedbiscuit-beggars or gin swallowers had swum out to bother me that day, Ifound the trader of Taai sitting on his veranda, blowing puffs of smokefrom those fine Manila Club perfectos out into the sunshine. Beside himleaned a shiny, twelve-gauge pump gun which he jostled with an elbow ashe bade me by word and gesture to make myself at home. 

I'm quite certain I looked the fool. My eyes must have stuck out. Half adozen times I started to speak. With some vacant, fatuous syllable Itried to break the ice. Strange as it sounds, I was never so embarrassedin my life. --For the trader of Taai, the blatantly obvious proprietor ofthe island's industry and overlord of its destinies--sitting therebefore me now with a pump gun touching his elbow--was this fellowSignet. 

Till now I don't know precisely what had happened; that is to say, noneof the details of the act, horrid or heroic as they may have been. All Iseemed to have was a memory of the Dutchman's voice: "Why do you notkill _me_? Ha-ha-ha! Then you could take my property. " And again an echoof his disdainful laughter at that fool, "Ha-ha-ha!" as, on somemidnight, he had kicked his dinner guest and his "coolie cotton pants"out into the rain. --Why not, indeed? But who now was the "fool?"

Signet, in the course of the afternoon, brought forth gravely a bill ofsale, making over in an orderly fashion to B. R. Signet, New York, U. S. A. , the real and personal property of the trading station at Taai, and "signed" in the identical, upright, Fourteenth Street grammar-schoolscript, by "the Dutchman. "--I understood Signet. Signet understood me. The thing was not even an attempt at forgery. It was something solelyformal--as much as to say: "This is understood to be the basis of ourmutual dealings. You will see I am owner of this place. "

As for the Dutchman:

"Oh, the Dutchman? Well, he decided to go away. Go home. "

Before the incalculable sang-froid of this rail bird, movie usher, alleydodger, and hanger-on at dancing academies, I could not so much assummon up the cheek to ask what he had done with the body. You'll say Iought to have acted; that I ought at least to have got up and left him. That shows two things--first, that you've never been a trader in theislands; second, that you cannot at all comprehend how--well, how_stunning_ he was. Sitting there, a single fortnight removed from cottonpants and the beach, crime-stained, imperturbable, magnificent! Spawn ofthe White Lights! Emperor of an island! How's that?

"It's a rich island, " he impressed upon me with an intention I was yetto plumb. "Dole, " he exclaimed, "it's a gold mine!"

"Is--is _she_ here?" I ventured to demand at last. 

"_Is_ she? Say! Come and have a look. "

I was between laughing and wincing at that "have a look. "

Going up the garden, Signet let me know that the woman was in love withhim. I might believe it or not. She would do anything for him. 

"_Anything!_" he exclaimed, standing squarely still in the path. And inhis eyes I was somehow relieved to find a trace of wonder. 

Obstacles! All his life had been a turning back from small, insurmountable obstacles. Of a sudden he beheld really vast obstaclestumbling down, verily at a touch. Here was just one more of them. By alucky chance this "Queen Daughter" did not know by whose hand she hadbeen made thrice a widow; it was the simplest thing to suppose it thetrader, the same big, blond, European man who had presently removed her"for safety" to the summer house behind the Residence. --And from thetrader, by a gesture of melodramatic violence, the other and slighterman had set her free. --Perhaps even that would not have intrigued heressentially barbaric interest as much as it did had it not been for hisamazing attitude of, well, let's say, "refrainment. " His almost absurdlyfastidious concern for what the West would call "the sanctity of herperson. " You can imagine--to a Marquesan woman! That! She was not ugly!

As her gaze, from the platform, dwelt upon the shrewd, blade-sharpfeatures of the man beside me, the elementary problem in her eyes seemedto redouble the peculiar, golden, Aryan beauty of her face. Let me tellyou I am human. Perhaps Signet was human, too. Standing there, encompassed by the light of that royal and lovely woman's eyes, therewas surely about him a glow--and a glow not altogether, it seemed to me, of "Smith's nickel and Jones's dime. " I could have laughed. I could havekicked him. The impostor! Even yet I had failed to measure the man. 

Back on the veranda again, dinner eaten, and dusk come down, Signetbrought out an old guitar from among the Dutchman's effects (it hadbelonged probably to that defunct nephew of the dress clothes), and ashe talked he picked at the thing with idle fingers. Not altogether idle, though, I began to think. Something began to emerge by and by from therandom fingerings--a rhythm, a tonal theme. --Then I had it, and thereseemed to stand before me again the swarded "high place, " with torchesflaring over upturned faces and mounting walls of green. Almost I sensedagain the beat in my blood, the eye-ravishing vision of that gold-brownflame of motion, that voluptuous priestess. 

"Oh, yes. That!" I murmured. "It's got something--something--thattune. --But how can you remember it?"

"_She_ helps me out. I'm trying to put it in shape. "

Indeed, when I left that night and before my oarsmen had got me acable's length from the beach I heard the strumming resumed, veryfaintly, up in the dark behind the Residence; still tentatively, with, now and then through the flawless hush of the night, the guiding note ofa woman's voice. (A woman profoundly mystified. )

A rehearsal? For what? For that almost mythical Broadway half around thebulge of the world? Had the fool, then, not got beyond _that_? Yet?

Here he was, lord of the daughter of a queen, proprietor of a "goldmine. " For Signet was not to be hoodwinked about the commercial value ofTaai. All afternoon and evening, as through the two days following, while my promised cargo was getting ferried out under the shiningauthority of the pump gun, he scarcely let a minute go by without someword or figure to impress upon me the extent of his "possessions. " Towhat end?

Well, it all came out in a burst on the third evening, my last there. Heeven followed me to the beach; actually, regardless of the Dutchman'snephew's boots and trouser legs, he pursued me out into the shadows. 

"A gold mine! Don't be a damned boob, Dole. You can see for yourself, abig proposition for a guy like you, with a ship and everything--"

Upon me he would heap all those priceless "possessions. " Me! And inexchange he would ask only cabin passage for two from Taai beach to theGolden Gate. Only deck passage! Only anything!

"Set us down there, me and her, that's all. I'll give you a bill ofsale. Why, from where you look at it, it's a _find_! It's a lead-pipecinch! It's taking candy away from a baby, man!"

"Why don't you keep it, then?"

The soul of his city showed through. I saw him again as I had seen himswimming in his cotton pants, with that low-comedy whisker and thatconsuming little greedy nickel hope of paradise. Even the gestures. 

"No, but can't you see, Dole? I got a bigger thing up my sleeve. God'l'mighty, d'you think I'm a _farmer_? You could go big here; _I_don't go at all. I ain't that kind. But put me down in New York withthat woman there and that there dance--and that tune--Say! You don'tunderstand. You can't imagine. Money? Say! And not only money. Say! Icould take that up to Glauber's Academy, and I could say to Glauber, 'Glauber, ' I could say--"

I had to leave him standing there, up to his knees in the inky water, heaping me frankly with curses. I shall not repeat the curses. At theend of them he bawled after me:

"But I'll get there! You watch me all the same, all the same, youdamn--"

The reason I didn't up-anchor and get out that night was that, when Icame aboard I discovered not far from my berth the unobtrusive loom ofthat Dutch gunboat, arrived for a "look-in" at last. 

The only thing for me to do was to sit tight. If, when the state of theisland's affairs had been discovered, there should be want ofexplanation or corroboration, it would be altogether best for me to giveit. I wasn't yet through trading in those waters, you understand. 

But Signet was no fool. He, too, must have seen the discreet shade ofthe visitor. When the morning dawned, neither he nor the royal dancerfrom the Marquesas was to be found. Some time in that night, from thewindward beach, ill-manned and desperate, the royal sailing canoe musthave set forth tumultuously upon its pilgrimage again. 

I sat in a place in Honolulu. Soft drinks were served, and somewherebeyond a tidy screen of palm fronds a band of strings was playing. Evenwith soft drinks, the old instinct of wanderers and lone men to herdtogether had put four of us down at the same table. Two remain vague--afattish, holiday-making banker and a consumptive from Barre, Vermont. For reasons to appear, I recall the third more in detail. 

He let me know somewhere in the give-and-take of talk that he was arailway telegraph operator, and that, given his first long vacation, anold impulse, come down from the days of the Hawaiian _hula_ phonographrecords, had brought him to the isle of delight. He was disappointed init. One could see in his candid eyes that he felt himself done out of anillusion, an illusion of continuous dancing by girls in rope skirts onmoonlit beaches. It was an intolerable waste of money. Here, come so farand so expensively to the romantic goal, he was disturbed to find hisimagination fleeing back to the incredible adventure of a Rock Islandstation, an iron-red dot on the bald, high plain of eastern Colorado--tothe blind sun flare of the desert--to the immensity of loneliness--tothe thundering nightly crisis of the "Eleven-ten, " sweeping monstrousand one-eyed out of the cavern of the West, grating, halting, glittering, gossiping, yawning, drinking with a rush and gurgle from thered tank--and on again with an abrupt and always startling clangor intothe remote night of the East. 

He shifted impatiently in his chair and made a dreary face at thescreening fronds. 

"For the love o' Mike! Even the rags they play here are old. "

The consumptive was telling the banker about the new coöperative schemein Barre, Vermont. 

"For the love o' Mike!" my friend repeated. "That ain't a band; it's ahistorical s'ciety. Dead and buried! Next they'll strike up that latestnovelty rage, 'In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree!'--Now will you listento that. Robbin' the cemetery!"

He needn't have asked me to listen. As a matter of fact I had beenlistening for perhaps a hundred seconds; listening, not as if with theears, but with the deeper sensatory nerves. And without consciouslygrasping what the air was I had suffered an abrupt voyage through space. I saw a torch-lit sward, ringed with blue and saffron faces and highforest walls; I saw the half-nude, golden loveliness of a Polynesianwoman shaken like a windy leaf. And the beat of a goat-hide drum was thebeat of my blood. I felt my shoulders swaying. 

I looked at the young man. His face expressed a facetious weariness, buthis shoulders, too, were swaying. 

"What tune is that?" I asked, in a level tone. 

His contemptuous amazement was unfeigned. 

"Holy Moses! man. Where you been?"

He squinted at me. After all, I might be "stringing him. "

"That, " he said, "is as old as Adam. It was run to death so long ago Ican't remember. That? That's 'Paragon Park. ' That is the old originalfirst 'Shimmie' dance--with whiskers two foot long--"

"The original what?"

"Shimmie! _Shimmie!_ Say, honest to God, don't you know--?" And with hisshoulders he made a wriggling gesture in appeal to my wits, the crudestburlesque, it seemed, of a divinely abominable gesture in mymemory. --"That?" he queried. "Eh?"

"Shimmie, " I echoed, and, my mind skipping back: "_Shemdance! ShameDance!_--I see!"

"Why?" he demanded, intrigued by my preoccupation. 

"Nothing. It just reminded me of something. "

Then he lifted a hand and smote himself on the thigh. "Me, too! Byjinks! Say, I'd almost forgot that. "

He hitched his chair upon me; held me down with a forefinger. 

"Listen. That was funny. It was one night--last fall. It was just afterNumber Seventeen had pulled out, westbound, about one-forty in themorning. There wasn't anything else till six-one. Them are always thehardest hours. A fellow's got to stay awake, see, and nothin' to keephim--unless maybe a coyote howlin' a mile off, or maybe a bum knockin'around among the box cars on the sidin', or, if it's cold, the stove totend. That's all. Unless you put a record on the old phonograph and hit'er up a few minutes now and then. Dead? Say, boy!"

"Well, this night it was a bum. I'm sittin' there in the coop, countin'my fingers and listenin' to Limon calling off car numbers toDenver--just like that I'm sittin'--when I hear somethin' out in thewaitin' room. Not very loud. --Well, I go out there, and there's the bum. Come right into the waitin' room. 

"Bum! If he wasn't the father and mother and brother and sister of theoriginal bum, I'll eat my hat. Almost a Jew-lookin' guy, and he'd sawhard service. But he's got a kind o' crazy glitter in his eye. 

"'Well, ' says I, just like that, 'Well, what do you want?'

"He don't whine; he don't handle the pan. He's got that look in his eye. 

"'My woman is out in them box cars, ' says he. 'I'm goin' to bring her inhere where it's warm. ' That's what he says. Not '_can_ I bring her in?'but '_goin_' to bring her in!' From a _hobo_!

"Can you imagine? It makes me think. It comes to me the guy is reallyoff his trolley. To keep him calm I says, 'Well--'

"He goes out. 'I'm shed o' _him_, ' I says to myself. Not a bit. Aboutthree minutes and here he comes trottin' back, sure enough, bringin' awoman with him. Now Mister--What's-y'r-name--prepare to laugh. Thatthere woman--listen--make up your face--she's a _nigger_!

"He says she ain't a nigger. 

"'Mexican?' says I. 

"'No, ' says he. 

"I give her another look, but I can't make much out of her, except she'ssome kind of a nigger, anyhow. She's sittin' on the bench far away fromthe light, and she's dressed in a second-hand horse blanket, a feedsack, and a bran' new pair of ar'tics. And she don't say a word. 

"'Well, ' says I, 'if she ain't some kind of nigger, I'll eat my--'

"But there he is, all of a sudden, squarin' off in front o' me, his mugstuck up and his eyes like a couple o' headlights. Imagine! The guyain't got enough meat on his bones for a rest'rant chicken. Honest toGod, he looked like he'd been through a mile o' sausage mill. But crazyas a bedbug. And there's somethin' about a crazy man--

"'Hold y'r gab!' says he. To _me_! That gets my goat. 

"'Just for that, ' says I, 'you can get out o' this station. And don'tforget to take your _woman_ along with you. Get out!'

"'Get out--_hell!_' says he. He sticks his mug right in my face. 

"'That woman you speak so light of, ' says he, 'is a queen. A Canuckqueen, ' say he. 

"I had to laugh. 'Since when was there queens in Canada?' says I. 'Andsince when has the Canuck queens been usin' stove polish for talcumpowder?'

"The guys grabs me by the coat. Listen. He was strong as a wire. He wasdeceivin'. A wire with ten thousand volts into it. 

"'Look at me!' says he, breathin' hard between his teeth. 'And takecare!' says he. 'I'm a man no man can monkey with. I'm a man that'll gothrough. I'm stained with crime. I've waded through seas o' blood. Nothin' in heaven or earth or hell can stop me. A month from now rubeslike you'll be glad to crawl at my feet--an' wipe their dirty mugs onthe hem o' that there woman's skirt. --Now listen, ' says he. 'Get thehell into that there box o' yourn over there and be quiet. '

"Crazy as a loon. I hope to die! the guy was _dangerous_. I see that. Itcome to me it's best to humor him, and I go into the coop again. I sitthere countin' my fingers and listenin' to Denver tellin' back them carnumbers to Limon again. By and by I'm jumpy as a cat. I get up and sticka record in the old machine. --That's what brings the whole thing back tomind. That record is this 'Paragon Park. '

"First thing I know I'm out in the waitin' room again. And what youthink I see? I give you a hundred guesses. "

"I'll take one, " I said to him. "What you saw was the finest exhibitionof the 'Shimmie' you ever clapped an eye upon. Am I right?"

The young fellow's mouth hung open. He stared at me. 

"Half undressed! Honest! That nigger woman! Horse blanket, feed sack, ar'tics--where was they? Shimmie? Say! Can you imagine, in that thereprairie depot at three in the mornin', and a wind howlin' under thefloor? Say! Well, I can't tell you, but talk about _Shimmie_! Say, she'slike a dead one come to life. "

"Yes, " I agreed, "yes. --But what about the man?"

"Well, that man, now. The record's comin' to the end and I go back in tostart it over. And, here's this hobo, come in behind me. 

"'What's that?' says he, pointin' to the record I got in my hand. 

"Then he grabs it and looks it over. He keeps turnin' it round and roundand round, starin' at it. 

"'I hope you'll know it again, ' says I, with a laugh. 

"My laugh seems to set him off into a shiver. Then down he throws thatrecord o' mine onto the floor and stamps on it; busts it into a millionpieces under his boots. I been tellin' you he's crazy. 

"'Here there!' I yell at him. 

"He looks at me. Looks right through me, it seems and beyond, with themthere red-rimmed eyes. 

"'Seas o' blood, ' says he. That's all. 'Seas o' blood!'

"Then he turns around, walks out into the waitin' room, and sits down ina heap in the farthest corner. Never another peep. There he sits tilldaylight, and the nigger woman, with the horse blanket on again, shesits there beside him, holdin' his hand. 

"'What's up with him?' I ask her. 

"She says somethin' in Mexican--or some language, anyway. But I see shedon't know any more 'n me. --It's just like this. The current's gone outo' the wire. --Last I ever see of 'em, she's leadin' him off in thesunrise toward the box cars--leadin' him by the hand. --Now did you everhear a funnier experience than that to happen to a man?"

"No, " I said, "I never did. "

"You had to pity him, " he added. 

"Yes, " I agreed. --And I could think of her leading him by the hand. 

I saw Signet again. It was on my first and last voyage to the Marquesas. Under the shadow of a mountain, on a stone platform facing the sea, satSignet, quite nude save for a loin cloth, and with an unequivocal blackbeard falling down on his breast. There was a calmness about him. 

"How did you come here?" I asked, at length. 

"She wanted it, " he said. 

"She's a wonderful woman, " he said to me, "a wonderful woman. She woulddo anything for me, Dole. _Anything!_ We've got a kid. "

I made shift to get in a question I had carried long in mind. "Somebodybeat you out at Papeete, then, after all?"

He turned upon me a faintly quizzical look. 

"I mean, somebody saw her--some tourist--that time she danced atPapeete--Remember?--and got away with it?"

The thing seemed already so remote that he had to grope back. Then helaughed. 

"Lord, no. Look here, Dole. It was her herself seen the thing atPapeete. On board a tourist boat. I found out about it since I learnedher language good. Her and some others went aboard to dance the_hula_--same as always, you know. Then some of _them_, the tourists, understand--Well, they had to spring the latest thing from Broadway. Andthen this woman of mine--Well, you can imagine. Like a woman with a newhat. Got to run right off and show it to the whole damn length andbreadth of the South Seas. That's all. --And once upon a time I thought Iwas bright. --"

Out of the half house at the rear of the platform came the daughter of aqueen, bearing under one arm a prince of this island valley, and in theother hand a bowl of coconut wine for the visitor. And for her lord. Foryou will see that at last, despite the malignant thrusts and obstaclesof destiny, this gutter snipe of Gotham had come to a certain estate. 

When I left, he accompanied me slowly to the beach. 

"You ought to like it here, " I said. "After all, the city could neverhave given you so much. "

"No, " he said. Wide-eyed, he took in the azure immensity of the sea. "No. Here a guy has got time to think, think, without any hurry orworry. --I been thinking, Dole, a lot. I ain't going to say nothing aboutit, but Dole, I b'lieve I got an idea coming along. No flivver thistime. A real, sure-fire hunch. Something that'll go big in the city. Big!"

And so I left him there in the shadow of the mountain, staring at theimpassable sea. 

KINDRED[19]

By HARRIET MAXON THAYER

(From _The Midland_)

If I had had a less positive sense of revulsion for him, I might havebeen able to treat him with more contempt, certainly with moreindifference. It was a part of Con Darton's power that those who knewhim should waver in their judgments of him, should in turn reproachthemselves for their hardness of heart and then grow angry at their ownlack of assuredness. Perhaps it was the disquieted gray eyes in the leanleathery face, or the thin-lipped mouth that I had seen close so foxlyafter some sanctimonious speech, or the voice which, when not savagewith recrimination, could take on a sustained and calculated intonationof appeal, --perhaps these things aroused my interest as well as mydisgust. Certain it is that other men of a like feather, sly, irascible, gone to seed in a disorderly Illinois town, I should have avoided. Imade the excuse of Lisbeth, and it was true that her welfare, first ashis daughter and later as the wife of my friend, was very dear to myheart. Yet that could not explain the hypnotism the man had for me, befogging, as it sometimes did, an honest estimate. 

There were, of course, moments of certainty. I recalled villageanecdotes of bitter wrangles among the Dartons with Con always comingout best. They were a quarreling pack of sentimentalists. From allaccounts Miss Etta must have been at that time a rugged girl oftwenty-eight, of striking, if ungentle, appearance; and only theunsteadied sensibilities and the too-ready acrimony could haveforeshadowed the large blatant woman she was to become, a woman whoalternated between a generous flow of emotion on the one hand and anunimaginative hardness on the other. Only Lin Darton could have givenpromise then of the middle-class, semi-prosperous business man who wasto justify the Darton tradition. But from all that I could gather ofthose younger days, before Con's marriage to Selma Perkins, he was thecock of the walk, holding the reins over them all by virtue of hisshrewdness, apparently understanding the robust, over-blooded strains oftheir temperament and not unwilling to sound these at his pleasure. 

My own experience dates back to the first time that he stood out for mea vivid picture in that sagging barn-like old farmhouse behind the elms. I was ten years old then, and I was already beginning to think highly ofmy father's profession, which that winter had sent him into a nest ofsmall asthma-ridden towns. It was my privilege to trot by his side, carrying his worn black medicine case and endeavoring vainly to keeppace with his long jerky strides. On this particular occasion he hadbeen summoned suddenly to the Dartons'; and, being unable to leavepromptly, had sent me ahead postehaste with instructions, and anenvelope of white pills to be taken "only in case of extreme pain. "

Arriving at the farmhouse, the peaked façade of which, built to suggestan unbegotten third story, looked more hideous than ever among the barebranches, I knocked with reddened knuckles at the door. There was noresponse; at last, my half-frozen hand smarting with the contact of thewood, I pushed open the door and went in. 

It was very still inside--a strange unnatural stillness. Even Grega andMartie, the two little plain-faced girls, were not to be seen; the drab, rose-patterned carpet muffled my footsteps, which, for some inexplicablereason, I made as light as possible. The room, faded, and scrubbed tothe point of painfulness, gave only two signs of disorder, a crumpledbook of verse open on the table and a Bible lying face down on the worn, orange-colored sofa. But there was something vaguely uncanny about thewhole house; the very air seemed thin, like the atmosphere ofapproaching death. An unnameable terror took hold of me. I waited, fearing to call out. A door shut upstairs. There were footsteps, and thesound of voices, --a man's and a woman's--whispering. Then morefootsteps. This time some one was taking no trouble to walk lightly. 

"Quietly now, " the woman's voice cautioned. 

"Ye said it was a boy?" This was Mr. Darton's voice, unmistakable now. 

"I didn't say, " the woman's whisper floated down to me as a door creakedopen. "But it _is_--a girl. You must be ver--"

Her words were cut off by the report of a door banging shut. There wasthe sibilant sound of a breath being drawn in and, at the same moment, Mr. Darton's voice again. 

"What the hell made ye think I'd want to see another _girl_ for?" hegrowled. 

A pause followed, the emptier for the preceding stridor of his voice. Then--"You c'n get along now--we ain't got no more call fur neighbors. "

With that he came stamping down the stairs and slouched into the frontroom, where, upon his catching sight of me, a frightened look crossedhis face, followed, almost instantly, by a queer expression, a mixtureof relief and cunning that gave his face a grotesqueness that I canrecall to this very day. 

"Well, boy, " he said in that low drawl and wavelike inflection of thevoice that I was to learn to know so well, "yer father sent ye, did he?"

I proffered the note and the pills, and he frowned at them a secondbefore pocketing them. 

"Come--_he-re_. " He seemed to pull at the words, giving each a retardedemphasis. As I approached, he drew me towards him, where he had sunk onthe dingy, orange-fringed sofa. "N-ow, y're a nice young fellow--a bitscrawny, though. Ye--gotta horse?"

I shook my head. 

"N-ow, then--ye aughtta have a h-orse. Yer pappy should see to't. "

His gray eyes, then almost blue against the loose brown skin of hisface, held me speechless. 

"N-ow I gotta horse--a fine horse fur a boy. Ye might ride her--liketo? Then, if yer pappy wanted, he cou'd buy her fur ye?"

I looked at him in doubt. 

"Yes, he could. Yer pappy has more money than anyone hereabouts, and itain't right--I tell you, it ain't _right_ to have a little boy like youand not give him--eve-ry thing he wants!"

His last words ended in that slow climactic inflection that madewhatever he said so indisputable. It was not unlike the minister'svoice, I thought; and, my glance chancing to fall on the opened Bible, Iwas about to question him, when the door was pushed back hurriedly, admitting my father's lank, wiry figure along with a stream of chillingair. 

"G-ood morning, Mr. Breighton--a f-ine morning. "

"Morning, Darton, " said my father crisply. "Can I go directly upstairs?"

"No hurry n-ow, Doctor. It's all over. Mrs. Carn's been here all morningand--"

It was at this moment that Mrs. Carn, her eyelids red from weeping, anold bumpy, red worsted shawl over her head, came nervously into theroom; and, without so much as even a nod to any of us, edged quicky outof the front door. 

"Well--" began my father, his clear, scrutinizing eyes fixed on Darton. 

"A-nother sign, " expostulated Mr. Darton, "of what ye might call thesmallness of human van-ity. We must forgive 'er. Ye see Selma wasgettin' so upset with her rancorous gossipin'--perhaps I should havebeen more careful--but it was a question of Selma and--"

"Quite right, Darton, " my father nodded to him. "I'm going up for amoment. "

I had walked to the front window with its starched, lacy curtain; andstood still, looking out in a puzzled maze at the strangeness of themorning's happenings, a certain sense of disconsolateness stealing overme. Beyond the row of dark, spare trees I could see a gaunt figure in ablack skirt and a bumpy red shawl moving along the road; and the pictureof her, scurrying away, remained, as such apparently unimportant figuresoften will, sharply engraven on my mind. As I recall it in late years, I often wonder how my father could have mistaken the lying, rancorouswoman of Con Darton's description for this stern-lipped creature, whohad gone by wordlessly, shutting the door gently behind her, a door thatshe was never to re-open. 

I turned to find myself alone in the room. Mr. Darton had disappeared asunexpectedly but more quietly than he had entered. I could hear myfather's footsteps going softly about upstairs; and his voice, whichthough quick and crisp, had a soothing quality, talking in a gentlemonotone to some one. After about ten minutes he came to the head of thesteps and called to me. 

"Mrs. Darton says will you come up, Tom?"

Knees quivering with the queerness of it all as well as with the icyfrigidity of the hallway, I mounted the uncarpeted stairs. 

Following in the direction of the voices, I came to a dark, low-ceilinged room with a pine bed, on which lay a withered-lookingwoman with sparsely lashed eyelids and fine, straight, straw-coloredhair. Near her was a small oblong bundle, wrapped round with a brightpatch-work quilt; and out of this bundle a cry issued. As I peered intoit, a red weazened face stared back at me, the eyes opening startlinglyround. I looked long in wonder. The woman sighed; and, my gaze revertingto her, I thought suddenly of what a neighbor had once said to myfather, "Selma Perkins used to be the prettiest girl in school. She waslike the first arbutus flowers. " Surely this woman with her pallid skinand her faded spiritless eyes could not have been the one they meant!

There was some talk between my Father and his patient, the gist of whichI could not get, absorbed as I was with the face inside the patch-workquilt. We went out silently, after I had taken a last, long look intothe bundle. --Lisbeth had come into my world. 

 * * * * *

Some twenty years were to go by before I was to realize the significanceof the scene that I had witnessed that winter morning at the old framefarmhouse. It was the year of my return to America with Jim Shepherd, whose career as a rising young painter had just begun to be heralded, that I felt impelled to revisit the place of my childhood. Not my leastinterest lay in seeing Lisbeth again. I remembered her as a fragileupstanding girl of twelve with soft hair the color of dead leaves andgray inquiring eyes. But whatever it was that I was to find I wasconscious that I would see it with new appreciation of values. For if myeight years of medical work abroad had sharpened my discernment, evenmore had my intimacy with Jim Shepherd swept my mind clean of prejudiceand casuistry. 

To strangers Jim must often have appeared naive and undevious. The factwas that his passion for truth-probing and his worship of theundiscovered loveliness of life had obscured whatever self-consciousnesshad been born in him. Meeting him for the first time was like enteringanother element. It left you a little flat. That candor and eagerness ofhis at first balked you, it made negligible your traditions of thoughtand speech. One ended by loving him. 

On our arrival at the sparse little village I told him of the Dartons. Ihad had no news of them for the past four years, and inquiries among theneighbors left me only the more at sea. Lisbeth they seldom saw, theysaid; she never went to church or meetings; and, especially since hermother, in an unprecedented flare of rebellion, had gone to live with amarried sister in town, she had grown silent and taciturn. As for oldCon Darton, he was going to seed, in spite of the remnants of an earliererudition that still clung to him. That is, though he went aboutunshaven and in slovenly frayed clothing, he still quoted fluently fromthe Bible and Gray's "Elegy. " Among the villagers he had come to havethe reputation of a philosopher and an ill-used man. He was poor, itseemed, so poor that he had abandoned the white farmhouse and had cometo live in a box-like, unpainted shack at the foot of the hill, the newboarding of which stood out harshly against the unturfed soil. Builtjust across the way from a disused mill, near the creek, it had becomeknown as the "mill house. " In spite of this thriftiness, Con always hadmoney for a new horse, which he would soon trade off for a better;although these transactions had, of late, become fewer, as Con wasfeared as a "shrewd one. " The fact seemed to call forth his neighbors'admiration, just as the tale that he had been "deserted" called forththeir pity. Lisbeth, they averred, who had stuck to him, was "a hardpiece to get close to. "

She was standing at the bottom of the hill where the creek ran betweenthe deserted mill and the new shack; and, as I came down the hill, Ifelt a sharp twinge of pain at the contrast of the fragile line of herprofile against the coarse, dark sweater, at the slender grace of herbody against that dead, barn-sprinkled background. I could observe hereasily without her knowledge, for she was looking up, as we so oftenused to at twilight, to the old plank high above the sagging mill, wherethe turkeys fly to roost towards evening, so awkwardly and comically, with a great breathless whirring of wings. I saw her lift her arms tothem with a swift, urging gesture, as though to steady their ungainlyflight, and I could not be certain that she was not talking to them. Again a pang for the contracting loneliness of those bitter winters thatshe had lived through and must still live through, stabbed me. 

She turned with a low cry and a momentary flush of gladness. But Inoticed, as I questioned her as an old friend might, that the flushmelted into a level pallor, and her eyes, deeper and more unquiet than Ihad remembered them, either wandered up the road or reverted to the lastof the turkeys soaring heavily to rest. 

"I used to do all those things, Tom, " she said in answer to my question. 

"Used to?" I laughed. "Why, it's only five years ago I was hearing thatyou were the best little lady on skis and skates at the West-Highlands. "

Her eyelids quivered at the word. 

"That year--yes, " she said and averted her face. 

"You mean--" I had to prod, there was no other way about it--"that youonly stayed--one year?"

She nodded. 

"My Freshman year prep school. "

"And then--?"

"I was needed here. "

"Your father--?"

"Yes, --he needed me. "

"There was Grega, " I insisted. "She was the man of the family. "

"She's married, you know. "

I recalled having heard of an unsatisfactory marriage. So she hadescaped!

"And Martie?"

"Working at a store in town. "

A dull rage charred at the inner fibres of my being. Here was Lisbeth, the most delicate and responsible of them all, with, I supposed, much ofher mother's early gentleness and beauty, interred in this--. I did notlike to dwell on it. I switched back to skating. 

"Come now. One does not forget these things at twenty or twenty-one. "

She smiled at me ever so faintly, a smile that sent the winter chill ofthat arid spot scurrying into my veins. 

"One grows old fast--in the country, " was all she said. 

I thought of the flying figures that I had met in Norway and Sweden. Itwas a moment before I spoke, and then I said the wrong thing. 

"But it's this very sort of air, they say, that makes for vigor--and--"

"Yes, " she said thinly, "those who live in cities--say so. "

She turned, her meagre dress flapping about her knees like a flag. Butat the foot of the rickety outer steps that ran across the bare front ofthe shack crookedly, like a broken arm, I caught her by the wrist. 

"You'll be going to Mrs. Carn's funeral tomorrow, Lisbeth?"

She shook her head and I thought she paled. 

It was an unheard of thing for the whole population not to turn out forthe funeral of one of the villagers, and Mrs. Carn, I knew, hadbefriended Lisbeth, in spite of Old Con's displeasure. She must havenoted my surprise, for she turned on me squarely, facing me with whatseemed at the time an unnecessary display of staunchness. 

"Perhaps you didn't know, " she said very softly, "that theMinister--couldn't come--and--"

She paused, while I made some inadequate reply, for I, too, seemedcaught in the sort of mirthless evasion that engulfed her. 

"He--" she made a slight backwards motion of the head towards the upperroom of the shack--"is going to--preach. "

My startled exclamation must have disclosed all the horror I felt atthis announcement, but, before I could speak again, she had gone swiftlyup the rickety steps and pushed shut the flimsy board door behind her. 

The next afternoon was one that I have never been able to erase from mymind, for even more vividly than my earlier impressions of Con Darton, it marked the wizardry as well as the fearfulness of his power. Ahundred times during that burial service the sound of a banged door anda rasped voice sounded in my ears and the sight of a tense, hurryingfigure in a black dress and a bumpy red shawl moved before my eyes. Thethin figure was lying there now and over it, his rusty black coat tailscurving in the wind, like wings bent to trap the air, his gray eyesmisty with emotion, hovered the man whose door she had never enteredsince that fateful day of Lisbeth's birth. I could not but feel that thevision of him standing there told the story of his triumphs more grimlythan any recital. 

The service began in a sharp, fine drizzle of rain, through which hisvoice sang in shifting cadences, now large and full, now drooping to apremonitory whisper with an undeniably dramatic quality. In spite ofmyself the words stirred within me. As he read and spoke he laid asidethe turns of speech that had become his through years of associationwith country folk. Almost he was another man. 

"Man that is born of woman--"

The words reached down through the overlying structure of thought andhabit. I felt a giving and a drawing away; saw the crowd sway to hiswill. 

"In the midst of life we are--in death. "

Again the tones woke me to a sharper sense of the scene. Tears stood inmany eyes. The people had melted at his touch. They were his. For awhile I lost myself in watching them, until again a changed intonationdrew me back to the man before us. 

"We therefore commit her body to the ground--earth to earth--ashes toashes--dust to dust--"

My will was powerless to resist the beautifully delivered lines, todoubt the integrity of the man who uttered them. The little lumps of wetearth that he threw against the coffin struck against my heart with asense of the futility of all things. And then as suddenly, drawn bysomething compellingly alive and pervading, I glanced at Jim, who stoodnext to me; and catching the slant of his vision followed it to the edgeof the crowd, where, her thin dress clinging to her knees, her facealmost blue with cold, stood Lisbeth; and there was across her eyes andmouth an expression of contempt and loathing such as I had never seen ina girl so young. Jim was watching her intently, noting, with thatcertain appraisal of his, the etched profile; and, with all an artist'ssensibility, reading life into the line of head and shoulders. Whatif--the idea went through my mind with the intensity of suddenpain--what if Jim and Lisbeth--? The sound of sobbing broke in upon myreverie. Con Darton was delivering the funeral oration. 

"My friends, " I heard him saying through the streams of thought thatencompassed me, "we are here out of respect for a woman all of yeknew, --and whose life--and whose character--ye all--knew. " He paused togive more weight to what he was about to say. "Margaret Carn was likethe rest of us. She had her qualities--and she had her--failings. I wantto say to you today that there's a time fur knowing these things--and atime fur--forgettin' them. " His voice on the last words dropped abruptlyaway. There was the sound of rain spattering among the loosened lumps ofclay. "Such a time is now. " His left hand dropped heavily to his side. "I tell you there is more rejoicing in Heaven over one sinner whorepenteth than over ninety-and-nine--"

I grabbed Jim's arm to assure myself of something warm and human. Buthis eyes were still fixed on Lisbeth, whose gaze was in turn riveted onher father's face. It occurred to me with a swift sense of helplessnessthat she and I were probably the only two who could even vaguely realizeany of the inner motives of Con Darton's mind, as we certainly were theonly persons who knew how great a wrong had been done to Margaret Carn'smemory that day. To the rest she was stamped forever as a lying gossip, forgiven by the very man she had striven to harm. I shuddered; and Jim, feeling it, turned to me and drew me towards Lisbeth. Outside of thescattering crowd she saw us and greeted me gravely; then gave her handto Jim with a little quickening gesture of trust. 

We went down the road together, taking the longest way to the foot ofthe hill, Jim loquacious, eager; Lisbeth silent. The rain had meltedinto a soft mist, and through it her face took on a greater remoteness, a pallid, elfin quality. At the foot of the hill, which had to beclimbed again to reach the old farmhouse, she stopped, glancing up tothe plank where the turkeys were already roosting. 

"Not going up the hill, Lisbeth?" I asked. 

She shook her head. 

"We live here now, " she said. 

"Not--?"

"All the year round. --It's cheaper, " she added with that little touch ofstaunchness that had become hers. 

"But it's too--"

I was cut short by the look of anguish in her eyes, the most poignantsign of emotion that I had seen her show since my return. There was anawkward silence, while I stood looking at her, thinking of nothing somuch as how her head would look against a worn, gold Florentinebackground, instead of silhouetted against these flat unchangingstretches of unbending roads and red barns. It seemed that she and Jimwere saying something to each other. Then just as she turned to go, hestopped her. 

"You'll forgive me, because I'm an old friend of Tom's, " he was urging, "if I ask you to drive to town with Tom and myself for supper. "

There was an incongruity in the request that could not have escapedeither of them. I could see the color mounting to her temples and thenebbing away, leaving her whiter than before. Her lips parted to answer, but closed again sturdily. 

"It couldn't--be arranged. If it could, I should have liked to, " shesupplemented stiffly. 

It was a stiffness that made me want to cry out to the hilltops inrebellion. 

"But suppose it _could_ be arranged?" suggested Jim. 

She looked away from us. 

"It couldn't be, " she replied in that same inflectionless voice. 

It was her voice that cut so sharply. I reflected that it was only inthe very old that we could bear that look of dead desire, that absenceof all seeking, that was settling over her face. 

"But you'll try, " insisted Jim. "You won't say no now?"

With one reddened hand she smoothed the surface of her dress. "I'lltry, " she promised faintly. 

Dinner over, prompted perhaps by a desire to look the old place over bymyself, perhaps half inclined to pay a visit to Con, I left Jim in thelibrary to his own devices, and stepped out alone along the road. Theair was clear now, and the sleet had frozen to a thin crystal layer, apresage of winter, which glistened under the clear stars and sent themshivering up at me again. As I neared the mill house, I could hearvoices through its scanty boarding, and decided, for the moment, to goon, following the bed of the creek, when an intonation, oddly familiar, brought me up like the crack of a whip. It is strange the power thatsounds have to transport us, and again I saw a withered woman withstraw-colored hair and a small, oblong bundle in a patch-work quilt. But, as I drew nearer, my thoughts were all for Lisbeth. 

"Have my girl in town with that young _puppy_!" Old Con was rasping ather. "I know these artist-fellows, I tell you and--"

He ripped out an oath that took me bounding up the steps. My hand on thefront door knob, however, I paused, catching sight of Lisbeth throughthe window. She was standing with her back towards the inner door hermoth-like dress blending oddly with the pallor of her cheeks, thesmudgy glow of the lamp light laying little warm patches on her hair. But it was her eyes, wide and dark, that stopped me. There was pain inthem, and purport, a certain fierce intention, that made me wonder if Icould not serve her better where I was. And, as I waited, her voiceseeped thinly through the boarding. 

"I don't believe it. "--Her voice came quietly, almost withoutintonation. "Tom Breighton wouldn't be his friend then. --They're bothfine and straight--and--"

"They are, are they?" he jeered. "Ye've learned to tell such things outhere in th' country, I suppose--"

"There are things, " she retorted, "I've learned. "

He began drawling his words again, as he always did when he had gothimself under control. 

"I suppose ye're _insinuatin'_ ye don't like it here--don't like whatye're pore ol' Father c'n do fur ye?"

Her look of contempt would have cut short another man. 

"Ye--wantta--go?" he finished. 

She nodded mutely. And at that he flared at her terribly. 

"It's like ye, " he shouted, "like yere mother, like all the Perkinses. Word-breakers! cowards! _shirkers!_"

The words seared. The careful articulation of the afternoon was gone. 

"Promised--if I sent ye to school, ye'd stay here winters to look afterye're pore ol' Father--didn't ye?" He looked at her through narrow, reddish lids, where she had backed against the door. "Didn't ye?" herepeated. "But soon's he's done fur--soon's his _money's gone_--"

"Stop!" she cried. "_Stop i_--" Her breath caught. 

He stared at her, the words shaken from him by the sheer force of her. She had not moved, but, somehow, as she stood there against theunvarnished door facing him, fists at her side, eyes brilliant, sheappeared to tower over him. 

"I'll stay, " she was saying in a queer, fierce monotone, "I'll stay herethis winter anyhow if I freeze for it! I'll scrub and cook and haul woodfor ye till I've paid ye back--_paid ye_, " she repeated more softly, "till no one can say the Perkinses don't keep their word! And then--inthe spring--I'm going--it'll be for good--. _For always_, " she added, and turned limply towards the door. 

To my surprise he sank heavily into the rickety chair by the stove. 

"Go then, " he muttered. "It's all I c'ld expect. "

The door closed on her and still he sat there before the fire, head bentforward, as though he had an audience. I shrank back closer into theshadows, drawing my coat collar more snugly about my throat. It wasincredible that he should play a part before her--and now alone! Hisvery posture suggested a martyred, deserted old man. I felt myself inthe presence of something inexplicable. --Then, in a frenzy of suppressedrancor, such as I had never felt before, I climbed the hill, the lumpsof mud and ice seeming to cling against my footsteps as I went. 

 * * * * *

The winter was a bitter one that year, such as only the winters in thatNorthern, prostrate land can be. The countryside appeared to crouchunder a passive, laden-colored sky. Then the snow came settling indeeper and deeper layers, and, as it packed down, a coating of thin iceformed on its surface. One could walk on it at times, this crust thathad grown over the land like a new skin. 

We smuggled sweaters and coats to Lisbeth, making them old lest Consuspect us. But, even with all we could do for her, her suffering musthave been without comparison. There was no fire in the shack except thatin the old rusty cook stove which she tended, and the cold made an easyentrance through the loose carpentry of the walls. With it all therewere the loneliness and the mental agony. At first, when she did notknow how deep was Jim's devotion, there must have been times when lifeheld out no promise to her except that of escape. 

All this time the rest of the Dartons gave no sign. Old Con, Idiscovered, made occasional obscure trips to the city where he saw LinDarton and Miss Etta, the former established as a second-ratereal-estate dealer, the latter, as buyer for a large department store. Later it became more apparent that it was after these trips of his thathe was able to purchase another horse. He quoted more and morefrequently from the Bible and the "Elegy. " Such feeling as any of theneighbors may have had for Lisbeth was now completely turned aside byher tight-lipped reticence and her deft evasion of all references to hersituation. Old Con was thoroughly established as a brilliant fellow, ruined by his family. 

From the first I saw that the winter had to be endured like a famine. Keep Jim away of course I could not, though I did persuade him, by dintof much argument, that it would be for Lisbeth's good to meet her awayfrom the mill house; and what pleading he may have had with her to leaveall and come with him, then and there, I could only imagine. Each timeLisbeth came back from these encounters a little paler, her lips alittle firmer, her eyes burning with a steadier purpose. But it was thesort of purpose that robs instead of giving life, that strikes back onitself while it still clings to a sort of bitter triumph. Knowing her, Iknew that it had to be so, for to despoil her of this high integritywould be to take from her something as essentially hers as was hersensitive spirit, her fine sureness of vision. 

So we kept silence until, as the first signs of spring came on again, while the country alternately was flooded or lay under rigid pools ofice, the line of her mouth seemed to soften and a glow crept into hereyes and a dreaming. I held my breath and waited. Thin she was, likesomething worn to the thread. The fine color had given place to a bluetint in the cold, and to a colorless gray as she bent over the old stovewithin. But the exquisitely moulded line of cheek and chin, the grace ofmotion and the deep questing light in her eyes nothing could destroy. Ibelieve that, to Jim, she grew more lovely as she appeared to fade. 

At last the day came when the water ran in yellowed torrents in thecreek or stood in stagnant pools under a new sun, when the bloodbounded, overwarm, in the tired body. That day Old Con caught sight ofthem, walking arm in arm at the top of the hill, looking down as thoughto find a footing, and talking earnestly. They had never before venturedso near the mill. Catching sight of them from some distance, I foresawthe meeting before I could reach them. When I came close enough to see, Lisbeth was trembling visibly, as though from a chill, and Jim stoodglowering down at Old Con. 

Suddenly Lisbeth edged herself sidewise between them, shouldering Jimaway. 

"Don't touch him!" she cried. "It's what he's waiting for you to do!Can't you see the look on his face--that wronged look of a man that'sdone nothing but wrong all his life?"

She stopped, the words swelling within her, too big for utterance. Jimput a quieting arm about her; and just then Old Con made an abruptmotion towards her wrist. 

"I guess, " he said, "that a father--"

But she was before him. 

"Father! He's not my father, d'ye hear? I've kept my word to him and nowI'm going to keep it to myself! You see that sun over the hills?"--Sheturned to Con. --"It's the spring sun--it's summer--summer, d'ye hear?And it's _mine_--and I'm going to have it, before I'm dead like mymother died with her body still living! You're no more my father thanthat dead tree the sun can't ever warm again!--It's for good--I said itwould be for good--and it is!"

We took her, sobbing dryly, between us, up the road. 

That night in our house Lisbeth was married to Jim. A deep serenityseemed to hang about her as though for the moment the past had been shutaway from her by a mist. As for Jim, there was a wonder in his eyes, notunlike that I had seen when he came upon an old Lippo Lippi, and a greatcomprehending reverence. There were tears at the back of my eyes--thenthe beauty of the scene drove all else back before it. 

 * * * * *

There is one more episode in the life of Con Darton and Lisbeth. Knowinghim, it would be incredible that there should not be. It happened somefive years later and I was concerned in it from the moment that I wassummoned unexpectedly to Mr. Lin Darton's office in the city, a dingythough not unprosperous menage located in the cheaper part of the downtown district. I found him sitting amid an untidy litter of papers atthe table, talking through the telephone to some one who laterdeveloped to be Miss Etta; and I had at once a feeling of suffocationand closeness, due not alone, I believe, to the barred windows and thesteaming radiator. The family resemblance that Mr. Lin Darton bore toOld Con threw into relief the former's honesty, and made more bearablehis heavy sentimentalism, upon which Con had played as surely as on abagpipe, sounding its narrow range with insistent evenness of response. 

"I want to talk to you about Con, " he said gravely, as soon as thereceiver had been hung up, "and--Lisbeth. " He uttered his niece's nameas though it were a thing of which he could not but be ashamed. 

I said nothing to this, and waited. 

"As you are still in touch with her; and, as the situation is probablyalready partly known to you, I thought you might be able--willing--" Hehesitated, paused; and a grieved look came into his eyes that was quitegenuine. I realized the fact coldly. 

"Whatever I can do, " I assured him, "I shall be glad to. "

"None of us, " he continued, "have seen Lisbeth since that terrible nightfour years ago, when she turned Con away from her house. "

I hesitated for a moment and then said: "It was three o'clock in themorning, if I remember, and he had written that he was coming to takeher little son into the country, to give him a chance, " I addedbitingly, "of some real country air. "

"It was a cold night, " continued Lin Darton, as though he had not heardme, "and she has all she needs--while he--"

"To my mind, he had no business there!" I flared. 

"He was her father. "

He stared at me hard, as though he had uttered the final, indisputableword. 

"He forfeited all right to that title years ago. "

"When?" demanded Mr. Darton. 

"On the day of her birth, " I snapped back at him. 

"I do not understand you, " he said coldly. And, when I remained silent, he added: "There is no greater crime than that of a child towards afather. "

"Unless it be, perhaps, that of a father towards a child. "

His sadness seemed to weigh him against the desk. I relented. 

"To go against one's _own_--_against one's own_, " he repeated, "and Conso sick now--"

"You must forgive me, Mr. Darton, for my views, " I said more gently, "and tell me what I can do. "

He pulled himself together at that. 

"Con's all gone to pieces, you know--at the old mill house--no money--noone to care for him. We wanted you to come out with us. Perhaps medicalcare might, even now--We thought maybe, " he interrupted himself hastily, "that you could get Lisbeth to help out too--and maybe come herself--"

"Come herself!" I repeated, and my voice must have sounded the sick fearthat struck me. 

"Money's not the only thing that counts when it comes to one's ownblood, " he said sententiously. 

There were no two ways about it, that was his final stand. So, havingassumed them of my services that afternoon, I went straight to Lisbeth. 

I found her bending over the youngest baby, and, when I told her, herbody became rigid for an instant, then she stooped lower that I mightnot see the shadow that had fallen across her face. Finally she left thechild and came to me with that old look of misery in her face that I hadnot seen there for so long, but with far more gentleness. 

"Sit down here, Tom, " she said, leading me to the window seat, where thestrands of sunlight struck against her head, giving fire to herdull-brown hair. She had changed but slightly in appearance, I thought, from the girl that I had known five years before; still there _was_ achange, a certain assurance was there, and a graciousness that came fromthe knowledge that she was loved. 

"I think you know, " she began, her eyes looking not at me but straightahead, "that I've been happy--these five years--though perhaps not howhappy. But in spite of it all--there is always that something--that_fear_ here--clutching at me--that it may not all be real--that it can'tlast. "

Again she looked at me and turned away, but not before I had caught aflash of terror in her eyes. 

"Even with them all against me, Tom, I've stuck to it--to what I feel ismy right. This is my home--and it's Jim's home--and the children's aswell as it's mine--and, in a way, it's--inviolate. I've sworn thatnothing ugly shall come into it--nothing shall ruin it--the way ourlives were ruined out there!"

Her voice trembled, but her eyes, as she turned to me at the last, weresteady. 

"I'll send something, of course, " she said; "you will take it to them. But I'll--not go. "

With her message and her money I sought out Lin Darton and Miss Etta, and together we rambled in their open Ford along those flat, deadIllinois roads that I had not seen for so long. 

It is a doctor's profession to save life, and there was a life to besaved, if it were possible. But he was nearer to the end than I hadthought. Grega was there in that same barren room of the mill-house, doing things in a stolid, undeft sort of way. The bed had been pullednear the stove and the room was stuffier, more untidy than in the dayswhen Lisbeth had been there. The creaky bed, the unvarnished walls, andthe rusty alarm clock, that ticked insistently, all added to the senseof flaccidity. The afternoon was late and already dark; sagging cloudshad gathered, shutting out what was left of the daylight. Miss Etta lita smudgy lamp, sniffling as she did so. 

From under the torn quilt the man stared back at me, with much of hisold penetration, despite the fever that racked him. 

"I--want--Lisbeth, " were his first words to me. 

I shook my head. "She cannot come just now, " I told him, hand on hiswrist. "But we are here to do everything for you. "

"Tel-e-phone her, " he said with his old emphasis on each syllable, "andtell--her that I'm--dy-ing. Don't answer me. You know that--_I--amdy-ing and I--want--her_. "

Miss Etta, the tears streaming over her large face, went to do hisbidding. I could hear her lumbersome footsteps going down the crazyoutside stairway. He gave me a triumphant look as I lifted his arm, thenabruptly he drew away from me. He had an ingrained fear of drugs of anysort. There was no gainsaying his fierce refusals, so I made him ascomfortable as I could while we waited. The end was very near. His face, thin almost to emaciation, was flushed to a deep, feverish red, but hislips took on a more unbending line than ever and his eyes burned likebits of phosphorescence in the semidarkness. For an hour he lay theremotionless with only the shadow of a smile touching his lips atintervals. 

Miss Etta had returned, letting in a gust of damp air, but bringing nodefinite answer from Lisbeth. Would she come? I remembered herunyielding decision, her unflinching sincerity. The rain broke nowsuddenly, and came roaring down the hill towards the creek. Outside thebranches of elms dragged, with a snapping of twigs, across the brittleroof. A rusty stream of water crawled sizzling down the pipe of thestove. It was hot--hot with the intolerable hotness of steam. Thepatchwork quilt looked thick and unsmoothed. I reflected that it nevercould look smoothed. And how their personalities bore down upon one witha swamping sensation! Miss Etta and Grega and Mr. Lin Darton weregathered into a corner of the room and an occasional whispering escapedthem. The oppression was terrific. I began to want Lisbeth, to long forher to come, as she would come, like a cool blade cutting throughdensity. And yet--I was not sure. I found myself staring through theblack, shiny surface of the window, seeking relief in the obscuringdark. It gave little vision, except its own distorted reflections, but Icould distinguish vaguely the outlines of the old mill with the shadowlyraft in the high branches and the smudgy round spots that I knew to bethe turkeys roosting. 

A fiercer current tore at the framework of the mill-house. The waterrapped pitilessly against the pane. The brownish stream thickened, as itmade its way down the stovepipe and fell in flat puddles on the tinplate beneath it. --_Would she come?_

"If she doesn't come now!" whimpered Miss Etta. "An awfulgirl--_awful_!"

I began hoping of a sudden that she would not come. Though I craved herpresence in that insufferable room, I was afraid for her. A sort ofnameless terror had seized me that would not be dismissed. Yet whatworse thing than she had already endured could come from that bundle ofloose clothes on the bed? The figure moved uneasily under the covers andmade an indefinite motion. I could only guess at the words addressed toMiss Etta as she bent over him. She shook her head. 

"No, " she said audibly, "not yet. "

With one brown, fleshless hand, that lay outside the covers, he made agesture of resignation, but the gray eyes, turning towards me, burnedblack. 

I could make out fragmentary bits of conversation that issued from thecorner of the room. 

"When it comes to one's own blood--"

The rest was lost in a surge of wind and rain. 

"An awful girl--"

"She ought to be--"

A low rumble came down the hill, followed by a more terrific onslaughtof rain. Outside the clap of a door came as a relief. There were steps, then, just as I had expected, the door was thrust back and she stoodthere letting in the fresh air of heaven, a slender sheaf of gray in herlong coat and small fur toque. 

A satirical gleam of triumph gleamed across the sick man's face andvanished, leaving him a wronged and silently passive creature. 

"You can shut the door tight, now you've _come_, " said Miss Etta. "Adraft won't do him any good. "

With this greeting she turned her back. There was a moment's silence, while Lisbeth pushed shut the flimsy door, and I, to cover herembarrassment, helped her make it fast. I noticed then that she wascarrying a small leather case. 

"Thermos bottles, " she explained, as an aroma of comfort escaped them. But the man on the bed shook his head, as she approached. 

"Not now, " he said plaintively. His look reproached her. Tears stoodthickly in Miss Etta's eyes. She pulled Lisbeth aside with a series ofjerks at her elbow. 

"Too late for that now, " I heard her whisper sententiously. And then:"You had your chance. "

I saw the hand, that disengaged Miss Etta's clutch, tremble; and for aninstant I thought the girl would break down under the benumbingthickness of their emotion. But she merely unfastened her coat, walkingtowards the window as though seeking composure, as I had, in the coldshadows without, in the blurred outlines of the old mill and theintrepid row of turkeys. 

He beckoned to her, but she did not see him. Rapidly failing as he was, I was certain that he was by no means without power of speech. I touchedher on the arm. His words came finally in monotonous cadences. 

"I am dy-ing, " he said. "You will--pray?"

I saw her catch her breath. My own hung in my throat and choked me. Hewas watching her intently now with overweighted gray eyes, that couldnot make one entirely forget the long cunning line of the mouth. Whatcourage did she have to withstand this? He was dying--of that therecould be little doubt. She had grown white to the roots of her hair. 

"I do not pray, " she said steadily. 

His eyebrows met. "You--_do not pray_? Who--taught--you--_not top--ray_?"

"You did, " she said quietly. 

He lay back with a sigh. 

"Outrageous!" murmured Miss Etta through her tears. "An awfulgirl--_awful_!"

The man on the bed smiled. He lifted his hand and let it fall back onthe cover. 

"It's all right--all right--all--right. " The reddish-brown eyelidsclosed slowly. 

Involuntarily a wave of pity shook me. It was consummate acting. That aman should play a part upon the very edge of life held in it somethingawesome, compelling attention. I drew myself together, feeling his eyes, sharp for all their floating sadness, upon me. Was he--? Was I--?--Acrackling of thunder shook the ground. When it had passed, the rain camedown straight and hard and windless like rapier thrusts. The roomseemed, if possible, closer, more suffocating. He beckoned to Lisbethand she went and stood near him. He was to put her through a stillharder ordeal. 

"You have never cared for me, " he whispered. 

There was no sound except for the steady pour outside and the rustle ofMiss Etta's garments as she made angry motions to Lisbeth. Even at thismoment, I believe, had he shown sign of any honest wish for affection, she would have given all she had. 

"Not for many years, " she said, and for the first time her voice shook. 

"_Ah--h!_" His breath went inwards. 

Suddenly he began to fumble among the bed clothes. 

"The picture, " he said incoherently, "your mother's picture. Pick itup, " he ordered, his eyelids drooping strangely. "No--no--under the_bed_. "

Before I could stop her she had dropped to her knees and was fumblingamong the rolls of dust under the bed. An overpowering dread hadclutched at me, forcing the air from my lungs. But in that instant hehad raised himself, by what must have been an almost incredible exerciseof will, and grabbed her by the throat. 

"_Curse you!_" he cried, shaking her as one would a rat, "you and yourmother--_cur_--"

His hands dropped away, limp and brittle like withered leaves. He fellback. --

 * * * * *

Of course they will always find excuses for the dead, and eulogies. Evenas I helped her into Jim's small curtained car and took my place at thewheel, I knew that the things that they would say about her would bemore than I could bear. We plunged forward, and a moment later, roundinga curve, our headlights came full upon the outlines of the old farm withits hideous false façade. I could not resist glancing at her, though Isaid nothing. Her eyes were on her hands, held loosely in her lap. Shedid not look at me until, with another lurch, we had swung about again, and all but the road in front of us was drawn back swiftly intoobscurity. I found that she had turned towards me then, and, as I laidone hand across her arm, I felt her relax to a relieved trembling. Before us the night crowded down over the countryside, masking itsugliness like a film, through which our lights cut a white fissuretowards town. 

SHELBY[20]

By CHARLES HANSON TOWNE

(From _The Smart Set_)

When I sit down to write of Shelby--Lucien Atterwood Shelby, the author, whose romantic books you must have read, or at least heard of--I findmyself at some difficulty to know where to begin. I knew him so well atone time--so little at another; and men, like houses, change with theyears. Today's tenant in some old mansion may not view the garden as youdid long ago; and the friend of a man's later years may not hold thesame opinions the acquaintance of an earlier period once formed. 

I think it best to begin with the time I met Shelby on the newspaperwhere we both, as cub reporters, worked. That was exactly twenty yearsago. 

The boys didn't take to Shelby. He was too dapper, too good-looking, andhe always carried a stick, as he called it; we were unregenerate enoughto say cane. And, most loathsome of all, he had an Englishaccent--though he was born in Illinois, we afterwards learned. You canimagine how this accent nettled us, for we were all unassuminglads--chaps, Shelby would have called us--and we detested "side. "

But how this new acquisition to the staff could write! It bothered us tosee him hammer out a story in no time, for most of us had to work overour copy, and we made Hanscher, the old managing editor, raving madsometimes with our dilatoriness. I am afraid that in those sadly distantdays we frequented too many bars, and no doubt we wasted some of ourenergy and decreased our efficiency. But every young reporter drank moreor less; and when Shelby didn't mix with us, and we discovered that hetook red wine with his dinner at Mouqin's--invariably alone--we hatedhim more than ever. 

I remember well how Stanton, the biggest-hearted fellow the Lord everlet live, announced one night in the copy room that he was going to getShelby tight or die in the attempt, and how loud a laugh went up at hisexpense. 

"It can't be done, " was the verdict. 

The man hadn't enough humanity, we figured. He was forever dramatizinghimself, forever attitudinizing. And those various suits of his--howthey agonized us! We were slouches, I know, with rumpled hair and, Ifear not overparticular as to our linen during the greater part of theweek. Some of us had families to support, even in those young days--orat least a father or a mother up the State to whom we had to send amonthly cheque out of our meagre wages. 

I can't say that we were envious of Shelby because of hissingle-blessedness--he was only twenty-two at that time; but it hurt usto know that he didn't really have to work in Herald Square, and that hehad neat bachelor quarters down in Gramercy Park, and a respectable clubor two, and week-ended almost where he chose. His blond hair was alwaysbeautifully plastered over a fine brow, and he would never soil hisforehead by wearing a green shade when he bent over his typewriter lateat night. That would have robbed him of some of his dignity, made himlook anything but the English gentleman he was so anxious to appear. 

I think he looked upon us as just so much dust beneath his feet. Hewould say "Good evening" in a way that irritated every one of us--asthough the words had to be got out somehow, and he might as well saythem and get them over with, and as though he dreaded any reply. Youcouldn't have slapped him on the back even if you had felt the impulse;he wasn't the to-be-slapped kind. And of course that means that hewouldn't have slapped any of us, either. And he was the type youcouldn't call by his first name. 

Looking back, I sometimes think of all that he missed in the way ofgood-fellowship; for we were the most decent staff in New York, ashonest and generous and warmly human a bunch as anyone could hope tofind. We were ambitious, too, mostly college men, and we had thatpassion for good writing, perhaps not in ourselves, but in others, whichis so often the newspaper man's special endowment. We were swift torecognize a fine passage in one another's copy; and praise from oldHanscher meant a royal little dinner at Engel's with mugs of cream ale, and an hour's difference in our arrival at the office next day. Oh, happy, vanished times! Magic moments that peeped through the grayness ofhard work, and made the whole game so worth while. 

Well, Stanton won out. He told us about it afterwards. 

On the pretext that he wanted to ask Shelby's advice about someimportant personal matter, he urged him to let him give him as good ameal as Mouqin could provide, with a certain vintage of French winewhich he knew Shelby was fond of. There were cocktails to begin with, though Shelby had intimated more than once that he abominated thebourgeois American habit of indulging in such poison. And there was anonion soup _au gratin_, a casserole, and artichokes, and special coffee, and I don't know what else. 

"He got positively human, " Stanton put it, later, as we clustered roundhim in the copy room. (Shelby hadn't turned up. ) "I don't like him, youknow; and at first it was hard to get through the soup; but I acted up, gave him a song and dance about my mythical business matter--I think hefeared I was going to 'touch him'--and finally got a little tipsymyself. From then on it was easy. It was like a game. "

It seems that afterwards, arm in arm, they walked out into Sixth Avenuein the soft snow--it was winter, and the Burgundy had done thetrick--and Shelby, his inhibitions completely gone, began to weep. 

"Why are you crying?" Stanton asked, his own voice thick. 

"Because you fellers don't like me!" Shelby choked out. 

The accent and the stick went together into the gutter, Stantonlaughingly told us. An immortal moment! The poseur with his mask off, atlast! Beneath all that grease-paint and charlatanism there was a solid, suffering, lonely man; and even in his own dazed condition Stanton wasquick to recognize it, and to rejoice in the revelation. 

Moreover, he was flattered, as we always are, when our judgments haveproved right. Stanton had deliberately set out to find the realShelby--and he had. 

"A man who can write as he can has something in him--that I know, " hehad said generously more than once. He made us see that he had not beenwrong. 

But it was not the real Shelby that returned to the office. That iswhere he missed his great opportunity. Back strutted the pompous, stained-glass, pitiful imitation of an Englishman, in a louder suit thanever, and with a big new cane that made the old one look flimsy. 

We despised him more than ever. For we would have taken him within ourlittle circle gladly after Stanton's sure report; and there would havebeen chance after chance for him to make good with us. But no; hepreferred the pose of aloofness, and his face betrayed that he wasashamed of that one night's weakness. He never alluded to his eveningwith Stanton; and when Minckle, who was certain the ice had been broken, put his arm around his shoulder the next day, he looked and drawled, "I say, old top, I wish you wouldn't. "

Of course that finished him with us. 

"He can go to the devil, " we said. 

We wanted him fired, obliterated; but the very next evening there was amurder in Harlem, and old Hanscher sent Shelby to cover it, and hisfirst-page story was the talk of the town. We were sports enough to tellhim what a wonderful thing he had done. He only smiled, said "Thanks, "and went on at his typewriter. 

II

It was shortly after this that Marguerite Davis assailed New York withher beauty--a young actress with a wealth of hair and the kind of eyesyou dream of. She captured the critics and the public alike. Her namewas on every lip and the Broadway theater where she starred in "TheGreat Happiness" was packed to the doors. Such acclaim was neverreceived by any young woman. We heard that Shelby went every night for aweek to see some part of the play--he couldn't, because of hisassignments, view the entire performance; and it was Minckle who, afterthe piece had been running a month in New York, found a photograph ofthe star in the top drawer of Shelby's desk. He had gone there for amatch--you know how informal we newspaper men are. Moreover, the picturehad been autographed. 

"I wish you wouldn't touch that. " It was Shelby's voice. Of course hehad come in at the very moment poor Minckle made his startlingdiscovery. 

With quiet dignity, and with a flush on his cheeks, Shelby took thephotograph from Minckle's hand, and replaced it in the drawer. 

"I always keep matches on top of my desk--when I have any, " he said, ina voice like ice. 

There was no denying his justified anger. No man likes to have his heartsecrets disclosed; and Shelby knew that even the Associated Press couldnot give more publicity to the discovery than Minckle could. Hedreaded--and justly, I think--the wagging of heads that would be noticedfrom now on, the pitiless interest in his amour. 

Stanton was the only one of us, except myself, later, who ever wasprivileged, if you care to put it that way, to visit Shelby'sapartment--diggings, Shelby always called them. There, on the walls, hetold us, were innumerable photographs of Miss Davis, in everyconceivable pose. They looked out at one from delicate and heavy frames;and some were stuck informally in the mirror of his dresser, as thoughcasually placed there to lighten up the beginning of each day, orperhaps because there was no other space for them. 

"You must know her awfully well, " Stanton ventured once. 

"I have never met the lady, " was all Shelby said; and Stanton told methere was a sigh that followed the remark. 

"What!" this full-blooded young American reporter cried, astounded. "You've never met this girl, and yet you have all these--all thesepictures of her?"

"I don't want to lose my dream, my illusion, " was Shelby's answer. 

A man who would not meet the toast of Broadway--and Fifth Avenue, forthat matter--if he could, was, to Stanton and the rest of us, inconceivable. 

It was at the close of that winter that Shelby left us. Some there werewho said he was suffering from a broken heart. At any rate, he began tofree-lance; and the first of those fascinating romantic short storiesthat he did so well appeared in one of the magazines. There was always apoignant note in them. They dealt with lonely men who brooded in secreton some unattainable woman of dreams. This sounds precious; but thetales were saved from utter banality by a certain richness of style, aflow and fervour that carried the reader on through twenty pages withouthis knowing it. They struck a fresh note, they were filled with the fireof youth, and the scenes were always laid in some far country, whichgave them, oddly enough, a greater reality. Shelby could pile onadjectives as no other writer of his day, I always thought, and he couldweave a tapestry, or create an embroidery of words that was almostmagical. 

He made a good deal of money, I believe, during those first few monthsafter he went away from Herald Square. Apparently he had no friends, and, as I have said, invariably he seemed to dine alone at Mouqin's, ata corner table. Afterwards, he would go around to the Café Martin, thenin its glory, where Fifth Avenue and Broadway meet, for his coffee and agolden liqueur and a cigarette. That flaming room, which we who werefortunate enough to have our youth come to a glorious fruition in 1902, attracted us all like a magnet. Here absinthe dripped into tall glasses, and the seats around the sides, the great mirrors and the goldencurtains, which fluttered in summer and remained austerely in place inwinter, made a little heaven for us all, and life one long cry of joy. Here women, like strange flowers that bloomed only at night, smiled andlaughed the hours away; and the low whirr of Broadway drifted in, whilethe faint thunder of Fifth Avenue lent an added mystery to the place, asthough the troubled world were shut out but could be reached again in aninstant, if you wished to reach it. 

Shelby liked to be seen in such places. He said he felt that he was onthe Continent, and he liked to get nervously excited over a liqueur anda mazagan of coffee, and then flee to his cozy lodgings in Gramercy Parkand produce page after page of closely written manuscript. 

The pictures of Marguerite Davis remained a part of the furnishings ofthose rooms of his--that we heard; and I knew it directly shortly afterthis. For I, too, left the newspaper, and went into the magazine-editinggame. I found a berth on that same popular periodical to which Shelbywas then contributing his matchless stories; and part of my job was tosee him frequently, take him to luncheon or dinner, talk over his futureplans with him, discuss the possibility of his doing a novelette whichlater he could expand into a full-sized volume and thereby gain an addedvogue. 

It was during this period that I came to know him so well--came to knowhim, that is, as intimately as he wished to be known. Always there was acloak of reserve which he put on with me, as with every one. I tried tobroaden his horizon, to have him meet other men--and women. He would gowith me once or twice to some party, for he was clever enough to seethat he must not offend me, just as he knew that I must not offend him. We were too valuable to each other, and in that odd mixing up of ouraffairs in this world here we were, after so brief an interval, in therelationship of editor and contributor. 

He knew, however, that I had always admired his literary gifts; but Iconfess that the feet of clay began to creep into view when he told me, one night at the Martin, that his favorite novelist of all timewas--Marion Crawford! That explained so much to me that I had notunderstood before. I smiled tolerantly, for my own taste ran muchhigher; and I seemed from then on to sense a certain cheapness inShelby's mind, as if I had lifted the cloth over a chair and discoveredcherrywood where I had hoped to find Chippendale. It is through suchmarginalia that we come to know people. I could not reconcile Shelby'sdelicate style with so forlorn a taste for other literary dishes. I saidthen that he would never become a great writer. He would simply marktime, artistically speaking, after reaching a certain point. Thereaftereverything he produced would be but repetition. 

I was right. His virgin novel proved a rank failure. The man could donothing sustained. He was essentially a person of brilliant flashes. Thebook, called, as you may remember, "The Shadow and the Substance, " was a_tour de force_ in vapid writing, and it almost severed his literaryjugular vein. All the reviewers, delighted with a chance to play uponhis title, said it contained far more shadow than substance. 

Shelby had had easy sailing up till that time. His pride was hurt by thereception of the book; and he told me he was going to flee toLondon--which he straightway did. Then I heard of him in his belovedEngland; and from there he sent me several short manuscripts filled withhis old grace and charm of style--a sort of challenge to his critics. But always we waited for the story with a punch; for the story thatwould show there was a soul in the fellow. These pale blossoms were allvery well--as magazine bait to capture the young girl reader of oursmart periodical; but too many of them cloyed. It was as though youserved a banquet and made _hors d'oeuvres_ the main dish. 

Yet his popularity with our readers was tremendous. Letters, addressedin feminine handwriting, came to him in our care every day, from allover the land; and he was no doubt flattered by silly women who werefascinated even more by his fiction after we printed his romanticphotograph. For he had a profile that captivated many a girl, eyes thatseemed to speak volumes; and no doubt there were numerous boudoirs thatcontained his picture, just as his rooms contained so many likenesses ofMarguerite Davis. 

I next heard of him in Egypt, where he said he was gathering colour fora new romance. He stayed away several months, and then blew in onemorning, better-looking than ever, brown and clear-eyed. He had been allover the Orient, and he said his note-book was full of material. Now hecould sit down quietly and write. He had so much to put on paper, hetold me. 

But he hadn't. He dreamed adventure, he craved adventure; but nothingever happened to him. His trips were invariably on glassy seas. Hetraveled by himself--he hadn't even one chum whom he cared to have sharehis joys; and though he penetrated the jungles of Africa at one time, the lions remained mysteriously in hiding, and the jaguars didn't evengrowl. 

I remember that this came out one night at a dinner party he and I wentto at the home of a friend of mine. A Captain Diehart was there--a mostdelightful man of fifty or so, who had just returned from a trip aroundthe world; and he fascinated us all by his lively recounting of certaindramatic happenings in the Far East. Zulus had captured him once, and hehad come perilously close to death on so many occasions that it was amiracle that he should be sitting here now, sipping his champagne andsmoking his cigarette. 

On the way home--I had a habit of seeing Shelby to his doorstep duringthis period--he turned to me and said:

"Isn't it strange, Allison, that nothing of that kind has ever happenedto me? I move about all the while, I look eagerly for excitement, I hopealways for the supreme adventure--and I never find it. Yet I loveromance. Why does it never come to me?"

I was silent for a few paces. I felt so sorry for him. For once he hadtold me what was in his heart. 

"You're in love with love, " I said finally. "That's what's the matterwith your work, Shelby, if you'll let me say so. I wonder if you havereally loved a woman--or a friend, even? If the great thing should comeinto your life, wouldn't it illuminate your whole literary expression?Wouldn't you write eighty per cent better. Wouldn't everything you do besharpened splendidly alive? Why don't you meet--Miss Davis?"

"My God, man!" he let out. "Won't you allow me to keep at least onedream?"

He tried to be tragic right there in the street; but I read him like abook. 

"Don't be an ass, old fellow. You're not a poet, you know--you're ahappy dabbler in prose; but you've got to wake up--you've got to havesome vital experience before you can hope to reach the top. Thisvicarious loving isn't worth a tin whistle. You're like a soldier in thebarracks compared to one who's in the thick of the fight. Wake up, shakeyourself, get out of your shell, and see how much greater you'll be!"

He didn't like that. He never liked the truth. How few of us do!

The next thing I knew he was off for Japan, and he sent me prettypost-cards of geisha-girls, and tried to indicate that he was having thetime of his life, at last. But there was something false--I cannot quiteexpress it--about his messages. They didn't ring true at all. He knewit, and he knew that I knew it. 

III

When he came back, after a year or so, there was a vast change in him. He was more sure of himself; and in the Martin one night he told me howvarious other periodicals were now after him. His rate would have to goup, and all that sort of thing. He liked me, and _The Athenian_, but onemust grow, and there were wider fields for him to penetrate; and it wasall right that we had made him what he was, but in the final summing upa man must think of himself, and one's career was one's career, youknow. He brought in several fashionable names, I remember--I don'trecall just how he did it, but he tried to appear casual when he spokeof Mrs. Thus-and-So, who had a mansion on Fifth Avenue; and he indicatedthat he often dined there now. They had met in the Orient, and Reggiewas a corker, too, and he might summer at Newport, and what did I thinkof an offer of five thousand dollars from a great weekly for a serialdealing with high life?

He sickened me that evening. Yes, he was a prig, a snob, and I don'tknow what else. Frankly and coldly I told him to go to the dickens. Ourmagazine had existed without him once upon a time, and it could go onexisting without him. I was sorry to see him make such a fool ofhimself. 

His whole attitude changed. 

"Oh, don't think I mean all I say, Allison!" he pleaded. "I'll continueto give you something now and again. After all, I've got a wide audiencewith you people, and I don't quite wish to lose it. "

That irritated me more than ever--his stupid patronage, his abominableself-assurance. I remember paying the check very grandiloquently, andleaving him alone--as he was so fond of being, at one time--in thecenter of the room. 

When we met thereafter of course we were exceedingly chilly to eachother. Once I saw him with Mrs. Thus-and-So, and he cut me dead. Isuppose I looked painfully inadequate, utterly unimportant to him thatafternoon. He had moved to higher circles; and after all I was only astruggling young editor, who dressed rather badly--; all right forcertain occasions, but hardly one to be seen bowing to at a moment likethis! I read his mind, you see; and again he knew that I knew; and ofcourse he hated me from that time forth. 

It was at this time that the phrase, "See America First, " came into suchwide circulation. It was considered the thing to look over the GrandCanyon or the Yellowstone Park, or to run down to Florida, rather thancross the ocean; and I next heard of Shelby in the West, diligentlywriting--for other magazines. He had brought out one more novel, "TheOrange Sunset, " and it had gone far better than the first, which musthave heartened him and given him a fresh impetus. He changed bookpublishers, too--went to a smarter firm who did much for him in the wayof publicity. And special editions, in limp covers, helped his sales. Even his short stories were brought out, and as little brochures, ingorgeous binding with colored illustrations, a single tale would attractthe romantic maiden. It was a chocolate-cream appeal; but cream-dropshave their uses in this weary world. 

The San Francisco earthquake--I believe they always allude to it outthere as "the fire"--occurred--that next year; and Stanton, who hadsucceeded old Hanscher in Herald Square--the latter had died in harnessat his desk--heard, in that mysterious way that newspaper men heareverything, that Shelby was in the ill-fated city when the earth rockedon that disastrous night. Immediately he telegraphed him, "Write twothousand words of your experiences, your sensations in calamity. Wirethem immediately. Big check awaits you. "

Silence followed. Stanton and I talked it over, and we concluded thatShelby must have been killed. 

"If he isn't dead, here at last is the great adventure he has beenlonging for, " I couldn't help saying. 

No word ever came from him; but two weeks later he blew into town, andagain Stanton found out that he had arrived. 

"Why didn't you answer my wire?" he telephoned him. 

"I couldn't, " Shelby rather whimpered over the line. "You see, Stanton, old top, the thing got me too deeply. I just couldn't--I hope you'llunderstand--write one word of it. "

But it was not the grief of the man who feels so deeply that he cannotshed a tear. It was the craven in Shelby that had shocked themeretricious Shelby into insensibility, into utter inarticulateness inone of the crowning disasters of the ages. 

In the face of something so real, so terribly real, he was but a punyworm, with no vocabulary to express his emotions--for he had none, savethe emotion of fear. That we knew from people who had been at the samehotel where he was stopping when the great shock came. He ran throughthe corridors like a frightened doe, in pajamas of silk, with wonderfultassels of green. He wrung his hands, and babbled like a lunatic. "Oh, my manuscripts! My manuscripts!" were the only intelligible words thatcame from his white lips. 

Think of it! He thought of those piffling stories--those stories ofunreality, when he was experiencing the biggest thing that ever cameinto his little life! Do you wonder that we cared even less for himafter that? That I refused to see him at all, and that even wise, understanding Bill Stanton couldn't touch his syndicate stuff?

IV

There is, of necessity, a hiatus here. One cannot write of what one doesnot know. I lost all trace of Shelby during the intervening years, except that I saw spasmodic productions of his in various periodicals, and guessed that he must be working in those same bachelor quartersprobably still surrounded with the pictures of Miss Davis. There wererumors, also, that he went frequently to the opera with very grandpeople, and dined and supped on Lower as well as Upper Fifth Avenue. Itwas whispered in editorial circles that he had come to care more as towhere he could dine next week than how he could write next week. Yousee, he was most personable, and he could flatter ladies, and drink likea gentleman, and wear his evening clothes to perfection--he still hadthem made in London--and that sort of unmarried man is always in demandin New York. Add to these social graces the piquancy of a littleliterary reputation, and you have the perfect male butterfly. 

Shelby fluttered his way through the corridors and drawing rooms of therich, and his later work, if you will notice, always touches upon whatis called smart society. We heard that he never mentioned his newspaperdays--that he was not a little ashamed of having spent so many monthsbending over a typewriter in a dingy, cluttered office. Yet it was therehe had learned to write; and had he been true to the best traditions ofthose days of exciting assignments, how far he might have gone on thelong literary road!

The war came. Of course Shelby was beyond the draft age--quite farbeyond it; but he had no ties, was in perfect physical condition, and hemight have found in the trenches another contact that would have made athorough man of him. Again, he had always loved England and the Englishso dearly that it would not have been surprising had he offered hisservices in some way to that country when she and her allies so neededassistance. But the lists of those who offered their lives then may besearched in vain for Shelby's name. 

I heard vaguely that he had gone to Borneo in September, 1914; and therehe remained, "to avoid such a nasty mess as the world had come to. " Yousee, his was a process of evasion. He loved romance when it was sweetand beautiful; but he had not the vision to understand that there isalso a hard, stern, iron romance--the romance of men's companionships indifficult places. 

How he did it, I never knew; but he returned from Borneo a year later, and handed to his publishers a novel called "The Blowing Rose, " whichdealt, as its title would indicate, with anything but the War--asentimental tale of the old South, full of lattices and siestas throughlong, slow afternoons, and whispered words of love, and lightconversations at dusk, and all that sort of rot. And all the while, outside his door the guns were booming; at the gates of the world aperilous storm had broken. The earth was on fire; but while Rome burned, he, like Nero, played a fiddle--and was content. 

Then he wrote a comedy of British manners, and nothing would do but thathe must himself journey to London in war-time to see about itsproduction there. 

Stanton and I happened to see him the day before he sailed. We met himface to face on Fifth Avenue, and he bowed to us. We returned thesalute, little dreaming that never again would we see him. 

For Shelby sailed on the _Lusitania_. 

There must be a hiatus here, too; for no one saw him die. The story runsthat he must have been in his cabin when the awful moment came--that hewas drowned like a rat in a trap. I wonder. And I wonder if he knew inthat agonizing instant that he was doomed? But was it not better to diethan to emerge again from so great a calamity--so historical anepisode--as he had once before emerged, and find himself againinarticulate? At least there can be some glory for him now; for onelikes to think that, after all, he might have told us how he felt in sosupreme a moment, and linked it, through his delicate art, with his SanFrancisco sensations. Could those have been revived, and put upon paper?Could Shelby ever have made a fine gesture, know himself as we knew him, and told the truth. 

I doubt it. For, looking over his published works tonight, I find onlyone or two epigrams worthy of a brief existence. And one of those I amsure he filched from an English wit, and redressed it for his purposes. That was the only time he cared for American tailoring. 

But poor Shelby! Vicarious, indeed, were all the experiences, save two, of his shallow days. But in the face of each, he was speechless. Thereis a law of averages, a law of compensation, you know. The balance wheelturns; the tides change; the sands of occasion shift. Fate gave this manone overwhelmingly glorious chance to say something. He was mute. Thesecond time she sealed his lips forever. 

THE WALLOW OF THE SEA[21]

By MARY HEATON VORSE

(From _Harper's Magazine_)

After twenty years I saw Deolda Costa again, Deolda who, when I was agirl, had meant to me beauty and romance. There she sat before me, large, mountainous, her lithe gypsy body clothed in fat. Her dark eyes, beautiful as ever, still with a hint of wildness, met mine proudly. Andas she looked at me the old doubts rose again in my mind, a cold chillcrawled up my back as I thought what was locked in Deolda's heart. Mymind went back to that night twenty years ago, with the rain beating itsdevil's tattoo against the window, when all night long I sat holdingDeolda's hand while she never spoke or stirred the hours through, butstared with her crazy, smut-rimmed eyes out into the storm where JohnnyDeutra was. I heard again the shuttle of her feet weaving up and downthe room through the long hours. 

It was a strange thing to see Deolda after having known her as I did. There she was, with her delight of life all changed into youngsters andfat. There she was, heavy as a monument, and the devil in her dividedamong her children--though Deolda had plenty of devil to divide. 

My first thought was: "Here's the end of romance. To think that you oncewere love, passion, and maybe even carried death in your hand--and whenI look at you now!"

Then the thought came to me, "After all, it is a greater romance thatshe should have triumphed completely, that the weakness of remorse hasnever set its fangs in her heart. " She had seized the one loophole thatlife had given her and had infused her relentless courage into another'sveins. 

I was at the bottom of Deolda Costa's coming to live with my auntJosephine Kingsbury, for I had been what my mother called "peaked, " andwas sent down to the seashore to visit her. And suddenly I, an inlandchild, found myself in a world of romance whose very colors werechanged. I had lived in a world of swimming green with faint bluedistance; hills ringed us mildly; wide, green fields lapped up to ourhouses; islands of shade trees dotted the fields. 

My world of romance was blue and gray, with the savage dunes glitteringgold in the sun. Here life was intense. Danger lurked always under thehorizon. Lights, like warning eyes, flashed at night, and through thedrenching fog, bells on reefs talked to invisible ships. Old men whotold tales of storm and strange, savage islands, of great catches offish, of smuggling, visited my aunt. 

Then, as if this were merely the background of a drama, Deolda Costacame to live with us in a prosaic enough fashion, as a "girl to helpout. "

If you ask me how my aunt, a decent, law-abiding woman--a sick woman atthat--took a firebrand like Deolda into her home, all I would be able toanswer is: If you had seen her stand there, as I did, on the porch thatmorning, you wouldn't ask the question. The doorbell rang and my auntopened it, I tagging behind. There was a girl there who looked as thoughshe were daring all mankind, a strange girl with skin tawny, like sandon a hot day, and dark, brooding eyes. My aunt said:

"You want to see me?"

The girl glanced up slowly under her dark brows that looked as if theyhad been drawn with a pencil. 

"I've come to work for you, " she said in a shy, friendly fashion. "I'm areal strong girl. "

No one could have turned her away, not unless he were deaf and blind, not unless he were ready to murder happiness. I was fifteen andromantic, and I was bedazzled just as the others were. She made me thinkof dancing women I have heard of, and music, and of soft, starlitnights, velvet black. She was more foreign than anything I had ever seenand she meant to me what she did to plenty of others--romance. She musthave meant it to my aunt, sick as she was and needing a hired girl. Sowhen Deolda asked, in that soft way of hers:

"Shall I stay?"

"Yes, " answered my aunt, reluctantly, her eyes on the girl's lovelymouth. 

While she stood there, her shoulders drooping, her eyes searching myaunt's face, she still found time to shoot a glance like a flamingsignal to Johnny Deutra, staring at her agape. I surprised the glance, and so did my aunt Josephine, who must have known she was in for nothingbut trouble. And so was Johnny Deutra, for from that first glance ofDeolda's that dared him, love laid its heavy hand on his youngshoulders. 

"What's your name, dear?" my aunt asked. 

"Deolda Costa, " said she. 

"Oh, you're one-armed Manel's girl. I don't remember seeing you aboutlately. "

"I been working to New Bedford. My father an' mother both died. I cameup for the funeral. I--don't want to go back to the mills--" Then suddenfury flamed in her. "I hate the men there!" she cried. "I'd drown beforeI'd go back!"

"There, there, dear, " my aunt soothed her. "You ain't going back--you'regoing to work for Auntie Kingsbury. "

That was the way Deolda had. She never gave one any chance for anillusion about her, for there was handsome Johnny Deutra still hanginground the gate watching Deolda, and she already held my aunt's heart inher slender hand. 

My aunt went around muttering, "One-armed Manel's girl!" She appealed tome: "She's got to live somewhere, hasn't she?"

I imagine that my aunt excused herself for deliberately, running intofoul weather by telling herself that Deolda Was her "lot, " something theLord had sent her to take care of. 

"Who was one-armed Manel?" I asked, tagging after my aunt. 

"Oh, he was a queer old one-armed Portygee who lived down along, " saidmy aunt, "clear down along under the sand dunes in a green-painted housewith a garden in front of it with as many colors as Joseph's coat. ThoseCostas lived 'most any way. " Then my aunt added, over her shoulder:"They say the old woman was a gypsy and got married to one-armed Maneljumping over a broomstick. And I wouldn't wonder a mite if 'twas true. She was a queer looking old hag with black, piercing eyes and a proudway of walking. The boys are a wild crew. Why, I remember this girlDeolda, like a little leopard cat with blue-black shadows in her hairand eyes like saucers, selling berries at the back door!"

My uncle Ariel, Aunt Josephine's brother, came in after a while. As hetook a look at Deolda going out of the room, he said:

"P--hew! What's that?"

"I told you I was sick and had to get a girl to help out--what withSusie visiting and all, " said my aunt, very short. 

"Help out? Help out! My lord! _help out!_ What's her name--Beth Sheba?"

Now this wasn't as silly as it sounded. I suppose what Uncle Ariel meantwas that Deolda made him think of Eastern queens and Araby. But myattention was distracted by the appearance of two wild-looking boys witha green-blue sea chest which served Deolda as a trunk. I followed it toher room and started making friends with Deolda, who opened the trunk, and I glimpsed something embroidered in red flowers. 

"Oh, Deolda, let me see. Oh, let me see!" I cried. 

It was a saffron shawl all embroidered with splotchy red flowers as bigas my hand. It made me tingle as it lay there in its crinkly folds, telling of another civilization and other lands than our somber shores. The shawl and its crawling, venomous, alluring flowers marked Deolda offfrom us. She seemed to belong to the shawl and its scarlet insinuations. 

"That was my mother's, " she said. Then she added this astounding thing:"My mother was a great dancer. All Lisbon went wild about her. When shedanced the whole town went crazy. The bullfighters and the princes wouldcome--"

"But how--?" I started, and stopped, for Deolda had dropped beside thechest and pressed her face in the shawl, and I remembered that hermother was dead only a few days ago, and I couldn't ask her how thegreat dancer came to be in Dennisport in the cabin under the dunes. Itiptoed out, my heart thrilled with romance for the gypsy dancer'sdaughter. 

When my aunt was ready for bed there was no Deolda. Later came the soundof footsteps and my aunt's voice in the hall outside my room. 

"That you, Deolda?"

"Yes'm. "

"Where were you all evening?"

"Oh, just out under the lilacs. "

"For pity's sake! Out under the lilacs! What were you doing out there?"

Deolda's voice came clear and tranquil. "Making love with JohnnyDeutra. "

I held my breath. What can you do when a girl tells the truth unabashed. 

"I've known Johnny Deutra ever since he came from the Islands, Deolda, "my aunt said, sternly. "He'll mean it when he falls in love. "

"I know it, " said Deolda, with a little breathless catch in her voice. 

"He's only a kid. He's barely twenty, " my aunt went on, inexorably. "He's got to help his mother. He's not got enough to marry; any girl whomarried him would have to live with the old folks. Look where you'regoing, Deolda. "

There was silence, and I heard their footsteps going to their rooms. 

The next day Deolda went to walk, and back she came, old Conboy drivingher in his motor. Old Conboy was rich; he had one of the first motors onthe Cape, when cars were still a wonder. After that Deolda went off inConboy's motor as soon as her dishes were done and after supper therewould be handsome Johnny Deutra. We were profoundly shocked. You may besure village tongues were already busy after a few days of these goingson. 

"Deolda, " my aunt said, sternly, "what are you going out with that oldConboy for?"

"I'm going to marry him, " Deolda answered. 

"You're _what_?"

"Going to marry him, " Deolda repeated in her cool, truthful way thatalways took my breath. 

"Has he asked you?" my aunt inquired, sarcastically. 

"No, but he will, " said Deolda. She looked out under her long, slantingeyes that looked as if they had little red flames dancing in the depthsof them. 

"But you love Johnny, " my aunt went on. 

She nodded three times with the gesture of a little girl. 

"Do you know what you're headed for, Deolda?" said my aunt. "Do you knowwhat you're doing when you talk about marrying old Conboy and lovingthat handsome, no-account kid, Johnny?"

We were all three sitting on the bulkheads after supper. It was one ofthose soft nights with great lazy yellow clouds with pink edges sailingdown over the rim of the sea, fleet after fleet of them. I was terriblyinterested in it all, but horribly shocked, and from my vantage offifteen years I said. 

"Deolda, I think you ought to marry Johnny. "

"Fiddledeedee!" said my aunt. "If she had sense she wouldn't marryeither one of 'em--one's too old, one's too young. "

"She ought to marry Johnny and make a man of him, " I persisted, for itseemed ridiculous to me to call Johnny Deutra a boy when he was twentyand handsome as a picture in a book. 

My prim words touched some sore place in Deolda. She gave a briefgesture with her hands and pushed the idea from her. 

"I can't, " she said, "I can't do it over again. Oh, I can't--I can't. I'm afraid of emptiness--empty purses, empty bellies. The last words mymother spoke were to me. She said, '_Deolda, fear nothing butemptiness--empty bellies, empty hearts. _' She left me something, too. "

She went into the house and came back with the saffron shawl, its longfringe trailing on the floor, its red flowers venomous and lovely in theevening light. 

"You've seen my mother, " she said, "but you've seen her a poor oldwoman. She had everything in the world once. She gave it up for love. I've seen what love comes to. I've seen my mother with her hands callouswith work and her temper sharp as a razor edge nagging my father, and myfather cursing out us children. She had a whole city in love with herand she gave up everything to run away with my father. He was jealousand wanted her for himself. He got her to marry him. Then he lost hisarm and they were poor and her voice went. I've seen where love goes. IfI married Johnny I'd go and live at Deutra's and I'd have kids, and oldMa Deutra would hate me and scream at me just like my mother used to. Itwould be going back, right back in the trap I've just come out of. "

What she said gave me an entirely new vision of life and love. "Theywere married and lived happy ever afterward" was what I had read inbooks. Now I saw all at once the other side of the medal. It was myfirst contact, too, with a nature strong enough to attempt to subduelife to will. I had seen only the subservient ones who had acceptedlife. 

Deolda was a fierce and passionate reaction against destiny. It's aqueer thing, when you think of it, for a girl to be brought up face toface with the wreck of a tragic passion, to grow up in the house withlove's ashes and to see what were lovers turned into an old hag and acantankerous, one-armed man nagging each other. 

My aunt made one more argument. "What makes you get married to any of'em, Deolda?"

Now Deolda looked at her with a queer look; then she gave a queer laughlike a short bark. 

"I can't stay here forever. I'm not going back to the mill. "

Then my aunt surprised me by throwing her arms around Deolda and kissingher and calling her "my poor lamb, " while Deolda leaned up against myaunt as if she were her own little girl and snuggled up in a way thatwould break your heart. 

One afternoon soon after old Conboy brought Deolda home before tea time, and as she jumped out:

"Oh, all right!" he called after her. "Have your own way; I'll marry youif you want me to!"

She made him pay for this. "You see, " she said to my aunt, "I told you Iwas going to marry him. "

"Well, then come out motoring tonight when you've got your dishes done, "called old Conboy. 

"I'm going to the breakwater with Johnny Deutra tonight, " said Deolda, in that awful truthful way of hers. 

"You see what you get, " said my aunt, "if you marry that girl. "

"I'll get worse not marrying her, " said Conboy. "I may die any minute;I've a high blood pressure, and maybe a stroke will carry me off anyday. But I've never wanted anything in many years as I want to holdDeolda in my arms. "

"Shame on you!" cried my aunt. "An old man like you!"

So things went on. Johnny kept right on coming. My aunt would fume aboutit, but she did nothing. We were all under Deolda's enchantment. As forme, I adored her; she had a look that always disarmed me. She would sitbrooding with a look I had come to know as the "Deolda look. " Tearswould come to her eyes and slide down her face. 

"Deolda, " I would plead, "what are you crying about?"

"Life, " she answered. 

But I knew that she was crying because Johnny Deutra was only a boy. Then she would change into a mood of wild gayety, whip the shawl aroundher, and dance for me, looking a thousand times more beautiful thananyone I had ever seen. And then she would shove me out of the room, leaving me feeling as though I had witnessed some strange rite at oncebeautiful and unholy. 

She'd sit mocking Conboy, but he'd only smile. She'd go off with herother love and my aunt powerless to stop her. As for Johnny Deutra, hewas so in love that all he saw was Deolda. I don't believe he everthought that she was in earnest about old Conboy. 

So things stood when one day Capt. Mark Hammar came driving up withConboy to take Deolda out. Mark was his real name, but Nick was whatthey called him, after the "Old Nick, " for he was a devil if there everwas one, a big, rollicking devil--that is, outwardly. But gossips saidno crueller man ever drove a crew for the third summer into the NorthernSeas. I didn't like the way he looked at Deolda from the first, with hisnarrowed eyes and his smiling mouth. My aunt didn't like the way shesignaled back to him. We watched them go, my aunt saying

"No good'll come of that!" And no good did. 

All three of them came back excited and laughing. Old Conboy, tall asMark Hammar, wide-shouldered, shambling like a bear, but a fine figureof an old fellow for all that; Mark Hammar, heavy and splendid in hissinister fashion; and between them Deolda with her big, red mouth andher sallow skin and her eyes burning as they did when she was excited. 

"I'm saying to Deolda here, " said Captain Hammar, coming up to my aunt, "that I'll make a better runnin' mate than Conboy. " He drew her up tohim. There was something alike about them; the same devil flamed out ofthe eyes of both of them. Their glances met like forked lightning. "I'vegot a lot more money than him, too, " said Hammar, jerking his thumbtoward Conboy. He roused the devil in Deolda. 

"You may have more money, " said she, "but you'll live longer! And I wantto be a rich widow!"

"Stop your joking, " my aunt said, sharply. "It don't sound nice. "

"Joking?" says Captain Hammar, letting his big head lunge forward. "Iain't joking; I'm goin' to marry that girl. "

My aunt said no more while they were there. She sat like a ramrod in herchair. That was one of the worst things about Deolda. We cover ourbodies decently with clothes, and we ought to cover up our thoughtsdecently with words. But Deolda had no shame, and people with herdidn't, either. They'd say just what they were thinking about. 

After they left Deolda came to Aunt Josephine and put her arms aroundher like a good, sweet child. 

"What's the matter, Auntie?" she asked. 

"You--that's what. I can't stand it to hear you go on. "

Deolda looked at her with a sort of wonder. "We were only saying outloud what every girl's thinking about when she marries a man offorty-five, or when she marries a man who's sixty-five. It's atrade--the world's like that. "

"Let me tell you one thing, " said my aunt. "You can't fool with Capt. Mark Hammar. It means that you give up your other sweetheart. "

"That's to be seen, " said Deolda in her dark, sultry way. Then she said, as if she was talking to herself: "Life--with him--would be interesting. He thinks he could crush me like a fly. --He can't, though--" And thenall of a sudden she burst into tears and threw herself in my aunt's lap, sobbing: "Oh, oh! Why's life like this? Why isn't my Johnny grown up?Why--don't he--take me away--from them all?"

After that Captain Hammar kept coming to the house. He showed wellenough he was serious. 

"That black devil's hypnotized her, " my aunt put it. 

Deolda seemed to have some awful kinship to Mark Hammar, and JohnnyDeutra, who never paid much attention to old Conboy, paid attention tohim. Black looks passed between them, and I would catch "Nick" Hammar'seyes resting on Johnny with a smiling venom that struck fear into me. Johnny Deutra seldom came daytimes, but he came in late one afternoonand sat there looking moodily at Deolda, who flung past him with the airshe had when she wore the saffron shawl. I could almost see its longfringes trailing behind her as she stood before him, one hand on hertilted hip, her head on one side. 

It was a queer sort of day, a day with storm in the air, a day when allour nerves got on edge, when the possibility of danger whips the blood. I had an uncomfortable sense of knowing that I ought to leave Deolda andJohnny and that Johnny was waiting for me to go to talk. And yet I wasfascinated, as little girls are; and just as I was about to leave theroom I ran into old Conboy hurrying in, his reddish hair standing onend. 

"Well, Deolda, " said he, "Captain Hammar's gone down the Cape all of asudden. He told me to tell you good-by for him. Deolda, for God's sake, marry me before he comes back! He'll kill you, that's what he'll do. It's not for my sake I'm asking you--it's for your sake!"

She looked at him with her big black eyes. "I believe you mean that, Conboy. I believe I'll do it. But I'll be fair and square with you asyou are with me. You'd better let me be; you know what I'm like. I won'tmake you happy; I never pretended I would. And as for him killing me, how do you know, Conboy, I mightn't lose my temper first?"

"He'll break you, " said Conboy. "God! but he's a man without pity! Don'tyou know how he drives his men? Don't you know the stories about hisfirst wife? He's put some of his magic on you. You're nothing but a poorlittle lamb, Deolda, playing with a wolf, for all your spirit. There'snothing he'd stop at. Nothing, " he repeated, staring at Johnny. "Iwouldn't give a cent for that Johnny Deutra's life until I'm married toyou, Deolda. I've seen the way Mark Hammar looks at him--you have, too. I tell you, Mark Hammar don't value the life of any man who stands inhis way!" And the way the old man spoke lifted the hair on my head. 

Then all of us were quiet, for there stood Captain Hammar himself. 

"Why, Mark, I thought you'd gone down the Cape!" said Conboy. 

"I lost the train, " he answered. 

"Well, what about that vessel you was going to buy in Gloucester?"

"I got to sail over, " said Captain Hammar. 

Conboy glanced out of the window. The bay was ringed around with heavyclouds; weather was making. Storm signals were flying up on Town Hill, and down the harbor a fleet of scared vessels were making for port. 

"You can't go out in that, Mark, " says Conboy. 

"I've got the money, " says Mark Hammar, "and I'm going to go. If I don'tget down there that crazy Portygee'll have sold that vessel to some oneelse. It ain't every day you can buy a vessel like that for the price. He let me know about it first, but he won't wait long, and he's got tohave the cash in his hands. He's up to some crooked work or he wouldn't'a' sent the boy down with the letter; he'd 'a' sent it by post, ortelegraphed even. He's let me know about it first, but he won't wait. Itwas getting the money strapped up that made me late. I had to wait forthe old cashier to get back from his dinner. "

"You and your money'll be in the bottom of the bay, that's where you'llbe, " said Conboy. 

"If I'd taken in sail for every little bit o' wind I'd encountered in mylife, " said Mark Hammar, "I'd not be where I am now. So I just thoughtI'd come and run in on Deolda before I left, seeing as I'm going tomarry her when I get back. "

Johnny Deutra undid his long length from the chair. He was a tall, heavyboy, making up in looks for what he lacked in head. He came and stoodover Mark Hammar. He said:

"I've had enough of this. I've had just enough of you two hanging aroundDeolda. She's my woman--I'm going to marry Deolda myself. Nobody else isgoing to touch her; so just as soon as you two want to clear out youcan. "

There was silence so that you could hear a pin drop. And then the windthat had been making hit the house like the blow of a fist and wentscreaming down the road. Deolda didn't see or hear; she was just lookingat Johnny. He went to her. 

"Don't you listen to 'em, Deolda. I'll make money for you; I'll makemore than any of 'em. It's right you should want it. Tell 'em thatyou're going to marry me, Deolda. Clear 'em out. "

That was where he made his mistake. _He_ should have cleared them out. Now Captain Hammar spoke:

"You're quite a little man, ain't you, Johnny? Here's where you got achance to prove it. You can make a hundred dollars tonight by taking the_Anita_ across to Gloucester with me. We'll start right off. "

Everyone was quiet. Then old Conboy cried out:

"Don't go, Mark. Don't go! Why, it's _murder_ to tempt that boy outthere. "

At the word "murder" Deolda drew her breath in and clapped her hand overher mouth, her eyes staring at Johnny Deutra. "Nick" Hammar pretended hehadn't noticed. He sat smiling at Johnny. 

"We-ll, " he drawled. "How about it, Johnny? Goin'?"

Johnny had been studying, his eyes on the floor. 

"I'll go with you, " he said. 

Then again for a half minute nobody spoke. Captain Hammar glared, letting us see what was in his dark mind. Old Conboy shrunk into himselfand Deolda sat with her wild eyes going from one to the other, but notmoving. We were all thinking of what old Conboy had said just beforeCaptain Hammar had flung open the door. A sudden impulse seized me; Iwanted to cry out: "Don't go, Johnny. He'll shove you overboard. " For Iknew that was what was in "Nick" Hammar's mind as well as if he had toldme. A terrible excitement went through me. I wanted to fling myself at"Nick" Hammar and beat him with my fists and say, "He sha'n't go--hesha'n't, he sha'n't!" But I sat there unable to move or speak. Thensuddenly into the frozen silence came the voice of "Nick" Hammar. Thisis what he said in his easy and tranquil way:

"Well, I'm goin' along. Are you coming, Conboy?" He spoke as thoughnothing had happened. "I'll meet you down at the wharf, Johnny, in ahalf hour. I'll leave you to say good-by to Deolda. " They went out, thewind blowing the door shut behind them. 

Deolda got up and so did Johnny. They stood facing each other in thequeer yellow light of the coming storm. They didn't notice my aunt orme. 

"_You going?_" asked Deolda. 

They looked into each other's eyes, and he answered so I could barelyhear:

"Sure. "

"_You know what he's thinking about?_" said Deolda. 

Again Johnny waited before he answered in a voice hardly above awhisper:

"I can guess. "

Deolda went up slowly to him and put one of her long hands on each ofhis shoulders. She looked deep into his eyes. She didn't speak; she justlooked. And he looked back, as though trying to find out what she had inher heart, and as he looked a little flicker of horror went over hisface. Then he smiled a slow smile, as though he had understood somethingand consented to it--and it was a queer smile to see on the face of ayoung fellow. It was as if the youth of Johnny Deutra had passed awayforever. Then Deolda said to him:

"Good for you, Johnny Deutra!" and put out her hand, and he laid his inhers and they shook on it, though no word had passed between them. Andall this time my aunt and I sat motionless on the haircloth sofa next tothe wall. And I tell you as I watched them my blood ran cold, though Ididn't understand what it was about. But later I understood well enough. 

There never was so long an evening. The squall blew over and a heavyblow set in. I could hear the pounding of the waves on the outsideshore. Deolda sat outside the circle of the lamp in a horrible tensequiet. My aunt tried to make talk, and made a failure of it. It wasawful to hear the clatter of her voice trying to sound natural in theface of the whistle of the storm, and out wallowing in it the gasolinedory with its freight of hatred. I hated to go to bed, for my room gaveon the sea, and it seemed as if the night and the tragedy which I hadglimpsed would come peering in at me with ghastly eyes. 

I had just got under the blanket when the door opened quietly. 

"Who is that?" I asked. 

"It's me--Deolda. "

She went to the window and peered out into the storm, as though she weretrying to penetrate its mystery. I couldn't bear her standing there; itwas as if I could hear her heart bleed. It was as if for a while I hadbecome fused with her and her love for Johnny Deutra and with all thedark things that had happened in our house this afternoon. I got out ofbed and went to her and put my hand in hers. If she'd only cried, or ifshe'd only spoken I could have stood it; if she'd said in words what wasgoing on inside her mind. But she sat there with her hand cold in mine, staring into the storm through all the long hours of the night. 

Toward the end I was so tired that my mind went to sleep in that wayyour mind can when your body stays awake and everything seems far offand like things happening in a nightmare except that you know they'rereal. At last daylight broke, very pale, threatening, and slate colored. Deolda got up and began padding up and down the floor, back and forth, like a soul in torment. 

About ten o'clock old Conboy came in. 

"I got the license, Deolda, " he said. 

"All right, " said Deolda, "all right--go away. " And she kept on paddingup and down the room like a leopard in a cage. 

Conboy beckoned my aunt out into the entry. I followed. 

"What ails her?" he asked. 

"I guess she thinks she sent Johnny Deutra to his grave, " said my aunt. 

Conboy peered in the door at Deolda. Her face looked like a yellow maskof death with her black hair hanging around her. 

"God!" he said, in a whisper. "_She cares!_" I don't believe it haddawned on him before that she was anything but a wild devil. 

All that day the _Anita_ wasn't heard from. That night I was tired outand went to bed. But I couldn't sleep; Deolda sat staring out into thedark as she had the night before. 

Next morning I was standing outside the house when one of Deolda'sbrothers came tearing along. It was Joe, the youngest of one-armedManel's brood, a boy of sixteen who worked in the fish factory. 

"Deolda!" he yelled. "Deolda, Johnny's all right!"

She caught him by the wrist. "Tell me what's happened!"

"The other feller--he's lost. "

"_Lost?_" said Deolda, her breath drawn in sharply. "Lost--how?"

"Washed overboard, " said Joe. "See--looka here. When Johnny got ashorethis is what he says. " He read aloud from the newspaper he had brought, a word at a time, like a grammar-school kid:

"With a lame propeller and driven out of her course, the _Anita_ madePlymouth this morning without her Captain, Mark Hammar. John Deutra, whobrought her in, made the following statement:

"'I was lying in my bunk unable to sleep, for we were being combed bywaves again and again. Suddenly I noticed we were wallowing in thetrough of the sea, and went on deck to see what was wrong. I groped myway to the wheel. It swung empty. Captain Hammar was gone, washedoverboard in the storm. How I made port myself I don't know--'"

Here his reading was interrupted by an awful noise--Deolda laughing, Deolda laughing and sobbing, her hands above her head, a wild thing, terrible. 

"Go on, " my aunt told the boy. "Go home!" And she and Deolda went intothe house, her laughter filling it with awful sound. 

After a time she quieted down. She stood staring out of the window, hands clenched. 

"Well?" she said, defiantly. "Well?" She looked at us, and what was inher eyes made chills go down me. Triumph was what was in her eyes. Thensuddenly she flung her arms around my aunt and kissed her. "Oh, " shecried, "kiss me, Auntie, kiss me! He's not dead, my Johnny--not dead!"

"Go up to your room, Deolda, " said my aunt, "and rest. " She patted hershoulder just as though she were a little girl, for all the thoughtsthat were crawling around our hearts. 

When later in the day Conboy came, "Where's Deolda?" he asked. 

"I'll call her, " I said. But Deolda wasn't anywhere; not a sign of her. She'd vanished. Conboy and Aunt Josephine looked at each other. 

"She's gone to him, " said Conboy. 

My aunt leaned toward him and whispered, "_What do you think?_"

"Hush!" said Conboy, sternly. "_Don't think_, Josephine! _Don't speak. Don't even dream!_ Don't let your mind stray. You know that crewcouldn't have made port in fair weather together. The strongest manwon--that's all!"

"Then you believe--" my aunt began. 

"Hush!" he said, and put his hand over her mouth. Then he laughedsuddenly and slapped his thigh. "God!" he said. "Deolda--Can you beather? She's got luck--by gorry, she's got luck! You got a pen and ink?"

"What for?" said my aunt. 

"I want to write out a weddin' present for Deolda, " he said. "Wouldn'tdo to have her without a penny. "

So he wrote out a check for her. And then in two months old Conboy diedand left every other cent to Deolda. You might have imagined himsardonic and grinning over it, looking across at Deolda's luck from theother side of the grave. 

But what had happened wasn't luck. I knew that she had sent her Johnnyout informed with her own terrible courage. A weaker woman could havekept him back. A weaker woman would have had remorse. But Deolda had thecourage to hold what she had taken, and maybe this courage of hers isthe very heart of romance. 

I looked at her, stately, monumental, and I wondered if she ever thinksof that night when the wallow of the sea claimed Mark Hammar instead ofJohnny Deutra. But there's one thing I'm sure of, and that is, if shedoes think of it the old look of triumph comes over her face. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: The order in which the stories in this volume are printedis not intended as an indication of their comparative excellence; thearrangement is alphabetical by authors. ]

[Footnote 2: Copyright, 1921, by George H. Doran Company. Copyright, 1921, by B. W. Huebsch. From "The Triumph of the Egg and other Stories. "]

[Footnote 3: Copyright, 1921, by The Dial Publishing Company, Inc. Copyright, 1921, by Boni and Liveright, Inc. From "Ghitza, and Other Tales of Gypsy Blood. "]

[Footnote 4: Copyright, 1921, by The Pictorial Review Company. Copyright, 1921, by Charles Scribner's Sons. From "ChanceEncounters. "]

[Footnote 5: Copyright, 1921, by The Curtis Publishing Company. Copyright, 1921, by Irvin S. Cobb. From a forthcoming volumeto be published by George H. Doran Co. ]

[Footnote 6: Copyright, 1921, by The Crowell Publishing Company. Copyright, 1922, by Lincoln Colcord. ]

[Footnote 7: Copyright, 1920, by Charles J. Finger. ]

[Footnote 8: Copyright, 1920, by The Dial Publishing Company, Inc. Copyright, 1922, by Waldo Frank. ]

[Footnote 9: Copyright, 1920, by Charles Scribner's Sons. Copyright, 1922, by Katharine Fullerton Gerould. ]

[Footnote 10: Copyright, 1920, by the International Magazine Co. Copyright, 1922, by Doubleday, Page & Co. ]

[Footnote 11: Copyright, 1921, by The Pictorial Review Company, Inc. Copyright, 1922, by Susan Glaspell Cook. ]

[Footnote 12: Copyright, 1921, by Harper & Brothers. Copyright, 1922, by Richard Matthews Hallet. ]

[Footnote 13: Copyright, 1921, by Charles Scribner's Sons. Copyright, 1922, by Prances Noyes Hart. ]

[Footnote 14: Copyright, 1921, by The International Magazine Company. Copyright, 1922, by Fannie Hurst. ]

[Footnote 15: Copyright, 1921, by The Dial Publishing Company, Inc. Copyright, 1922, by Manuel Komroff. ]

[Footnote 16: Copyright, 1920, by John T. Frederick. Copyright, 1922, by Frank Luther Mott. ]

[Footnote 17: Copyright, 1921, by Smart Set Company, Inc. Copyright, 1922, by Vincent O'Sullivan. ]

[Footnote 18: Copyright, 1920, by Harper & Brothers. Copyright, 1922, by Wilbur Daniel Steele. ]

[Footnote 19: Copyright, 1921, by John T. Frederick. Copyright, 1922, by Harriet Maxon Thayer. ]

[Footnote 20: Copyright, 1920, by Smart Set Company, Inc. Copyright, 1922, by Charles Hanson Towne. ]

[Footnote 21: Copyright, 1921, by Harper & Brothers. Copyright, 1922, by Mary Heaton Minor. ]

THE YEARBOOK OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY, OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921

ADDRESSES OF MAGAZINES PUBLISHING SHORT STORIES

I. AMERICAN MAGAZINES

NOTE. _This address list does not aim to be complete, but isbased simply on the magazines which I have consulted for this volume. _

 Adventure, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City. Ainslee's Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. All's Well, Gayeta Lodge, Fayetteville, Arkansas. American Boy, 142 Lafayette Boulevard, Detroit, Michigan. American Magazine, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City. Argosy All-Story Weekly, 280 Broadway, New York City. Asia, 627 Lexington Avenue, New York City. Atlantic Monthly, 8 Arlington Street, Boston, Mass. Bookman, 244 Madison Avenue, New York City. Brief Stories, 714 Drexel Building, Philadelphia, Pa. Broom, 3 East 9th Street, New York City. Catholic World, 120 West 60th Street, New York City. Century, 353 Fourth Avenue, New York City. Chicago Tribune, Chicago, Illinois. Christian Herald, Bible House, New York City. Collier's Weekly, 416 West 13th Street, New York City. Cosmopolitan Magazine, 119 West 40th Street, New York City. Delineator, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City. Dial, 152 West 13th Street, New York City. Everybody's Magazine, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City. Follies, 25 West 45th Street, New York City. Good Housekeeping, 119 West 40th Street, New York City. Harper's Bazar, 119 West 40th Street, New York City. Harper's Magazine, Franklin Square, New York City. Hearst's International Magazine, 119 West 40th Street, New York City. Holland's Magazine, Dallas, Texas. Ladies' Home Journal, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa. Liberator, 34 Union Square East, New York City. Little Review, 24 West 16th Street, New York City. Live Stories, 35 West 39th Street, New York City. McCall's Magazine, 236 West 37th Street, New York City. McClure's Magazine, 76 Fifth Avenue, New York City. Magnificat, Manchester, N. H. Metropolitan, 432 Fourth Avenue, New York City. Midland, Box 110, Iowa City, Iowa. Munsey's Magazine, 280 Broadway, New York City. Open Road, 248 Boylston Street, Boston, Mass. Outlook, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City. Pagan, 23 West 8th Street, New York City. People's Favorite Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. Pictorial Review, 216 West 39th Street, New York City. Popular Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. Queen's Work, 626 North Vandeventer Avenue, St. Louis, Mo. Red Book Magazine, North American Building, Chicago, Ill. Saturday Evening Post, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa. Scribner's Magazine, 597 Fifth Avenue, New York City. Short Stories, Garden City, Long Island, N. Y. Smart Set, 25 West 45th Street, New York City. Snappy Stories, 35 West 39th Street, New York City. Sunset, 460 Fourth Street, San Francisco, Cal. Telling Tales, 799 Broadway, New York City. To-day's Housewife, Cooperstown, N. Y. Top-Notch Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. Wayside Tales, 6 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Ill. Western Story Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. Woman's Home Companion, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City. Woman's World, 107 South Clinton Street, Chicago, Ill. 

II. ENGLISH MAGAZINES

 Apple of Discord, 53, Victoria Street, London, S. W. 1. Blackwood's Magazine, 37, Paternoster Row, London, E. C. 4. Blue Magazine, 115, Fleet Street, London, E. C. 4. Bystander, Graphic Buildings, Whitefriars, London, E. C. 4. Cassell's Magazine, La Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, London, E. C. 4. Chamber's Journal, 38, Soho Square, London, W. C. 1. Colour Magazine, 53, Victoria Street, London, S. W. 1. Cornhill Magazine, 50A Albemarle Street, London, W. 1. Country Life, 20, Tavistock Street, Strand, London, W. C. 2. English Review, 18, Bedford Square, London, W. C. 1. Eve, Great New Street. London, E. C. 4. Fanfare, 31, Percy Street, London, W. 1. Form, Morland Press, Ltd. , 190, Ebury Street, London, S. W. 1. Grand Magazine, 8-11, Southampton Street, Strand, London, W. C. 2. Graphic, Graphic Buildings, Whitefriars, London, E. C. 4. Home Magazine, 8-11 Southampton Street, Strand, London, W. C. 2. Hutchinson's Magazine, 34 Paternoster Row, London, E. C. 4. John O'London's Weekly, 8-11 Southampton Street, London, W. C. 2. Lady, 39 Bedford Street, Strand, London, W. C. 2. Lady's World, 6, Essex Street, Strand, London, W. C. 2. Lloyd's Story Magazine, 12, Salisbury Square, London, E. C. 4. London, Fleetway House, Farringdon Street, London, E. C. 4. London Mercury, Windsor House, Bream's Buildings, London, E. C. 4. Looking Forward, Windsor House, Bream's Buildings, London, E. C. 4. Manchester Guardian, 3, Cross Street, Manchester. Nash's and Pall Mall Magazine, 1, Amen Corner, Paternoster Row, London. E. C. 4. Nation and Athenæum, 10, Adelphi Terrace, London, W. C. 2. New Age, 38, Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, London, E. C. 4. New Magazine, La Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, London, E. C. 4. New Statesman, 10, Great Queen Street, Kingsway, London, W. C. 2. Novel Magazine, Henrietta Street, London, W. C. 2. Outward Bound, Edinburgh House, 2, Eaton Gate, London, S. W. 1. Pan, Long Acre, London, W. C. 2. Pearson's Magazine, 17-18 Henrietta Street, London, W. C. 2. Premier, The Fleetway House, Farringdon Street, London, E. C. 4. Queen, Bream's Buildings, London, E. C. 4. Quest, 21, Cecil Court, Charing Cross Road, London, W. C. 2. Quiver, La Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, London, E. C. 4. Red Magazine, The Fleetway House, Farringdon Street, London, E. C. 4. Royal Magazine, 17-18 Henrietta Street, London, W. C. 2. Saturday Westminster Gazette, Tudor House, Tudor Street, London, E. C. 4. Sketch, 172, Strand, London, W. C. 2. Sovereign Magazine, 34, Paternoster Row, London, E. C. 4. Sphere, Great New Street, London, E. C. 4. Story-Teller, La Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill, London, E. C. 4. Strand Magazine, 8-11, Southampton Street, Strand, London, W. C. 2. Times Literary Supplement, Printing House Square, London, E. C. 4. Truth, Bolt Court, Fleet Street, London, E. C. 4. Vanity Fair, 1, Amen Corner, Paternoster Row, London, E. C. 4. Vineyard, Care of Allen & Unwin, Ltd. , Ruskin House, 40, Museum Street, London, W. C. 1. Voices, Care of Chapman & Hall, Ltd. , 11, Henrietta Street, London, W. C. 2. Wide World Magazine, 8-11, Southampton Street, Strand, London, W. C. 2. Windsor Magazine, Warwick House, Salisbury Square, London, E. C. 4. Yellow Magazine, The Fleetway House, Farringdon Street, London, E. C. 4. 

THE BIBLIOGRAPHICAL ROLL OF HONOR OF AMERICAN SHORT STORIES

OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921

NOTE. _Only stories by American authors are listed. The beststories are indicated by an asterisk before the title of the story. Theindex figures 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7 prefixed to the name of the authorindicate that his work has been included in the Rolls of Honor for 1914, 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, and 1920 respectively. The list excludesreprints. "Oscar" by Djuna Barnes should be added to the Roll of Honorin "The Best Short Stories of 1920. "_

(567) ABDULLAH, ACHMED (_for biography, see 1918_). 

 Dutiful Grief. Lute of Jade. 

ALLEN, JAMES LANE. Born in Lexington, Kentucky, 1849. Educatedat Transylvania University. Taught in the secondary schools and atKentucky University and Bethany College. Author of "Flute and Violin, "1891; "Blue Grass Region, " 1892; "John Gray, " 1893; "Kentucky Cardinal, "1895; "Aftermath, " 1896; "Summer in Arcady, " 1896; "Choir Invisible, "1897; "Reign of Law"; "Mettle of the Pasture;" "Bride of the Mistletoe, "1909; "Doctor's Christmas Eve, " 1910; "Heroine in Bronze, " 1912; "LastChristmas Tree, " 1914; "Sword of Youth, " 1915; "Cathedral Singer, " 1916;"Kentucky Warbler, " 1918. Lives in New York City. 

 *Ash-Can. 

(34567) ANDERSON, SHERWOOD (_for biography, see 1917_). 

 *Brothers. *New Englander. *Unlighted Lamps. 

(7) BERCOVICI, KONRAD (_for biography, see 1920_). 

 *Fanutza. 

(14567) BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS (_for biography, see 1917_). 

 Buchanan Hears the Wind. *Experiment. 

(567) CABELL, JAMES BRANCH (_for biography, see 1918_). 

 *Image of Sesphra. 

(23) CHILD, RICHARD WASHBURN. Born at Worcester, Massachusetts, August 5, 1881. Graduate of Harvard University and Harvard Law School. Admitted to the Bar in 1906. Appointed United States Ambassador toItaly, 1921. Author of "Jim Hands, " 1910; "Man In The Shadow, " 1911;"Blue Wall" 1912; "Potential Russia, " 1916; "Bodbank, " 1916; "VelvetBlack, " 1921. Lives in Rome, Italy. 

 Screen. 

(2345) COBB, IRVIN S. (_for biography, see 1917_). 

 *Darkness. Short Natural History. 

(2) COLCORD, LINCOLN. Born at sea, off Cape Horn, August 14, 1883. Educated at Searsport, Maine, High School and University of Maine. Spent first fourteen years of his life at sea on the China coast. CivilEngineer 1906-9. Author of "The Drifting Diamond, " 1912; "Game of Lifeand Death, " 1914; "Vision of War, " 1915. Washington correspondent ofPhiladelphia Ledger, 1917 to 1919. Lives at Searsport, Maine. 

 *Instrument of the Gods. 

(456) CRABBE, BERTHA HELEN (_for biography, see 1917_). 

 On Riverside Drive. 

(7) FINGER, CHARLES J. (_for biography, see 1920_). 

 Derailment of Train No. 16. *Lizard God. 

(4) FRANK, WALDO (_for biography, see 1917_). 

 *Under the Dome. 

(123457) GEROULD, KATHARINE FULLERTON (_for biography, see1917_). 

 *French Eva. 

(4) GLASGOW, ELLEN (_for biography, see 1917_). 

 *Past. 

(456) GLASPELL, SUSAN (MRS. GEORGE CRAM COOK) (_forbiography, see 1917_). 

 *His Smile. 

(346) HALLET, RICHARD MATTHEWS (_for biography, see 1917_). 

 *Harbor Master. 

HART, FRANCES NOYES. Born at Silver Spring, Maryland, August10, 1890. Educated at Chicago Latin School, privately in Connecticut andabroad, and at the Sorbonne in the Collège de France. Interested inanything from baseball to Bach. First short story, "Contact, " publishedin the Pictorial Review, December, 1920, and awarded second prize by O. Henry Memorial Committee Society of Arts and Sciences. Published "Mark"1913, and "My A. E. F. , " 1920, under name of Frances Newbold Noyes. Livesin New York City. 

 *Green Gardens. 

(256) HECHT, BEN (_for biography, see 1918_). 

 Bomb-Thrower. 

(23456) HURST, FANNIE (_for biography, see 1917_). 

 *She Walks in Beauty. 

(6) IMRIE, WALTER MCLAREN (_for biography, see 1919_). 

 Remembrance. 

(7) KOMROFF, MANUEL. Born in New York City. Educated in NewYork public schools, and special courses at Yale University. Journalist. First short story published in Reedy's Mirror two years ago. Lives inNew York City. 

 *Little Master of the Sky. 

MOTT, FRANK LUTHER. 

 *Man With the Good Face. 

(457) O'HIGGINS, HARVEY J. (_for biography, see 1917_). 

 *Peter Quayle. 

(3457) O'SULLIVAN, VINCENT (_for biography, see 1917_). 

 *Master of Fallen Years. 

(4) PORTOR, LAURA SPENCER. 

 Sightseers. 

(1237) POST, MELVILLE DAVISSON (_for biography, see 1920_). 

 Unknown Disciple. 

(5) Rhodes, Harrison (Garfield) (_for biography, see 1918_). 

 Miss Sunshine. 

ROBBINS, TOD. Born in Brooklyn, N. Y. , June 25, 1888. Educatedat Polytechnic Preparatory School, Mercersburg Academy, and Washingtonand Lee University. Well-known amateur athlete. First short story"Married, " published in The Parisienne, February, 1917. Author of "TheUnholy Three, " 1917; "Red of Surley, " 1919; "Silent, White andBeautiful, " 1920. Lives in New York City. 

 Toys of Fate. 

SCOBEE, BARRY. Born at Pollock, Missouri, May 2, 1885. Educatedat Missouri State Normal School. Journalist and printer. Chief interestsmetaphysics and mountains. Was in regular army 1907-10, includingPhilippine campaign. First story "The Whip In the Thatch, " Young'sMagazine, March. 1915. Lives in Bellingham, Washington. 

 *The Wind. 

(3457) SPRINGER, FLETA CAMPBELL (_for biography, see 1917_). 

 *Role of Madame Ravelles. 

(234567) STEELE, WILBUR DANIEL (_for biography, see 1917_). 

 *At-Two-in-the-Bush. *Footfalls. *Life. *Shame Dance. 'Toinette of Maisonnoir. 

THAYER, HARRIET MAXON (MRS. GILBERT THAYER). Born atWauwatosa, Wisconsin, 1889. Attended University of Wisconsin and Schoolof Journalism, Columbia University. Fairy tales in Philadelphia NorthAmerican and in the Guide, Milwaukee, 1921. Married Gilbert Thayer, September 5, 1921. Served in France with American Red Cross Canteen, 1918 and 1919. 

 *Kindred. 

TOWNE, CHARLES HANSON. Born in Louisville, Kentucky, February2, 1877. Educated in New York public schools and College of the City ofNew York. Author of "Quiet Singer"; "Manhattan"; "Youth"; "Beyond theStars"; "To-day and To-morrow"; "The Tumble Man"; and "AutumnLoiterers. " Has been editor of The Designer, Smart Set, and McClure'sMagazine. Lives in New York City. 

 *Shelby. 

(56) VENABLE, EDWARD C. Born at Petersburg, Virginia, July 4, 1884. Graduate of Princeton University, 1906. Served in France in FieldAmbulance Service and Flying Corps, 1917-19. Author of "Pierre Vinton, "1914; "Short Stories, " 1915; "Wife of the Junior Partner, " 1915;"Lasca, " 1916; "Ali Babette, " 1917; and "At Isham's, " 1918. Lives inBaltimore, Maryland. 

 *Madame Tichepin. 

(34567) VORSE, MARY HEATON (_for biography, see 1917_). 

 *Wallow of the Sea. 

(567) WILLIAMS, BEN AMES (_for biography, see 1918_). 

 *Man Who Looked Like Edison. 

(6) WORMSER, G. RANGER. Born in New York City, February 24, 1893. Educated privately. First short story "Tragedy's Fool, " publishedin English edition of the Smart Set, 1910. Author of "The Scarecrow, "1918. Lives in New York City. 

 Gossamer. Second-Hand. 

(67) YEZIERSKA, ANZIA (_for biography, see 1919_). 

 My Own People. 

THE ROLL OF HONOR OF FOREIGN SHORT STORIES IN AMERICAN MAGAZINES

OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921

NOTE. _Stories of special excellence are indicated, by anasterisk. The index figures 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7 prefixed to the nameof the author indicate that his work has been included in the Rolls ofHonor for 1914, 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, and 1920 respectively. Thelist excludes reprints. _

I. ENGLISH AND IRISH AUTHORS

(1234567) AUMONIER, STACY. 

 Beautiful Merciless One. *Little White Frock. 

(7) BECK, L. ADAMS. 

 *How Great is the Glory of Kwannon! *Interpreter. 

(6) BEERBOHM, MAX. 

 *T. Fenning Dodworth. *William and Mary. 

(34) BERESFORD, J. D. 

 *Expiation. 

(123567) BLACKWOOD, ALGERNON. 

 Confession. 

COPPARD, A. E. 

 *Hurly-Burly. *Tiger. 

(123456) GALSWORTHY, JOHN. 

 *Awakening. *Timber. *Hedonist. 

(2) GIBBON, PERCEVAL. 

 Statistics. 

HUDSON, STEPHEN. 

 Southern Women. 

HUXLEY, ALDOUS. 

 *Tillotson Banquet. 

MCFEE, WILLIAM. 

 Knights and Turcopoliers. 

ROBERTS, CECIL. 

 Silver Pool. 

(7) SINCLAIR, MAY. 

 *Lena Wrace. *Return. 

(57) STEPHENS, JAMES. 

 *In the Beechwood. 

(27) WALPOLE, HUGH. 

 *Bombastes Furioso. *Critic. *Strange Case of Mr. Nix. *Lucy Moon. *Lizzie Rand. *Nobody! *Peter Westcott's Nursery. 

II. TRANSLATIONS

(35) "GORKI, MAXIM. " (_Russian. _)

 *Rivals. 

MANN, THOMAS. (_German. _)

 *Loulou. 

REMIZOV, ALEKSEI. (_Russian. _)

 *White Heart. 

(7) SCHNITZLER, ARTHUR. (_German. _)

 *Greek Dancer. 

SWEDEN, PRINCE CARL WILHELM LUDWIG OF. (_Swedish. _)

 Pearls. 

THE BEST BOOKS OF SHORT STORIES OF 1921: A CRITICAL SUMMARY

THE BEST AMERICAN BOOKS

 1. ANDERSON. The Triumph of the Egg. Huebsch. 2. BERCOVICI. GHITZA. Boni and Liveright. 3. BURT. Chance Encounters. Scribner. 4. CABELL. The Line of Love. McBride. 5. SOCIETY OF ARTS AND SCIENCES. O. Henry Prize Stories, 1920. Doubleday, Page. 

THE BEST ENGLISH BOOKS

 1. AUMONIER. Golden Windmill. Macmillan. 2. CHOLMONDELEY. The Romance of His Life. Dodd, Mead. 3. COPPARD. Adam and Eve and Pinch Me. Knopf. 4. HUDSON. Dead Man's Plack. Dutton. 5. MANSFIELD. Bliss. Knopf. 6. MERRICK. A Chair on the Boulevard. Dutton. 7. NEVINSON. Original Sinners. Huebsch. 8. STEPHENS. Irish Fairy Tales. Macmillan. 9. WALPOLE. The Thirteen Travellers. Doran. 

THE BEST TRANSLATIONS

 1. BYNG, _editor_. Roumanian Stories. Lane. 2. CHEKHOV. The Horse-Stealers. Macmillan. 3. CHEKHOV. The Schoolmaster. Macmillan. 4. CHEKHOV. The Schoolmistress. Macmillan. 5. FRANCE. Seven Wives of Bluebeard. Lane. 6. HAMP. People. Harcourt and Brace. 7. JACOBSEN. Mögens. Brown. 8. JAMMES. Romance of the Rabbit. Brown. 9. POPOVIC, _editor_. Jugo-Slav Stories. Duffield. 10. SCHNITZLER. The Shepherd's Pipe. Brown. 11. TURGENEV. Knock, Knock, Knock. Macmillan. 12. TURGENEV. The Two Friends. Macmillan. 

THE BEST NEW ENGLISH PUBLICATIONS

 1. BERESFORD. Signs and Wonders. Golden Cockerel Press. 2. CORKERY. Hounds of Banba. Talbot Press. 3. FISHER. Romantic Man. Secker. 4. LYONS. MARKET BUNDLE. Butterworth. 5. MCCALLIN. Ulster Fireside Tales. Heath Cranton. 6. MACKLIN, _translator_. 29 Short Stories. Philpot. 7. MOORMAN. Tales of the Ridings. Mathews. 8. MOORMAN. More Tales of the Ridings. Mathews. 9. STEIN. Three Lives. Lane. 10. WOOLF. Monday or Tuesday. Hogarth Press. 

BELOW FOLLOWS A RECORD OF THIRTY DISTINCTIVE VOLUMES PUBLISHED BETWEENOCTOBER 1, 1920 AND SEPTEMBER 30, 1921. 

I. AMERICAN AUTHORS

GHITZA AND OTHER ROMANCES OF GYPSY BLOOD, by _Konrad Bercovici_(Boni & Liveright). This is the best volume of short stories publishedby an American author this year. It consists of nine epic fragmentswhich are studies in passionate color of Roumanian gypsy life. Mr. Bercovici's work bears no trace of special literary influences, and hehas moulded a new form for these stories which disobeys successfully allthe codes of story writing. Whether we are to regard him as an Americanor a European artist seems of little importance. The essential point isthat he and Sherwood Anderson are the most significant new short storywriters who have emerged in America within the past five years. 

HOMESPUN AND GOLD, by _Alice Brown_ (The Macmillan Company). Miss Brown's new collection of fifteen short stories, which she haswritten during the past thirteen years, is not one of her best books, but it is of considerable importance as one more contribution to theliterature of New England regionalism. Its qualities of homely fidelityand quiet humor make it distinctly worth reading, and one story, "WhitePebbles" ranks with Miss Brown's best work. 

THE VELVET BLACK, by _Richard Washburn Child_ (E. P. Dutton &Company). I do not regard this as more than a piece of extremelycompetent craftsmanship, and its interest to the man of letters islargely technical, but it contains one excellent story full of dramaticsuspense and a certain literary honesty. I think "Identified" might becommended to a short story anthologist. 

THE SONS O' CORMAC, AN' TALES OF OTHER MEN'S SONS, by _AldisDunbar_ (E. P. Dutton & Company). This collection of fifteen Irish fairyand hero tales, told by a gardener to a little boy, show considerabledeftness of fancy, and although the idiom Mr. Dunbar uses is borrowedand not quite convincing, his book seems to me almost as good as thoseof Seumas MacManus, which probably suggested it. 

GREAT SEA STORIES (Brentano's) and MASTERPIECES OF MYSTERY (4 vols. )(Doubleday, Page & Co. ), edited by _Joseph Lewis French_. Theseanthologies, which are somewhat casually edited, are worthy ofpurchase by students of the short story who do not possess manyanthologies, for they contain a number of standard texts. But I donot think highly of the selections, which are of a thoroughlyconventional nature. 

"MOMMA, " AND OTHER UNIMPORTANT PEOPLE, by _Rupert Hughes_(Harper & Brothers). This is an unimportant book containing one superbstory, "The Stick-In-the-Muds, " which I had the pleasure of printinglast year in this series. It is one of the stories which Mr. Hughes haswritten for his own pleasure and not for the preconceived pleasure ofhis large and critical public. I consider that it ranks with theexcellent series of Irish-American studies which Mr. Hughes published afew years ago. 

MASTER EUSTACE, by _Henry James_ (Thomas Seltzer). This volume, which is a companion to "A Landscape Painter, " reprints five more earlystories of Henry James, not included in any American edition now inprint. They have all the qualities of "Roderick Hudson" and "TheAmerican, " and should be invaluable to the students of Henry James'stechnique. It would have been a matter of regret had these stories notbeen rendered accessible to the general public. 

FAMOUS DETECTIVE STORIES and FAMOUS PSYCHIC STORIES, edited by _J. Walker McSpadden_ (Thomas Y. Crowell Company). These twoanthologies have been edited on more or less conventional lines, butthey contain several important stories which are not readily accessible, and I can commend them as texts for students of the short story. 

TALES FROM A ROLLTOP DESK by _Christopher Morley_ (Doubleday, Page & Company). I record this volume for the sake of one admirablestory, "Referred to the Author, " which almost any contemporary of Mr. Morley would have been glad to sign. Apart from this, the volume isephemeral. 

THE SLEUTH OF ST. JAMES'S SQUARE by _Melville Davisson Post_. (D. Appleton & Company). This volume contains the best of Mr. Post'swell-known mystery stories, and I take special pleasure in callingattention to "The Wrong Sign, " "The Hole in the Mahogany Panel, " and"The Yellow Flower. " These stories show all the resourceful virtuosityof Poe, and are models of their kind. While they seem to me to possessno special literary value, they have solved some important new technicalproblems, and I believe they will repay attentive study. 

DEVIL STORIES, edited by _Maximilian J. Rudwin_ (Alfred A. Knopf). This is an excellent anthology revealing a wide range of readingand introducing a number of good stories which are likely to prove newto most readers. The editor has added to the value of the volume byelaborate annotation. He wears his learning lightly however, and it onlyserves to adorn his subject. 

CHRISTMAS ROSES, AND OTHER STORIES, by _Anne Douglas Sedgwick_(Houghton Mifflin Company). This admirable series of nine studiesdealing with the finer shades of character are subdued in manner. Mrs. De Sélincourt has voluntarily restricted her range, but she has simply"curtailed her circumference to enlarge her liberty, " and I believe thisvolume is likely to outlast many books which are more widely talkedabout. 

CAPE BRETON TALES, by _Harry James Smith_ (The Atlantic MonthlyPress). This little volume of short stories and studies deals with theArcadian life of Cape Breton and the Gaspé coast. I am speaking frompersonal knowledge when I state that, this is the first time theAcadian has been understood by an English speaking writer, and if Mr. Smith's art works within narrow limits, it is quite faultless in itsrendering. This volume suggests what a loss American letters hassustained in the author's death. 

II. ENGLISH AND IRISH AUTHORS

THE GOLDEN WINDMILL, AND OTHER STORIES, by _Stacy Aumonier_(The Macmillan Company). For some years Mr. Aumonier has been quietlywinning an important place for himself in English letters by hisadmirable short stories, and this place has been fittingly recognized byMr. Galsworthy, among others, during the past year. Eight of the ninestories in the present volume seem to me as good as stories written inthe traditional technique can be, and I regard this book as only secondin excellence to the volumes of A. E. Coppard and Katherine Mansfield ofwhich I shall speak presently. 

MORE LIMEHOUSE NIGHTS, by _Thomas Burke_ (George H. DoranCompany). It is a wise counsel of perfection which says that sequels arebarred, and I do not believe that Mr. Burke has chosen wisely inendeavoring to repeat the artistic success of "Limehouse Nights. " Apartfrom "The Scarlet Shoes" and "Miss Plum-Blossom, " this volume seems tome to be second-rate, and I feel that Mr. Burke has already exhaustedhis Limehouse field. 

ADAM AND EVE AND PINCH ME, by _A. E. Coppard_ (Alfred A. Knopf). I have endeavored elsewhere to express my opinion of "Adam and Eve andPinch Me" by dedicating this year's annual volume to Mr. Coppard. Ibelieve that he ranks as an artist among the best continental writers. He sees life as a pattern which he simplifies, and weaves a closelywrought fabric which is a symbol of human life as seen by adisinterested but happy observer. His range is wide, and if he presentsthe uncommon instance of a man who has absorbed all that two men asdifferent as Chekhov and Henry James have to teach, he brings to thisfusion a personal view which transmutes the values of his masters into anew set of values. To do this successfully is the sign of a fine artist. 

DEAD MAN'S PLACK, AND AN OLD THORN, by _W. H. Hudson_ (E. P. Dutton & Company). Mr. Hudson's devoted readers have long known of theexistence of these two stories, and have regretted that the author didnot see fit to issue them in book form. The first story is a short studyin historical reconstruction equal to the best of Jacobsen's work, while"The Old Thorn" ranks with "El Ombu" as one of Mr. Hudson's best twoshort stories. The volume is, of course, a permanent addition to Englishliterature. 

TOP O' THE MORNIN', by _Seumas MacManus_ (Frederick A. StokesCompany). Mr. MacManus's new collection of Irish tales has ups and downslike a Galway road, but his ups are very good indeed and show that hehas by no means lost the folk imagination which made his early booksrank among the very best of their kind. I can specially commend to thereader "The Widow Meehan's Cassimeer Shawl, " "The Bellman of Carrick, "and "The Heart-Break of Norah O'Hara. "

BLISS AND OTHER STORIES, by _Katherine Mansfield_ (Alfred A. Knopf). I have no hesitation in stating after careful thought that MissMansfield's first book of short stories at once places her in the greatEuropean tradition on a par with Chekhov and De Maupassant. This iscertainly the most important book of short stories which has come to mynotice since I began to edit this series of books. I say this with themore emphasis because, although her technique is the same as that ofChekhov, she is one of the few writers to whom a close study of Chekhovhas done no harm. Most American short story writers are bad because theycopy "O. Henry, " and most English short story writers are bad becausethey copy Chekhov. Chekhov and "O. Henry" were both great writersbecause they copied nobody. I hope that the success of Miss Mansfield'sbook will not have the effect of substituting a new model instead ofthese two. Mr. Knopf is to be complimented for his taste in publishingthe best two volumes of short stories of the year. It is a disinterestedservice to literature. 

A CHAIR ON THE BOULEVARD, by _Leonard Merrick_ (E. P. Dutton &Company). It is unnecessary at this date to point out the specialexcellences of Leonard Merrick. They are such as to ensure him atolerably secure position in the history of the English short story. Butit may be well to point out that the vice of his excellence is hisproneness to sentimentality. This is more evident in Mr. Merrick's othervolumes than in the present collection, which is really a reissue of hisbest stories, including that masterpiece, "The Tragedy of a Comic Song. "If one were to compile an anthology of the world's best twenty stories, this story would be among them. 

SELECTED ENGLISH SHORT STORIES (XIX AND XX CENTURIES), editedby _H. S. M. _ (Oxford University Press). This volume has the merit ofcontaining in very short compass twenty-eight stories by English andAmerican authors, not too conventionally selected, which would formadmirable texts for a short story course. It includes stories by MarkRutherford and Richard Garnett which are likely to be unfamiliar to mostreaders, and if taken in conjunction with the previous volume in thesame series, provides a tolerably complete conspectus of the developmentof the short story in England and America since 1800. 

ORIGINAL SINNERS, by _Henry W. Nevinson_ (B. W. Huebsch, Inc. ). It has always been a mystery to me why Mr. Nevinson's short stories areso little known to American readers. His earlier volumes "The Plea ofPan" and "Between the Acts, " are eagerly sought by collectors, but theyhave been permitted to go out of print, I believe, and the generalpublic knows very little about them. To nine out of ten people, Mr. Nevinson is known as a publicist and war correspondent, but it is by hisshort stories that he will live longest, and the present volume is onemore illustration of the place which has always been occupied in Englishliterature by the gifted amateur. The stories in the present volume alllead back by implication to the golden age, and if Mr. Nevinson's moodis elegiac, he never refuses to face reality. 

IRISH FAIRY TALES, by _James Stephens_ (The Macmillan Company). We think of Mr. Stephens primarily as a poet and an ironic moralist, butin the present volume a new side of his genius is revealed. It mightseem that too many writers have attempted with more or less success toreproduce the spirit of the gray Irish Sagas by retelling them, and wethink of Standish O'Grady, Lady Gregory, "A. E. , " and others. But Mr. Stephens has seen them in the fresh light of an unconquerable youth, andI am more than half inclined to think that this is the best book he hasgiven us. 

SAVITRI, AND OTHER WOMEN, by _Marjorie Strachey_ (G. P. Putnam'sSons). Marjorie Strachey has presented the feminist point of view ineleven short stories drawn from the folklore of many nations. Her objectin telling these stories is a sophisticated one, and I suspect that hersuccess has been only partial, but she has considerable resources ofstyle to assist her, and I think that the volume is worthy of someattention. 

THE THIRTEEN TRAVELLERS, by _Hugh Walpole_ (George H. DoranCompany). Mr. Walpole has collected in this volume twelve studies ofEnglish life in the present transition stage between war and peace. Hehas studied with considerable care those modifications of the Englishcharacter which are noticeable to the patient observer, and his volumehas some value as an historical document apart from its undoubtedliterary charm. While it will not rank among the best of Mr. Walpole'sbooks, it is full of excellent _genre_ pieces rendered with subtlety andpoise. 

III. TRANSLATIONS

THE HORSE-STEALERS AND OTHER STORIES, and THE SCHOOLMISTRESS ANDOTHER STORIES, by _Anton Chekhov_ translated from the Russian by_Constance Garnett_ (The Macmillan Company). Mrs. Garnett'sexcellent edition of Chekhov is rapidly drawing to a conclusion. Inthe two volumes now under consideration we find the greater part ofChekhov's very short sketches, notably many of the humorous pieceswhich he wrote in early life. These are most often brief renderingsof a mood, or quiet ironic contrasts which set forth facts withoutdrawing any moral or pointing to any intellectual conclusion. 

LITTLE PIERRE, and THE SEVEN WIVES OF BLUEBEARD, by_Anatole France_; edited by _Frederic Chapman_, _James Lewis May_, and_Bernard Miall_. (John Lane). The first of these volumes presentsanother instalment of the author's autobiography in the form of a seriesof delicately rendered pictures portrayed with quiet deftness and alaughing irony which is half sad. In "The Seven Wives of Bluebeard" hehas retold four legends and endowed them with a philosophic content ofsmiling ironic doubt which accepts life as we find it and preaches agentle disillusioned epicureanism. Both volumes are faultlesslytranslated. 

PEOPLE, by _Pierre Hamp_; translated by _James Whitall_(Harcourt, Brace, and Company). Among the poets and prose writers whohave emerged in France during the past ten years and formulated a newsocial and artistic philosophy, Pierre Hamp is by no means the leastimportant figure. He has already published about a dozen volumes ofmingled fiction and economic comment which form a somewhat detailedhistory of the French workingman in his social and industrial relations, but "People" is the first volume which has yet been translated intoEnglish. His attitude as revealed in these stories is full of indignantpity, and he gives us a series of sharply etched portraits, many ofwhich will not be forgotten readily. He does not conceal hispropagandist tendencies, but they limit him as an artist less in thesestories than in his other books. Mr. Whitall's translation is excellent, and conveys the author's rugged style convincingly. 

LITTLE RUSSIAN MASTERPIECES in Four Volumes, chosen andtranslated from the Russian by _Zénaïde A. Ragozin_ (G. P. Putnam'sSons). This collection is valuable as a supplement to existinganthologies because it wisely leaves for other editors the most familiarstories and concentrates on introducing less known writers to theEnglish-speaking public. The editor has broadened her scheme in order toinclude Polish authors. Among the less familiar figures who are hereintroduced, I may mention Lesskof, Mamin-Sibiriàk, and Slutchefsky. Ican cordially recommend this admirable series. 

THE TWO FRIENDS AND OTHER STORIES, by _Ivan Turgenev_;translated from the Russian by _Constance Garnett_ (The MacmillanCompany). Mrs. Garnett, to whom we are ever grateful, has surprised usdelightfully by offering us some hitherto untranslated novelettes byTurgenev which seem to me to rank among his masterpieces. In each ofthem he has compressed a whole life cycle into a brief series ofsignificant incidents and made them the microcosm of a larger humanworld. This is one of the most important volumes of the year. 

VOLUMES OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES

OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921: AN INDEX

NOTE. _An asterisk before a title indicates distinction. Thislist includes single short stories, and collections of short stories. Volumes announced for publication in the autumn of 1921 are listed here, although in some cases they had not yet appeared at the time this bookwent to press. _

I. AMERICAN AUTHORS

ABBOTT, ELEANOR HALLOWELL. Peace on Earth, Good Will to Dogs. Dutton. 

ANDERSON, SHERWOOD. *Triumph of the Egg. Huebsch. 

BAILEY, CAROLYN SHERWIN. Enchanted Bugle. F. A. Owen Pub. Co. 

BAILEY, TEMPLE. Gay Cockade. Penn Pub. Co. 

BARDEEN, CHARLES WILLIAM. Castiron Culver. C. W. Bardeen. 

BARNES, WILLIAM CROFT. Tales from the X-bar Horse Camp. Breeders' Gazette. 

"BENIGNUS, WILLIAM. " Woodstock Stories, Poems and Essays. Author. 

BERCOVICI, KONRAD. *Ghitza. Boni and Liveright. 

BESKOW, ELIZABETH MARIA. Faith of a Child. Rose Printing Co. 

BOREHAM, FRANK W. Reel of Rainbow. Abingdon Press. 

BRADDY, NELLA, _editor_. Masterpieces of Adventure, 4 vol. Doubleday, Page. 

BRUNO, GUIDO. Night in Greenwich Village. Author. Sentimental Studies. Author. 

BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS. *Chance Encounters. Scribner. 

CABELL, JAMES BRANCH. *Line of Love. McBride. 

CHAMBERLAIN, GEORGE AGREW. Pigs to Market. Bobbs-Merrill. 

CHILD, RICHARD WASHBURN. Velvet Black. Dutton. 

COLES, BERTHA LIPPINCOTT. Wound Stripes. Lippincott. 

COLUM, PADRAIC. *Children of Odin. Macmillan. 

CONNOLLY, JAMES B. *Tide Rips. Scribner. 

COTTER, WINIFRED. Sheila and Others. Dutton. 

CRADOCK, WILLIAM H. C. Everyday Stories. Jacobs. 

DELAND, MARGARET. Old Chester Secret. Harper. 

DELL, ETHEL M. Rosa Mundi. Putnam. 

DREVES, F. M. Joyful Herald of the King of Kings. Herder. 

DUNBAR, ALDIS. *Sons o' Cormac. Dutton. 

EVARTS, HAL G. Bald Face. Knopf. 

FORD, SEWELL. Inez and Trilby May. Harper. Meet 'em with Shorty McCabe. Clode. 

FRECK, LAURA F. , _editor_. Short Stories of Various Types. Merrill. 

FRENCH, JOSEPH LEWIS, _editor_. *Great Sea Stories. Brentano's. 

GATLIN, DANA. Missy. Doubleday, Page. 

GELZER, JAY. Street of a Thousand Delights. McBride. 

GROSS, ANTON. Merchants of Precious Goods. Roxburgh. 

GRUELLE, JOHN B. Raggedy Andy Stories. Volland. 

HARRIS, KENNETT. Meet Mr. Stegg. Holt. 

HAY, CORINNE. Light and Shade 'round Gulf and Bayou. Roxburgh. 

HILL, FREDERICK TREVOR. Tales Out of Court. Stokes. 

KAHLER, HUGH MACNAIR. Babel. Putnam. 

KELLAND, CLARENCE BUDINGTON. Scattergood Baines. Harper. 

KITTREDGE, DANIEL WRIGHT. Mind Adrift. Seattle: S. F. Shorey. 

LASELLE, MARY AUGUSTA, _editor_. Joy in Work. Holt. 

LAWSON, J. C. Tales of Aegean Intrigue. Dutton. 

LEVINGOR, ELMA EHRLICH. Playmates in Egypt. Jewish Pub. Soc. Of America. 

LINCOLN, JOSEPH C. "Old Home House. " Appleton. 

LONDON, JACK. *Brown Wolf. Macmillan. 

MARQUIS, DON. Carter, and Other People. Appleton. 

MEANS, E. K. Further E. K. Means. Putnam. 

MORLEY, CHRISTOPHER. Tales from a Rolltop Desk. Doubleday, Page. 

MURDOCK, VICTOR. Folks. Macmillan. 

NADIR, MOISHE. Peh-el-peh (Face to Face). Pagan Pub. Co. 

NEWTON, ALMA. Shadows. Lane. 

O'BRIEN, EDWARD J. Best Short Stories of 1920. Small, Maynard. 

OEMLER, MARIE CONWAY. Where the Young Child Was. Century. 

PERKINS, LAWRENCE. Cross of Ares. Brentano's. 

RICHARDS, CLARICE E. Tenderfoot Bride. Revell. 

RINEHART, MARY ROBERTS. Truce of God. Doran. 

RUDWIN, MAXIMILIAN JOSEF, _editor_. *Devil Stories. Knopf. 

RUTLEDGE, ARCHIBALD. Old Plantation Days. Stokes. 

SAVAGE, NANNIE H. Sketches. Author. 

SCARBOROUGH, DOROTHY, _editor_. *Famous Modern Ghost Stories. Putnam. Humorous Ghost Stories. Putnam. 

SHEARD, VIRGINIA STANTON. Golden Appletree. McCann. 

SHORE, VIOLA BROTHERS. Heritage. Doran. 

SMITH, HARRY JAMES. *Cape Breton Tales. Atlantic Monthly Press. 

SMITH, LOGAN PEARSALL. *Stories from the Old Testament. Luce. 

SOCIETY OF ARTS AND SCIENCES, _editors_. *O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1920. Doubleday, Page. 

STOCKING, JAY T. Mr. Friend-o'-Man. Interchurch Press. 

STRINGER, ARTHUR. Twin Tales. Bobbs-Merrill. 

TAYLOR, CHARLES FORBES. Riveter's Gang. Revell. 

TERHUNE, ALBERT PAYSON. Buff; a Collie. Doran. 

TRAGOR, HANNAH. Festival Stories of Child Life in a Jewish Colony in Palestine. Dutton. Stories of Child Life in a Jewish Colony in Palestine. Dutton. 

VAN VECHTEN, CARL, _editor_. *Lords of the Housetops. Knopf. 

WALKLEY, WILLIAM S. Three Golden Days. Revell. 

WIGGIN, KATE DOUGLAS. Homespun Tales. Houghton, Mifflin. 

WILEY, HUGH. Jade. Knopf. 

WILSON, JOHN FLEMING. Scouts of the Desert. Macmillan. 

WITWER, H. C. Leather Pushers. Putnam. 

II. ENGLISH AND IRISH AUTHORS

ARLEN, MICHAEL. Romantic Lady. Dodd, Mead. 

AUMONIER, STACY. Golden Windmill. Macmillan. 

BAILEY, H. C. Call Mr. Fortune. Dutton. 

BIBESCO, PRINCESS. I Have Only Myself to Blame. Doran. 

BUCHAN, JOHN. Path of the King. Doran. 

BURKE. THOMAS. *More Limehouse Nights. Doran. 

CHOLMONDELEY, MARY. *Romance of His Life. Dodd, Mead. 

COPPARD, A. E. *Adam and Eve and Pinch Me. Knopf. 

CORELLI, MARIE. Love of Long Ago. Doubleday, Page. 

"DEHAN, RICHARD. " Villa of the Peacock. Doran. 

DE MONTMORENCY, J. E. G. Admiral's Chair. Oxford University Press. 

GREEN, PETER. Our Kid. Longmans, Green. 

HAGGARD, SIR RIDER. Smith and the Pharaohs. Longmans, Green. 

HUDSON, W. H. *Dead Man's Plack, and An Old Thorn. Dutton. 

LAWSON, KATE, LADY. Life of Gnat. Warne. 

M. , H. S. , _editor_. *Selected English Short Stories. 2d series. Oxford University Press. 

"SAPPER. " Man in Ratcatcher. Doran. 

MANSFIELD, KATHERINE. *Bliss. Knopf. 

MAUGHAM, W. SOMERSET. *Trembling of a Leaf. Doran. 

MERRICK, LEONARD. *Chair on the Boulevard. Dutton. 

NEVINSON, HENRY WOODD. *Original Sinners. Huebsch. 

STEPHENS, JAMES. *Irish Fairy Tales. Macmillan. 

STRACHEY, MARJORIE. *Savitri and Other Women. Putnam. 

WALPOLE, HUGH. *Thirteen Travellers. Doran. 

III. TRANSLATIONS

BALZAC, HONORE DE. (_French. _) Short Stories. Boni and Liveright. 

BYNG, LUCY, _translator_. (_Roumanian. _) *Roumanian Stories. Lane. 

CHEKHOV, ANTON. (_Russian. _) *Horse-Stealers. Macmillan. *Schoolmaster. Macmillan. *Schoolmistress. Macmillan. 

DOSTOEVSKY, FEDOR. *Friend of the Family. Macmillan. 

"FRANCE, ANATOLE. " (_French. _) *Little Pierre. Lane. *Seven Wives of Bluebeard. Lane. 

HAMP, PIERRE. (_French. _) *People. Harcourt, Brace. 

JACOBSEN, JENS PETER. (_Danish. _) *Mögens. Brown. 

JAMMES, FRANCIS. (_French. _) *Romance of the Rabbit. Brown. 

MEREJKOVSKI, DMITRI. (_Russian. _) *Menace of the Mob. Brown. 

"NERVAL, GERARD DE. " (_French. _) *Daughters of Fire. Brown. 

POPOVIC, PAVLE, _editor_. (_Jugo-Slav. _) *Jugo-Slav Stories. Duffield. 

SCHNITZLER, ARTHUR. (_German. _) *Shepherd's Pipe. Brown. 

TURGENEV, IVAN. (_Russian. _) *Knock, Knock, Knock. Macmillan. *Two Friends. Macmillan. 

VOLUMES OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED IN ENGLAND AND IRELAND ONLY

OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921: AN INDEX

NOTE. _An asterisk before a title indicates distinction. _

I. AMERICAN AUTHOR

STEIN, GERTRUDE. *Three Lives. Lane. 

II. ENGLISH AND IRISH AUTHORS

ATKEY, BERTRAM. Winnie O'Wynn and the Wolves. Cassell. 

BARCYNSKA, COUNTESS. Love's Last Reward. Hurst and Blackett. 

BENSON, E. F. Countess of Lowndes Square. Cassell. 

BERESFORD, J. D. *Signs and Wonders. Golden Cockerel Press. 

BESTE, FLORENCE. Home in Kentucky. Stockwell. 

BEVAN, C. ELRUTH. Collection of Ghosts. Morland. 

"BIRMINGHAM, GEORGE A. " Lady Bountiful. Christophers. 

BLATCHFORD, ROBERT. Spangles of Existence. Lane. 

BOWEN, MARJORIE. Pleasant Husband. Hurst and Blackett. 

BYRON, LESLEY. Opportunist Sinn Feiners. Heath Cranton. 

CASTLE, AGNES and EGERTON. Romances in Red. Hodder and Stoughton. 

CLARKE, B. A. Free Hand. Ward, Lock. 

CORKERY, DANIEL. *Hounds of Banba. Talbot Press. 

DAVIS, F. HADLAND. Peony of Pao-Yu. Theosophical Pub. Co. 

EARLE, SYBIL K. L. Olla Podrida. Morland. 

FINDLATER, JANE HELEN. Green Grass-Widow. Murray. 

FISHER, HERVEY. *Romantic Man. Seeker. 

FRANCIS, BRAND. Comedy and Tragedy. Holden and Hardingham. 

GARVICE, CHARLES. Miss Smith's Fortune. Skeffington. 

GONNE, FRANCIS. Fringe of the Eternal. Burns, Oates, and Washbourne. 

HAZELWOOD, A. Decision. Morland. 

HOUSMAN, LAWRENCE. *Gods and Their Makers. Allen and Unwin. 

HOWARD, FRANCIS MORTON. Little Shop in Fore Street. Methuen. 

KEEN, RALPH HOLBROOK. *Little Ape. Henderson's. 

KYFFIN-TAYLOR, BESSIE. From Out of the Silence. Books, Ltd. 

LE QUEUX, WILLIAM. In Secret. Odham's. 

LOWTHER, ALICE. Down the Old Road. Heath Cranton. 

LYONS, A. NEIL. *Market Bundle. Butterworth. 

MCCALLIN, WILLIAM. *Ulster Fireside Tales. Heath, Cranton. 

MOORMAN, F. W. *More Tales of the Ridings. Mathews. *Tales of the Ridings. Mathews. 

PEIRSON, FANNY. Noble Madness. Swarthmore Press. 

PEMBERTON, MAX. Prince of the Palais Royal. Cassell. 

PULLEN, A. M. Invisible Sword. S. Allen Warner. 

PURDON, K. F. *Candle and Crib. Talbot Press. 

QUEER STORIES from "Truth, " 22d Series. Cassell. 

RANSOME, ARTHUR. Soldier and Death. John G. Wilson. 

RAYMOND, ADOLPHUS, _and_ BUNIN, A. Amongst the Aristocracy of the Ghetto. Stanley Paul. 

"ROHMER, SAX. " Haunting of Low Fennel. Pearson. 

SPETTIGUE, J. H. Nero. Lane. 

ST. MARS, F. Off the Beaten Track. Chambers. 

TAYLOR, SISTER EMILY. Diamonds in the Rough. Stockwell. 

WAUGH, ALEC. *Pleasure. Grant Richards. 

WAUGH, JOSEPH LAING. Heroes in Homespun. Hodder and Stoughton. 

WEEKS, WILLIAM. 'Twas Ordained. Exeter: W. Pollard and Co. 

WILCOX, ANNE SYMS. Settler's Story of 1820. Stockwell. 

WINTLE, W. JAMES. Ghost Gleams. Heath Cranton. 

WOOLF, LEONARD. *Stories of the East. Hogarth Press. 

WOOLF, VIRGINIA. *Monday or Tuesday. Hogarth Press. 

III. TRANSLATIONS

ANDREYEV, LEONID. (_Russian. _) *And it Came to Pass that the King was Dead. Daniel. *His Excellency the Governor. Daniel. 

DUVERNOIS, HENRI. (_French. _) Holidays. Philpot. 

MACKLIN, ALYS EYRE, _translator_ (_French. _) *29 Short Stories. Philpot. 

VOLUMES OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED IN FRANCE

OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921: AN INDEX

NOTE. _An asterisk before a title indicates distinction. _

 BARBEY D'AUREVILLY, J. *Cachet d'Onyx. La Connaissance. BODIN, MARGUERITE. Psaumes d'amour. Figuière. BOURGET, PAUL. *Anomalies. Plon. BOUTET, FREDERIC. *Adventures Sombres et Pittoresques. Ferenczi. DOYON, RENE LOUIS. Proses Mystiques. La Connaissance. FARRERE, CLAUDE. Betes et Gens Qui s'Aimérent. Flammarion. GEFFROY, GUSTAVE. Nouveaux contes du pays d'Ouest. Crès. GIRIEUD, MAXIME. Contes du Temps Jamais. La Sirène. GOBIMEAU, COMTE DE. *Mademoiselle Irnois. Nouv. Revue franç. HENRIOT, EMILE. *Temps Innocents. Emile Paul. LEVEL, MAURICE. Morts Étranges. Ferenczi. LICHTENBERGER, ANDRA. Scènes en Famille. Plon. MACORLAN, PIERRE. *A Bord de l'Etoile Matutine. Crès. MAURICE-VERNE. Milles-et-une Nuits. Albin Michel. MELHOUF, DJEBAL. Père Robin. Boet, Constantine. MENASCHE, ELIE-L. CONTES DE L'INDE CRUELLE. Bouchet et Barri. MILLE, PIERRE. *Histoires exotiques et merveilleuses. Ferenczi. MORAND, PAUL. *Tendres Stocks. Nouv. Revue franç. NANDEAU, LUDOVIC. Histoire des Wagon et de la Cabine. Pierre Lafitte. NESMY, JEAN. Arc-en-ciel. Grasset. PERGAUD, LOUIS. *Rustiques. M. De F. PILLON, MARCEL. Contes à ma consine. Figuière. REGISMAUSET, CHARLES. Livre de Mes Amis. Sansot. RENAUD, J. JOSEPH. Clavecin Hanté. Pierre Lafitte. RICHEPIN, JEAN. *Coin des Fous. Flammarion. "TAILLEFER. " Contes de Grenoble, Audin et Cir. TISSERAND, ERNEST. Contes de la popote. Crès. TURPIN, FRANCOIS. Contes Inutiles. La Connaissance. VERNON, YVONNE. Chine, Japan, Stamboul. Tohner. 

ARTICLES ON THE SHORT STORY

OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921

Authors of articles are printed in capital letters. 

_The following abbreviations are used in this index:_

 _Ain. _ Ainslee's Magazine _Ath. _ Athenæum _A. W. _ All's Well _B. E. T. _ Boston Evening Transcript _Book. _ (_London_) Bookman (London) _Book. _ (_N. Y. _) Bookman (New York) _Book. J. _ Bookman's Journal _Cen. _ Century _Det. Sun. N. _ Detroit Sunday News _Dial_ Dial _Eng. R. _ English Review _Fortn. R. _ Fortnightly Review _Free. _ Freeman _Harp. M. _ Harper's Magazine. _Liv. A. _ Living Age _L. Merc. _ London Mercury _L. St. _ Live Stories _M. De F. _ Mercure de France _N. A. Rev. _ North American Review _Nat. _ (_N. Y. _) Nation (New York) _Nat. _ (_London_) Nation (London) _New S. _ New Statesman _N. Rep. _ New Republic _N. R. F. _ Nouvelle Revue Française _N. Y. Times_ New York Times Review of Books _Outl. _ (_London_) Outlook (London) _R. D. M. _ Revue des Deux Mondes _Sat. West. _ Saturday Westminster Gazette _Scr. _ Scribner's Magazine _So. Atl. Q. _ South Atlantic Quarterly _S. S. _ Smart Set _Times Lit. Suppl. _ Times Literary Supplement (London) _Unp. R. _ Unpartisan Review _W. Rev. _ Weekly Review _19th Cent. _ Nineteenth Century and after

AIKEN, CONRAD. Anton Chekhov. Free. April 6. (3:90. ) Short Story As Poetry. Free. May 11. (3:210. )

ALDINGTON, RICHARD. James Joyce. Eng. R. April. (32:333. )

American Short Story. By Constance Mayfield Rourke. Free. Oct. 6, '20. (2:91. )

Andreyev, Leonid. By Clarendon Ross. N. Rep. May 25. (26:382. )

Artzibashef, Michael. By Berenice C. Skidelsky. A. W. Aug. (1:189. ) A. W. Sept (1:202. )

ASTÉRIOTIS, DÉMÉTRIUS. Jean Psichari. M. De F. Dec. 15, '20. (144:797. ) D. Voutyras. M. De F. April 15. (147:526. )

BAGENAL, H. Leo Nicolaievitch Tolstoy. Free. Feb. 16. (2:548. )

BATLLE, CARLOS DE. Vicente Blasco Ibáñez. Liv. A. Oct. 23, '20. (307:293. )

BEAUNIER, ANDRÉ. M. Franc-Nohain. R. D. M. Sept. 1. (65:217. )

BECHHOFER, C. E. James Branch Cabell. Times Lit. Suppl. June 16. (20:387. ) Theodore Dreiser; Willa Sibert Cather. Times Lit. Suppl. June 23. (20:403. )

Beerbohm, Max. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 23. (19:873. ) Anonymous. Nat. (London). March 19. (28:883. ) By Henry D. Davray. M. De F. July 1. (149:245. ) By Herbert S. Gorman. N. Y. Times. Jan. 2. (9. ) By Desmond MacCarthy. New S. Dec. 18, '20. (16:339. ) By Carl Van Doren. Nat. (N. Y. ). Dec. 29, '20. (111:785. ) By S. W. Ath. Dec. 31, '20. (888. )

BELL, LISLE. Henry James. Free. Dec. 29, '20, (2:381. )

BENNETT, ARNOLD. Chekhov, Maupassant, and James. 

Bennett, Arnold. By St. John Ervine. N. A. Rev. Sept. (214:371. )

Beresford, J. D. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. June 30. (20:417. ) Sat. R. Jul. 2. (132:19. )

BERNSTEIN, HERMAN. Count Lyof Tolstoi. N. Y. Times. Jan. 9. (3. )

BERTRAND, LOUIS. Paul Bourget. R. D. M. Dec. 15, '20. (60:723. )

Bierce, Ambrose. By Walter Jerrold. Book. (London. ) June. (60:132. )

BIRRELL, AUGUSTINE. Henry James. Nat. (London). July 16. (29:581. )

BJORKMAN, EDWIN. Knut Hamsun. N. Rep. Apr. 13. (26:195. )

BLACK, JOHN. Lord Dunsany. Book. (N. Y. ). April. (53:140. )

Blasco Ibáñez, Vicente. By Carlos de Sic Batlle. Liv. A. Oct. 23, '20. (307:293. ) By Jean Gasson. M. De F. Aug. 15. (32:244. ) By T. R. Ybarra. N. Y. Times. Jan. 23. (16. )

Bloch, Jean Richard. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Oct. 14, '20. (19:662. )

BLUMENFELD, L. Léon Kobrin. M. De F. March 15. (146:826. )

Boccaccio, Giovanni. Anonymous. New S. Nov. 6, '20. (16:144. )

BOURGET, PAUL. Prosper Mérimée. Liv. A. Nov. 6, '20. (307:346. )

Bourget, Paul. By Louis Bertrand. R. D. M. Dec. 15, '20. (60:723. ) By C. F. Ath. Oct. 15, '20. (532. ) By Louis Martin-Chauffier. N. R. F. Dec. '20. (8:934. ). 

BOYD, ERNEST A. Jens Peter Jacobsen. Free. May 25. (3:259. ) James Stephens. Free. March 9. (2:619. )

BRAITHWAITE, WILLIAM STANLEY. Willa Cather. B. E. T. Feb. 16. 

BRENNECKE, ERNEST. Thomas Hardy. N. Y. Times. June 5. (12. )

BREWSTER, DOROTHY. Fyodor Dostoevski. Nat. (N. Y. ). Aug. 10. (113:155. )

Buchan, John. By Louise Maunsell Field. N. Y. Times. Jul. 3. (9. )

Bunin, I. A. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Aug. 18. (20:530. ) By Jean Chuzeville. M. De F. Sept. 15. (32:815. )

BURKE, KENNETH. Francis Jammes. Free. May 11. (3:211. )

Burke, Thomas. Anonymous. Nat. (London). June 25. (29:476. ) By Allen Monkhouse. New S. April 30. (17:106. )

BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS. By Blanche Colton Williams. Book. (N. Y. ). March. (53:53. )

Burt, Maxwell Struthers. Henry W. Nevinson. Book. (N. Y. ). May. (53:253. )

Cabell, James Branch. By C. E. Bechhofer. Times Lit. Suppl. June 16. (20:387. ) By Richard Le Gallienne. N. Y. Times. Feb. 13. (3. ) By Robert Morss Lovett. N. Rep. Apr. 13. (26:187. )

CARROLL, LATROBE. Willa Sibert Cather. Book. (N. Y. ). May. (53:212. )

CASSON, JEAN. Vicente Blasco Ibáñez. M. De F. Aug. 15. (32:244. ) Ramon Gomez de la Serna. M. De F. Jan. 15. (145:516. ) Miguel de Unamuno. M. De F. June 15. (148:819. )

Cather, Willa Sibert. By C. E. Bechhofer. Times Lit. Suppl. June 23. (20:403. ) By William Stanley Braithwaite. B. E. T. Feb. 16. By Latrobe Carroll. Book. (N. Y. ). May. (53:212. ) By Francis Hackett. N. Rep. Jan. 19. (25:233. ) By Carl Van Doren. Nat. (N. Y. ). Jul. 27. (113:92. ) By O. W. Ath. Dec. 31, '20. (890. )

CHEKHOV, ANTON. Diary. Free. April 6. (3:79. ) Notebook. M. De F. Jan. (3:285. ) Free. April 13. (3:104). April 20. (3:127. ) April 27. (3:152. ) May 4. (3:175. ) May 11. (3:199. ) May 18. (3:225. ) May 25. (3:247. ) June 1. (3:272)June 8. (3:296. ) June 15. (3:320. ) June 22. (3:344. ) June 29. (3:368. ) July 6. (3:392. ) July 13. (3:415. ) July 20. (3:440. )

Chekhov, Anton. By Conrad Aiken. Free. April 6. (3:90. ) Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Nov. 18, '20. (19:756. ) Anonymous. L. St. Dec. '20. (125. ) Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. April 21. (20:257. ) Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Sept. 22. (20:609. ) By Arnold Bennett. L. Merc. Oct. , '20. (2:677. ) By N. Bryllion Fagin. P. L. Autumn. (32:416. ) By Maxim Gorky. Free. May 25. (3:251. ) By Maxim Gorky. New S. April 16. (17:52. ) Free. May 25. (3:251. ) June 1. (3:275. ) June 8. (3:298. ) By Alexander Kuprin. Free. Aug. 10. (3:511. ) Aug. 17. (3:535. ) Aug. 24. (3:561. ) Aug. 31. (3:583. ) By Prince D. S. Mirski. Outl. (London. ). Jul. 30. (48:90. ) By J. Middleton Murry. Ath. Jan. 1. (11. ) Nat. (London). June 4. (29:365. )

CHEW, SAMUEL C. George Meredith. N. Rep. Jan. 26. (25:267. )

Chuzeville, Jean. Ivan A. Bunin. M. De F. Sept. 15. (32:815. )

Collette. By Benjamin Crémieux. N. R. F. Dec. , '20. (8:939. )

COLLIS-MORLEY, LACY. Federigo Tozzi; Mario Puccini. Nat. (London). July 16. (29:585. )

Colum, Padraic. By Constance Mayfield Rourke. N. Rep. May 4. (26:300. )

Conrad, Joseph. Anonymous. Nat. (London). March 19. (28:881. ) Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. March 3. (20:141. ) By Louise Maunsell Field. N. Y. Times. May 8. (10. ) By Robert Lynd. New S. Mar. 12. (16:674. ) By William McFee. Book. (N. Y. ). Apr. (53:102. )

CONRAD, JOSEPH. Five Prefaces. L. Merc. Mar. (3:493. )

Coppard, A. E. Anonymous. Nat. (London). Jul. 30. (29:656. ) By Malcolm Cowley. Dial. Jul. (71:93. )

Corkery, Daniel. Anonymous. Nat. (London). Apr. 2. (29:27. ) By Shane Leslie. Dub. R. Apr. (168:289. )

Coster, Charles D. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Oct. 14, '20. (19:663. )

COURNOS, JOHN. Count Lyof Tolstoi. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 30, '20. (19:889. )

COWLEY, MALCOLM. A. E. Coppard. Dial. Jul. (71:93. ) Katharine Mansfield. Dial. Sept. (71:365. )

CRÉMIEUX, BENJAMIN. Collette. N. R. F. Dec. , '20. (8:939. )

D'Annunzio, Gabrielle. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Jan. 6. (20:7. )

DAVRAY, HENRY D. Max Beerbohm. M. De F. Jul. 1. (149:245. ) Henry James. M. De F. Feb. 15. (146:68. )

De Coster, Charles. Anonymous. New S. Jan. 22. (16:482. )

DELEBECQUE, JACQUES. R. L. Stevenson. M. De F. Jan. 1. (145:55. )

Dostoevsky, Fyodor. Anonymous. Ath. Dec. 3, '20. (758. ) Anonymous. Times. Lit. Suppl. Dec. 9, '20. (19:811. ) By Dorothy Brewster. Nat. (N. Y. ). Aug. 10. (113:155. ) By Herbert S. Gorman. N. Y. Times. Aug. 7. (6. ) By Allan Monkhouse. New S. Mar. 5. (16:646. ) By Clarendon Ross. N. Rep. Jan. 12. (25:205. ) By Louis Gillet. R. D. M. Dec. 15, '20. (60:851. )

Dreiser, Theodore. By C. E. Bechhofer. Times Lit. Suppl. June 23. (20:403. ) By Edward H. Smith. Book. (N. Y. ). Mar. (53:27. )

DUGAS, L. Prosper Mérimée. M. De F. Oct. 1, '20. (143:113. )

Dunsany, Lord. By John Black. Book. (N. Y. ). Apr. (53:140. ) By C. E. Lawrence. Liv. A. Aug. 27. (310:531. ) Book. (London). Jul. (60:172. ) By Odell Shepard. Scr. May. (69:595. )

Easton, Dorothy. By H. S. G. N. Rep. Feb. 23. (25:384. )

EDGETT, EDWIN FRANCIS. W. H. Hudson. B. E. F. Jan. 12. (6. )

ELLIOT, JOHN. H. G. Wells. Book. (N. Y. ). Feb. (52:542. )

ERVINE. ST. JOHN. Arnold Bennett. N. A. Rev. Sept. (214:371. )

EWART, WILFRID. Thomas Hardy. 19th Cent. Sept. (90:427. )

FAGIN, N. BRYLLION. Anton Chekhov. P. L. Autumn. (32:416. )

FIELD, LOUISE MAUNSELL. John Buchan. N. Y. Times. Jul. 3. (9. ) Joseph Conrad. N. Y. Times. May 8. (10. )

FINGER, CHARLES J. R. B. Cunninghame-Graham. A. W. Jul. (1:168. )

Fisher, Hervey. By Orlo Williams. Ath. Feb. 11. (157. )

Flaubert, Gustave. Anonymous. Nat. (N. Y. ) Jul. 13. (113:33. ) By Georges-A. Le Roy. M. De F. Dec. 15, '20. (144:788. )

Franc-Nohain, M. By André Beaunier. R. D. M. Sept. 1. (65:217. )

France, Anatole. By Pitts Sanborn. Free. Feb. 9. (2:514. )

G. , H. S. Aldous Huxley. N. Rep. Oct. 13, '20. (24:172. ) Dorothy Easton. N. Rep. Feb. 23. (25:384. )

Gálvez, Manuel. By Isaac Goldberg. B. E. T. Feb. 16. '21. 

BARTHOU, LOUIS. Guy de Maupassant. R. D. M. Oct. 15, '20. (59:746. )

GILLET, LOUIS. Fyodor Dostoevski. R. D. M. Dec. 15, '20. (60:851. ) Lyof Tolstoi. R. D. M. Oct. 1, '20. (59:633. )

Gogol, Nikolas. By "Parijanine. " Liv. A. Jul. 2. (310:51. )

Goedhart-Becker, J. M. By J. L. Walch. M. De F. Dec. 15, '20. (144:794. )

Gogol, Nikolai Vassilievitch. By Albert Jay Nock. Free. Jan. 26. (2:464. )

GOLDBERG, ISAAC. Manuel Gálvez. B. E. T. Feb. 16, '21. 

Gomez de la Serna, Ramon. By Jean Casson. M. De F. Jan. 15. (145:516. )

GORKI, MAXIM. Count Lyof Tolstoi. N. R. F. Dec. , '20. (8:862. )

GORKY, MAXIM. Anton Chekhov. New S. Apr. 16. (17:52. ) Free. May 25. (3:251. ) June 1. (3:275. ) June 8. (3:298. )

GORMAN, HERBERT S. American Short Story. N. Y. Times. Mar. 6. , (10. ) Max Beerbohm. N. Y. Times. Jan. 2. (9. ) Fyodor Dostoevski. N. Y. Times. Aug. 7. (6. )

Govoni, Corrado. By Mario Praz. L. Merc. Sept. (4:527. )

Graham, R. B. Cunninghame. By Charles J. Finger. A. W. Jul. (1:168. ) By C. Lewis Hind. Free. May 18. (3:237. ) By Mariano Joachin Lorente. A. W. Jan. (1:6. )

GUÈRINOT, A. Guy de Maupassant. M. De F. June 15. (148:597. )

Hamilton, Anthony. Anonymous. New S. Apr. 23. (17:83. ) Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Apr. 7. (20:225. )

H. , R. Katharine Mansfield. N. Rep. Mar. 23. (26:114. )

HACKETT, FRANCIS. James Stephens. N. Rep. Dec. 22, '20. (25:111. ) Lyof Tolstoi. N. Rep. Jan. 5. (25:172. ) Willa Sibert Cather. N. Rep. Jan. 12. (25:233. )

Hamp, Pierre. By Gilbert Thomas. Free. June 29. (3:379. )

Hamsun, Knut. Anonymous. N. Y. Times. June 26. (8. ) Anonymous. New S. Nov. 13, '20. (16:170. ) By Edwin Bjorkman. N. Rep. Apr. 13. (26:195. ) By Allen Wilson Porterfield. Nat. (N. Y. ) Dec 8, '20. (111:652. ) By Allen Shoenfield. Det. Sun. N. Dec. 19, '20. By W. W. Worster. Fortn. R. Dec. , '20. (114:1003. )

Hardy, Thomas. By Ernest Brennecke. N. Y. Times. June 5. (12. ) By Wilfrid Ewart. 19th Cent. Sept. (90:427. ) By H. M. Tomlinson. N. Rep. Jan. 12. (25:190. )

HARWOOD, H. C. Hugh Walpole. Outl. (London). Jul. 23. (48:75. )

Hearn, Lafcadio. Anonymous. New S. Sept. 10. (17:628. ) Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Aug. 25. (20:545. ) Anonymous. Sat. R. Sept. 24. (48:380. )

"Henry, O. " By William Johnston. Book. (N. Y. ). Feb. (52:536. ) By Archibald L. Sessions. Ain. Sept. (48:150. )

Hergesheimer, Joseph. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 16, '20. (19:854. ) By Edward Shanks. L. Merc. Jan. (3:337. )

HIND, C. LEWIS. R. B. Cunninghame Graham. Free. May 18. (3:237. )

HOPKINS, R. THURSTON. Robert Louis Stevenson. Book. J. Jan. 14. (3:194. )

Hudson, W. H. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 9, '20. (19:823. ) Anonymous. Nat. (London). Jan. 22. (28:584. ) Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Sept. 29. (20:625. ) By Edwin Francis Edgett. B. E. T. Jan. 12. (6. ) By H. J. Massingham. L. Merc. Nov. '20. (3:73. ) By Forest Reid. Ath. Jan. 14. (39. )

Hurst, Fannie. By Inez Haynes Irwin. Book. (N. Y. ). June. (53:335. )

Huxley, Aldous. By H. S. G. N. Rep. Oct. 13, '20. (24:172. )

Huysmans, Joris Karl. By Albert Thibaudet. N. R. F. Dec. , '20. (8:93. ) By Cuthbert Wright. Dial. Dec. , '20. (69:655. )

IRWIN, INEZ HAYNES. Fannie Hurst. Book. (N. Y. ). June. (53:335. )

Jacobsen, Jens Peter. By Ernest Boyd. Free. May 25. (3:259. )

James, Henry. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. May 12. (20:298) June 30. (20:417. ) Liv. A. Jul. 30. (310:267. ) By Arnold Bennett. L. Merc. Oct. , '20. (2:677. ) By Lisle Bell. Free. Dec. 29, '20. (2:381. ) By Augustine Birrell. Nat. (London). Jul. 16. (29:581. ) By Henry-D. Davray. M. De F. Feb. 15. (146:68. ) By Desmond MacCarthy. New S. Dec. 18, '20. (16:339. ) By Brander Matthews. N. Y. Times. June 12. (2. ) By Wilfrid L. Randell. Fortn. R. Sept. (116:458. ) By Stanley Went. Unp. Rev. Oct. , '20. (14:381. )

Jammes, Francis. By Kenneth Burke. Free. May 11. (3:211. )

JERROLD, WALTER. Ambrose Bierce. Book. (London). June. (60:132. )

JOHNSTON, WILLIAM. O. Henry. Book. (N. Y. ). Feb. (52:536. )

Joyce, James. By Richard Aldington. Eng. R. Apr. (32:333. ) By Evelyn Scott. Dial. Oct. , '20. (69:353. )

Karkavitsas, Andreas. By Aristides E. Phoutrides. W. Rev. Dec. 8, '20. (3:566. )

KAYE, A. LISTER. Fyodor Sologub. Fortn. R. Oct. , '20. (114:663. )

Kipling, Rudyard. By Arthur Bartlett Maurice. N. Y. Times. May 22. (4. )

Kobrin, Léon. By L. Blumenfeld. M. De F. Mar. 15. (146:826. )

KUPRIN, ALEXANDER. Anton Chekhov. Free. Aug. 10. (3:511. ) Aug. 17. (3:535. ) Aug. 24. (3:561. ) Aug. 31. (3:583. )

Kurz, Isolde. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. June 30. (20:415. )

Larbaud, Valery. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 2, '20. (19:790. )

LAWRENCE, C. E. Lord Dunsany. Liv. A. Aug. 27. (310:531. ) Book. (London). Jul. (60:172. )

LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD. James Branch Cabell. N. Y. Times. Feb. 13. (3. )

Le Roy, Georges A. Gustave Flaubert. M. De F. Dec. 15, '20. (144:788. )

LESLIE, SHANE. Daniel Corkery. Dub. Rev. Apr. (168:289. )

LINATI, CARLO. Giovanni Verga. Dial. Aug. (71:150. )

LONDON, CHARMIAN. Jack London. Cen. Mar. (101:545. ) May. (102:105. ) June. (102:287. ) Jul. (102:443. ) Aug. (102:599. )

London, Jack. By Charmian London. Cen. March. (101:545. ) May (102:105. ) June. (102:287. ) Jul. (102:443. ) Aug. (102: 599. )

LORENTE, MARIANO JOACHIN. R. B. Cunninghame Graham. A. W. Jan. (1:6. )

LOVETT, ROBERT MORSS. James Branch Cabell. N. Rep. Apr. 13. (26:187. )

LYND, ROBERT. Joseph Conrad. New S. Mar. 12. (16:674. )

MACCARTHY, DESMOND. Max Beerbohm. New S. Dec. 18, '20. (16:339. ) Henry James. New S. Dec. 18, '20. (16:339. ) Katharine Mansfield. New S. Jan. 15. (16:450. ) Guy de Maupassant. New S. Sept. 24. (17:677. ) Leonard Woolf and Virginia Woolf. New S. Apr. 9. (17:18. )

MCFEE, WILLIAM. Joseph Conrad. Book. (N. Y. ). Apr. (53:102. )

MACY, JOHN. Edgar Allen Poe. Free. Mar. 9. (2:622. )

MANN, DOROTHEA LAWRANCE. Anne Douglas Sedgwick. B. E. T. Jan. 29, '21. 

MANSFIELD, KATHARINE. Gertrude Stein. Ath. Oct. 15, '20. (520. )

Mansfield, Katharine. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 16, '20. (19:858. ) Ath. Jan. 21. (67. ) Nat. (London). Feb. 5. (28:639. ) By Malcolm Cowley. Dial. Sept. (71:365. ) By R. H. N. Rep. Mar. 23. (26:114. ) By Desmond MacCarthy. New S. Jan. 15. (16:450. ) By Jasper Pendlethwaite. Sat. West. Jan. 1. (16. ) By Edward Shanks. L. Merc. Jan. (3:337. )

MARTIN-CHAUFFIER, LOUIS. Paul Bourget. N. R. F. Dec. '20. (8:934. )

MASON, LAWRENCE. H. W. Nevinson. Free. Aug. 10. (3:524. )

MASSINGHAM, H. J. M. W. H. Hudson. L. Merc. Nov. 20. (3:73. ) Guy de Maupassant. Nat. (London. ) Oct. 30, '20. (28:166. )

MATTHEWS, BRANDER. Henry James. N. Y. Times. June 12. (2. ) Edgar Allen Poe. N. Y. Times. Mar. 13. (3. ) Mark Twain. Harp. M. Oct. , '20. (141: 635. )

Maupassant, Guy de. By Arnold Bennett. L. Merc. Oct. , '20. (2: 677. ) By A. Guèrinot. M. De F. June 15. (148:597. ) By Louis Barthou. R. D. M. Oct. 15, '20. (59:746. ) By Desmond MacCarthy. New S. Sept. 24. (17:677. ) By H. J. M. Massingham. Nat. (London. ) Oct. 30, '20. (28:166. ) By Albert Thibaudet. N. R. F. Dec. , '20. (8:923. )

MAURICE, ARTHUR BARTLETT. Rudyard Kipling. N. Y. Times. May 22. (4. )

MENCKEN, H. L. Mark Twain. S. S. Oct. , '20. (138. )

Meredith, George. By Samuel C. Chew. N. Rep. Jan. 26. (25:267. ) By E. T. Raymond. Liv. A. Oct. 23, '20. (307:222. )

Mérimée, Prosper. By Paul Bourget. Liv. A. Nov. 6, '20. (307:346. ) By L. Dugas. M. De F. Oct. 1, '20. (143:113. ) By Camille Pitollet. M. De F. Nov. 15, '20. (144:252. )

MIRSKI, PRINCE D. S. Anton Chekhov. Outl. (London. ) Jul. 30. (48:90. )

MONKHOUSE, ALLAN. Thomas Burke. New S. Apr. 30. (17:106. ) Fyodor Dostoievsky. New S. Mar. 5. (16:646. )

Moorman, F. W. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Oct. 21, '20. (19:679. )

Morand, M. Paul. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Mar. 3. (20:142. ) By J. Middleton Murry. Nat. (London). Apr. 23. (29:137. )

MORGAN, EDITH PARSONS. Victor Murdock. N. Rep. Sept. 14. (28:79. )

MORRISSEY, FRANK R. Mark Twain. Book. (N. Y. ). Apr. (53:143. )

Murdock, Victor. By Edith Parsons Morgan. N. Rep. Sept. 14. (28:79. )

MURRY, J. MIDDLETON. Anton Chekhov. Ath. Jan. 7. (11. ) Nat. (London). June 4. (29:365. ) Paul Morand. Nat. (London. ) Apr. 23. (29:137. ) Hugh Walpole. Nat. (London. ) Jul. 16. (29:584. )

Nevinson, Henry W. Anonymous. Nat. (London). Jan. 15. (38:554. ) By Maxwell Struthers Burt. Book. (N. Y. ). May. (53:253. ) By Lawrence Mason. Free. Aug. 10. (3:524. )

NICHOLS, ROBERT. Oscar Wilde. New S. Dec. 11, '20. (16:310. )

NOCK, ALBERT JAY. Vassilievitch Nikolai Gogol. Free. Jan. 26. (2:464. )

O'CONOR, NORREYS JEPHSON. James Stephens. B. E. T. Dec. 18. 

"PARIJANINE. " Nikolas Gogol. Liv. A. Jul. 2. (310:51. )

PECKHAM, H. HOUSTON. Mark Twain, So. Atl. Q. Oct. , '20. (19:332. )

PENDLETHWAITE, JASPER. Katharine Mansfield. Sat. West. Jan. 1. (16. )

Pérez de Ayala, Ramón. By J. B. Trend. Nat. (London). Jul. 9. (29:550. )

PHOUTRIDES, ARISTIDES E. Andreas Karkavitsas. W. Rev. Dec. 8, '20. (3:566. )

PITOLLET, CAMILLE. Prosper Mérimée. M. De F. Nov. 15, '20. (144:252. )

Poe, Edgar Allen. By Brander Matthews. N. Y. Times. Mar. 13. (3. ) By John Macy. Free. Mar. 9. (2:622. ) By Merton S. Yewdale. N. A. Rev. Nov. , '20. (212:686. )

PORTERFIELD, ALLEN WILSON. Knut Hamsun. Nat. (N. Y. ). Dec. 8, '20. (111:596. )

PRAZ, MARIO. Corrado Govoni. L. Merc. Sept. (4:527. ) Federico Tozzi. L. Merc. Jan. (3:321. )

Psichari, Jean. By Démétrius Astériotis. M. De F. Dec. 15, '20. (144:797. )

Puccini, Mario. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Aug. 25. (20:546. ) By Lucy Collis-Morley. Nat. (London. ). Jul. 16. (29:585. )

RANDELL, WILFRID L. Henry James. Fortn. R. Sept. (116:458. )

RAYMOND, E. T. George Meredith. Liv. A. Oct. 23, '20. (307:222. )

REID, FORREST. W. H. Hudson. Ath. Jan. 14. (39. )

Rejmont, Ladislas. By Z. -L. Zaleski. M. De F. Oct. 1, '20. (143:35. )

Régnier, Henri de. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 23, '20. (19:869. )

Robbins, Tod. Anonymous. Nat. (N. Y. ). Nov. 24, '20. (111:596. )

ROSS, CLARENDON. Leonid Andreyev. N. Rep. May 25. (26:382. ) Fyodor Dostoevski. N. Rep. Jan. 12. (25:205. )

"Ross, Martin. " _See_ "Somerville, E. [OE]. , " _and_ "Ross, Martin. "

ROURKE, CONSTANCE MAYFIELD. American Short Story. Free. Oct. 6, '20. (2:91. ) Padraic Colum. N. Rep. May 4. (26:300. )

ROWLAND-BROWN, LILIAN. Ivan Turgenev. 19th Cent. Aug. (90:230. )

Sainte-Beuve, C. A. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Oct. 28, '20. (19:695. )

SANBORN, PITTS. Anatole France. Free. Feb. 9. (2:514. )

Schickele, René. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Jan. 27. (20:58. )

SCHOENFIELD, ALLEN. Knut Hamsun. Det. Sun. N. Dec. 19, '20. 

SCHREINER, OLIVE. Anonymous. Nat. (London). Dec. 18, '20. (28:416. ) Nat. (N. Y. ). Dec. 29, '20. (111:769. )

SCOTT, EVELYN. James Joyce. Dial. Oct. , '20. (69:353. )

Sedgwick, Anne Douglas. Anonymous. Nat. (London). Oct. 16, '20. (28:84. ) By Dorothea L. Mann. B. E. T. Jan. 29, 1921 By Rebecca West. New S. Oct. 9, '20. (16:20. )

Seidel, Ina. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. June 30. (20:415. )

SESSIONS, ARCHIBALD L. O. Henry. Ain. Sept. (48:150. )

SHANKS, EDWARD. Katharine Mansfield. } Joseph Hergesheimer. } L. Merc. Jan. (3:337. )

SHEPARD, ODELL. Lord Dunsany. Scr. May. (69:595. )

Short Story As Poetry. By Conrad Aiken. Free. May 11. (3:210. )

SKIDELSKY, BERENICE C. Michael Artzibashef. A. W. Aug. (1:189. ) A. W. Sept. (1:202. )

SMITH, EDWARD H. Theodore Dreiser. Book. (N. Y. ). Mar. (53:27. )

Söderberg, Hjalmar. By Charles Wharton Stork. Book. (N. Y. ). Apr. (53:142. )

Sologub, Fyodor. By A. Lister Kaye. Fortn. R. Oct. , '20. (114:663. ) "Somerville, E. [OE]. , " _and_ "Ross, Martin. " Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Oct. 23, '20. (19:697. )

SQUIRE, J. C. The Short Story. Outl. (London. ) Sept. 17. (48:234. )

Stein, Gertrude. By Katharine Mansfield. Ath. Oct. 15, '20. (520. )

Stephens, James. By Ernest A. Boyd. Free. Mar. 9. (2:619. ) By Francis Hackett. N. Rep. Dec. 22, '20. (25:111. ) By Norreys Jephson O'Conor. B. E. T. Dec. 18, '20. 

Stevenson, Robert Louis. Anonymous. New S. Nov. 27, '20. (16:240. ) Times Lit. Suppl. Oct. 28, '20. (19:699. ) Nat. (London). Jan. 18. (28:554. ) By Jacques Delebecque. M. De F. Jan. 1. (145:55. ) By R. Thurston Hopkins. Book. J. Jan. 14. (3:194. ) By F. R. Ath. Nov. 12, '20. (650. )

STORK, CHARLES WHARTON. Hjalmar Söderberg. Book. (N. Y. ). Apr. (53:142. )

THIBAUDET, ALBERT. Emile Zola; Guy de Maupassant; Joris-Karl Huysmans. N. R. F. Dec. , '20. (8:923. )

THOMAS, GILBERT. Pierre Hamp. Free. June 29. (3:379. )

Tolstoi, Count Lyof. By H. Bagenal. Free. Feb. 16. (2:548. ) By Herman Bernstein. N. Y. Times. Jan. 9. (3. ) By John Cournos. Times Lit. Suppl. Dec. 30, '20. (19:888. ) By Louis Gillet. R. D. M. Oct. 1, '20. (59:633. ) By Maxim Gorki. N. R. F. Dec. , '20. (8:862. ) By Francis Hackett. N. Rep. Jan. 5. (25:172. )

TOMLINSON, H. M. Thomas Hardy. N. Rep. Jan. 12. (25:190. )

Tozzi, Federigo. By Lucy Collis-Morley. Nat. (London. ) Jul. 16. (29:585. ) By Mario Praz. L. Merc. Jan. (3:321. )

Trancoso, Fernandez. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Aug. 25. (20:546. )

TREND, J. B. Ramón Pérez de Ayala. Nat. (London). Jul. 9. (29:550. )

Turgenev, Ivan. By Lilian Rowland-Brown. 19th Cent. Aug. (90:230. )

"Twain, Mark. " Anonymous. Nat. (London). Oct. 23, '20. (28:136. ) New S. Oct. 2, '20. (15:707. ) Liv. A. Nov. 27, '20. (307:555. ) By Brander Matthews. Harp. M. Oct. , '20. (141:635. ) By H. L. Mencken. S. S. Oct. , '20. (138. ) By Frank R. Morrissey. Book. (N. Y. ). Apr. (53:143. ) By H. Houston Peckham. So. Atl. Q. Oct. , '20. (19:332. ) By V. R. Ath. Oct. 8, '20. (470. )

Unamuno, Miguel de. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Jul. 28. (20:483. ) By Jean Casson. M. De F. June 15. (148:819. )

VALE, CHARLES. Oscar Wilde. Dial. Sept. (71:359. )

VAN DOREN, CARL. Max Beerbohm. Nat. (N. Y. ), Dec. 29, '20. (111:785. ) Willa Sibert Cather. Nat. (N. Y. ). Jul. 27. (113:92. )

Verga, Giovanni. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. May 26. (20:339. ) By Carlo Linati. Dial. Aug. (71:150. )

Voutyras, D. By Démétrius Astériotis. M. De F. Apr. 15. (147:526. )

Walch, J. L. J. M. Goedhart-Becker; Karel Wasch. M. De F. Dec. 15, '20. (144:794. )

Walpole, Hugh. Anonymous. Sat. R. Jul. 30. (132:150. ) By H. C. Harwood. Outl. (London). Jul. 23. (48:75. ) By J. Middleton Murry. Nat. (London. ) Jul. 16. (29:584. )

Wasch, Karel. By J. L. Walch. M. De F. Dec. 15, '20. (144:794. )

Wells, H. G. By John Elliot. Book. (N. Y. ). Feb. (52:542. )

Went, Stanley. Henry James. Unp. Rev. Oct. , '20. (14:381. )

WEST, REBECCA. Anne Douglas Sedgwick. New S. Oct. 9, '20. (16:20. )

Wilde, Oscar. Anonymous. Times Lit. Suppl. Nov. 18, '20. (19:754. ) By Robert Nichols. New S. Dec. 11, '20. (10:310. ) By Charles Vale. Dial. Sept. (71:359. )

WILLIAMS, BLANCHE COLTON. Maxwell Struthers Burt. Book. (N. Y. ). Mar. (53:53. )

WILLIAMS, ORLO. Hervey Fisher. Ath. Feb. 11. (157. )

Woolf, Virginia. By Desmond MacCarthy. New S. Apr. 9. (17:18. )

WORSTER, W. W. Knut Hamsun. Fortn. R. Dec. , '20. (114:1003. )

Wright, Cuthbert. Joris-Karl Huysmans. Dial. Dec. , '20. (69:655. )

YBARRA, T. R. Vicente Blasco Ibáñez. N. Y. Times. Jan. 23. (16. )

YEWDALE, MERTON S. Edgar Allen Poe. N. A. Rev. Nov. , '20. (212:686. )

ZALESKI, Z. L. Stefan Zeromski; Ladislas Rejmont. M. De F. Oct. 1, '20. (143:35. )

Zeromski, Stefan. By Z. -L. Zaleski. M. De F. Oct. 1. '20. (143:35. )

Zola, Emile. By Albert Thibaudet. N. R. F. Dec. , '20. (8:923. )

INDEX OF SHORT STORIES IN BOOKS

OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921

NOTE. _One, two, or three asterisks are prefixed to the titlesof stories to indicate distinction. Three asterisks prefixed to a titleindicate the more or less permanent literary value of the story. Crossreferences after an author's name refer to previous volumes of thisseries. _

_The following abbreviations are used in the index:_

_Aumonier_ Aumonier. Golden Windmill and Other Stories. 

_Bercovici_ Bercovici. Ghitza and Other Romances of Gypsy Blood. 

_Brown B_ Brown. Homespun and Gold. 

_Burke_ Burke. More Limehouse Nights. 

_Burt B_ Burt. Chance Encounters. 

_Cabell A_ Cabell. Lines of Love. 

_Chekhov F_ Chekhov. Schoolmistress and Other Stories. 

_Chekhov G_ Chekhov. Horse-Stealers and Other Stories. 

_Child_ Child. Velvet Black. 

_Cholmondeley_ Cholmondeley. Romance of His Life and Other Romances. 

_Coppard_ Coppard. Adam and Eve and Pinch Me. 

_Dunbar_ Dunbar. Sons o' Cormac an' Tales of Other Men's Sons. 

_France_ France. Seven Wives of Bluebeard. 

_French C_ French. Masterpieces of Mystery. Ghost Stories. 

_French D_ French. Masterpieces of Mystery. Mystic-Humorous Stories. 

_French E_ French. Masterpieces of Mystery. Riddle Stories. 

_French F_ French. Masterpieces of Mystery. Detective Stories

_French G_ French. Great Sea Stories. 

_Hamp_ Hamp. People. 

_Hudson_ Hudson. Dead Man's Plack and An Old Thorn. 

_Hughes B_ Hughes. Momma and Other Unimportant People. 

_James B_ James. Master Eustace. 

_Jugo-Slav_ Popovic. Jugo-Slav Stories. 

_MacManus B_ MacManus. Top o' the Mornin'. 

_McSpadden B_ McSpadden. Famous Psychic Stories. 

_McSpadden C_ McSpadden. Famous Detective Stories. 

_Mansfield_ Mansfield. Bliss and Other Stories. 

_Marquis_ Marquis. Carter, and Other People. 

_Maugham_ Maugham. Trembling of a Leaf. 

_Merrick C_ Merrick. Chair on the Boulevard. 

_Morley_ Morley. Tales From a Rolltop Desk. 

_Nevinson B_ Nevinson. Original Sinners. 

_New Dec. B_ New Decameron. Volume the Second, Containing the Second Day. 

_Oxford_ Oxford. Selected English Short Stories. Second Series. (XIX and XX Centuries. )

_Post C_ Post. Sleuth of St. James's Square. 

_Ragozin_ Ragozin. Little Russian Masterpieces. 

_Roumania_ Roumania. Roumanian Stories. 

_Rudwin_ Rudwin. Devil Stories. 

_Sedgwick_ Sedgwick. Christmas Roses and Other Stories. 

_Smith B_ Smith. Cape Breton Tales. 

_Stephens_ Stephens. Irish Fairy Tales. 

_Strachey_ Strachey. Savitri and Other Women. 

_Turgenev_ Turgenev. Two Friends and Other Stories. 

_Van Vechten A_ Van Vechten. Lords of the Housetops. 

_Walpole_ Walpole. Thirteen Travellers. 

I. AMERICAN AUTHORS

ALDEN, WILLIAM LIVINGSTON. *Monty's Friend. Van Vechten A. 203. 

ANDERSON, SHERWOOD. (1876- . ) (_See 1920. _) ***Other Woman. O'Brien D. 3. 

ANONYMOUS. Great Valdez Sapphire. French E. 44. Printer's Devil. Rudwin. 136. 

BABCOCK, EDWINA STANTON. (_See 1920. _) ***Gargoyle. O'Brien D. 12. 

BACON, PEGGY. *Queen's Cat Van, Vechten A. 220. 

BERCOVICI, KONRAD. (1882- . ) **Bear-Tamers Daughter. Bercovici. 181. ***Fanutza. Bercovici. 135. ***Ghitza. Bercovici. 7. O'Brien D. 36. ***Hazi, Wife of Tender Surtuck. Bercovici. 159. ***Law of the Lawless. Bercovici. 27. ***Tinka. Bercovici. 112. **Vlad's Son, Bercovici. 54. *Yahde, the Proud One. Bercovici. 85 **Yancu Lantaru. Bercovici. 209. 

BIERCE, AMBROSE. (1842-1914. ) (_See 1918 and 1920. _) ***Horseman in the Sky. Oxford. 252. ***Moxon's Master. McSpadden B. 177. 

BLASHFIELD, EVANGELINE WILBOUR. *Ghoul, McSpadden B. 245. 

BONE, DAVID W. *Merchant's Cup. French G. 203. 

BRANDENBURG, BROUGHTON. Mystery of the Steel Disk. McSpadden C. 233. 

BROWN, ALICE. (1857- . ) (_See 1918 and 1920. _) **Ann Eliza. Brown B. 79. **Brush of Paint. Brown B. 181. **Confessions. Brown B. 259. *Deserters. Brown B. 210. **Homespun Wizardry. Brown B. 43. **House of the Bride. Brown B. 139 *Mary Felicia. Brown B. 22. **Path of Stars. Brown B. 201. **Question of Wills. Brown B. 158. **Red Poppies. Brown B. 64. **Return of Father. Brown B. 101. **Up on the Mountain. Brown B. 283 **Wedding Ring. Brown B. 1. ***White Pebbles. Brown B. 239. **Widow's Third. Brown B. 222. 

BRYNER, EDNA CLARE. ***Life of Five Points. O'Brien D. 49. 

BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS. **"Bally Old" Knott. Burt B. 217. ***Blood-Red One. Burt B. 197. *Devilled Sweetbreads. Burt B. 117. ***"Dream or Two. " Burt B. 152. ***Each in His Generation, Burt B. 252. ***Experiment. Burt B. 39. ***Scarlet Hunter. Burt B. 1. ***Shining Armor. Burt B. 79. 

CABELL, JAMES BRANCH. **Adhelmar at Puysange. Cabell A. 35. ***Castle of Content. Cabell A. 173. ***Conspiracy of Arnaye. Cabell A. 145 ***In Necessity's Mortar. Cabell A. 113 ***In Ursula's Garden. Cabell A. 203. ***Love-Letters of Falstaff. Cabell A. 63. **Porcelain Cups. Cabell A. 229. ***"Sweet Adelais. " Cabell A. 87. ***Wedding Jest. Cabell A. 9. 

CAMP, (CHARLES) WADSWORTH. (1879- . ) ***Signal Tower. O'Brien D. 66. 

CARRYL, GUY WETMORE. ***Zut. Van Vechten A. 11. 

CHILD, RICHARD WASHBURN. (1881- . ) *Avenger. Child. 243. **Cracking Knee. Child. 114. **Experiment in Resource. Child. 217. *Fiber. Child. 183. Foxed. Child. 352. ***Identified. Child. 27. *In Dancing Shadows. Child. 307. *Nightingale. Child. 53. *Pode. Child. 280. *Velvet Black. Child. 1. *Whiff of Heliotrope. Child. 79. 

COOPER, JAMES FENIMORE. (1789-1851. ) **Wreck of the Royal Caroline. French G. 129. 

CRAM, RALPH ADAMS. (1863- . ) *Sister Maddelena. French C. 167. 

CREW, HELEN COALE. (1866- . ) ***Parting Genius. O'Brien D. 83. 

DUNBAR, ALDIS. *Conn the Boaster. Dunbar. 200. *Constant Green Jerkin. Dunbar. 1. *Eiveen Cold-Heart. Dunbar. 41. *Ethlenn o' the Mist. Dunbar. 68. *Fair Ailinn. Dunbar. 106. *Grainne the Haughty. Dunbar. 165. *Harvestin' o' Dermond. Dunbar. 21. *How Cormac Lost His Kingdom. Dunbar. 134. *King Diarmid an' Pol. Dunbar. 94. *King o' the Three Winds. Dunbar. 212. *Light O' Me Eyes. Dunbar. 181. *Questin' o' Cleena. Dunbar. 55. *Servin' o' Culain. Dunbar. 120. *Wild Apples an' Golden Grain. Dunbar. 80. *Wind an' Wave an' Wandherin Flame. Dunbar. 151. 

FERNALD, CHESTER BAILEY. (1869- . ) *Chan Tow the Highrob. French D. 143. 

FREEMAN, MARY E. WILKINS. (1862- . ) (_See 1918 and 1920. _) ***Cat. Van Vechten A. 1. ***Shadows on the Wall. McSpadden. B. 269. 

GEROULD, KATHARINE FULLERTON. (1879- . ) (_See 1918. _) ***Habakkuk. O'Brien D. 90. 

GREEN, ANNA KATHARINE (ANNA KATHARINE GREEN ROHLFS. ) (1846- . ) Grotto Spectre. McSpadden C. 199. Missing: Page Thirteen. French F. 108. 

HANSHEW, THOMAS W. (1857-1914. ) Mystery of the Steel Room. McSpadden C. 293. 

HANSHEW, THOMAS W. _and_ MARY E. Rope of Fear. French F. 200. 

HARLAND, HENRY. (1861-1905. ) *House of Eulalie. Oxford. 396. 

HARTE, FRANCIS BRET. (1839-1902. ) (_See 1918 and 1920. _) ***How Santa Claus Came to Simpson's Bar. Oxford. 202. ***Outcasts of Poker Flat. Oxford. 190. 

HARTMAN, LEE FOSTER. (1879- . ) ***Judgment of Vulcan. O'Brien D. 116. 

HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL. (1804-1864. ) (_See 1918. _) ***Birth-Mark. French E. 94. ***Grey Champion. Oxford. 32. ***Maypole of Merry Mount. Oxford. 19. ***Old Esther Dudley. Oxford. 64. ***Roger Malvin's Burial. Oxford. 41. ***White Old Maid. McSpadden B. 1. 

HEARN, LAFCADIO. (1850-1904. ) (_See 1920. _) ***Ghost. French D. 101. 

"HENRY, O. " (WILLIAM SYDNEY PORTER. ) (1867-1910. ) (_See 1918 and 1920. _) ***Gift of the Magi. Oxford. 406. ***Madame Bo-Peep, of the Ranches. Oxford. 430. ***Municipal Report. Oxford. 412. 

HUGHES, RUPERT. (1872- . ) (_See 1918. _) Butcher's Daughter. Hughes B. 256. College Lorelei. Hughes B. 152. *Dauntless Bookkeeper. Hughes B. 317. *Father of Waters. Hughes B. 78. Innocence. Hughes B. 121. *"Momma. " Hughes B. 1. Quicksilver Window. Hughes B. 289. Read It Again. Hughes B. 60. Split. Hughes B. 213. ***Stick-In-The-Muds. Hughes B. 33; O'Brien D. 148. *Story I Can't Write. Hughes B. 237. Yellow Cords. Hughes B. 193. You Hadn't Ought To. Hughes B. 336. 

IRVING, WASHINGTON. (1783-1859. ) (_See 1918. _) **Devil and Tom Walker. Rudwin 28. 

JAMES, HENRY. (1843-1916. ) (_See 1920. _) ***Benvolio. James B. 203. ***Four Meetings. Oxford. 301. ***Light Man. James B. 147. ***Longstaff's Marriage. James B. 57. ***Master Eustace. James B. 7. ***Owen Wingrave. Oxford. 260. ***Théodolinde. James B. 111. 

JANVIER, THOMAS A. **Madame Jolicoeur's Cat. Van Vechten A. 163. 

LONDON, JACK. (1876-1916. ) *Terrible Solomons. French G. 306. 

MACMANUS, SEUMAS. (1870- . ) (_See 1920. _) **All on the Brown Knowe. MacManus B. 242. *Barney Brian's Monument. MacManus B. 225. ***Bellman of Carrick. MacManus B. 207. *Billy Baxter's Holiday. MacManus B. 101. **Cadger-Boy's Last Journey. MacManus B. 41. *Capture of Nelly Carribin. MacManus B. 192. *Case of Kitty Kildea. MacManus B. 77. Five Minutes a Millionaire. MacManus B. 156. ***Heart-Break of Norah O'Hara. MacManus B. 261. **Lord Mayor o' Buffalo. MacManus B. 1. *Minister's Racehorse. MacManus B. 59. *Mrs. Carney's Sealskin. MacManus B. 176. *Wee Paidin. MacManus B. 119. **When Barney's Trunk Comes Home. MacManus B. 136. ***Widow Meehan's Cassimeer Shawl. MacManus B. 18. 

MARQUIS, DON. (ROBERT PERRY. ) (1878- . ) *Behind the Curtain. Marquis. 263. *Bubbles. Marquis. 135. *Carter. Marquis. 3. *Chances of the Street. Marquis. 169. *Kale. Marquis. 107. *Locked Box. Marquis. 245. *Looney the Mutt. Marquis. 89. *McDermott. Marquis. 55. *Never Say Die! Marquis. 35. *Old Man Murtrie. Marquis. 21. *Penitent. Marquis. 223. *Professor's Awakening. Marquis. 185. 

MASON, GRACE SARTWELL. (1877- . ) ***His Job. O'Brien D. 169. 

MATTHEWS, JAMES BRANDER. (1852- . ) (_See 1920. _) **Rival Ghosts. French D. 238. 

MELVILLE, HERMAN. (1819-1891. ) ***Capture of the Great White Whale. French G. 145. 

MOFFETT, CLEVELAND (LANGSTON). (1863- . ) *Mysterious Card. French E. 3. 

MORLEY, CHRISTOPHER (DARLINGTON). (1890- . ) Advice to the Lovelorn. Morley. 27. Battle of Manila Envelopes. Morley. 169. Climacterie. Morley. 187. Commutation Chophouse. Morley. 126. Curious Case of Kenelm Digby. Morley. 58. Gloria and the Garden of Sweden. Morley. 99. Pert Little Hat. Morley. 142. Prize Package. Morley. 1. Punch and Judy. Morley. 198. ***Referred to the Author. Morley. 211. *Urn Burial. Morley. 158. 

O'BRIEN, FITZ-JAMES. (_See 1918. _) ***Diamond Lens. French D. 38. ***Lost Room. French E. 232. 

OPPENHEIM, JAMES. (1882- . ) ***Rending. O'Brien D. 187. 

PEATTIE, ELIA (WILKINSON). (1862- . ) **From the Loom of the Dead. McSpadden B. 235. 

PERKINS, FREDERICK BEECHER. Devil-Puzzlers. Rudwin. 179. 

POE, EDGAR ALLEN. (1809-1849. ) (_See 1918 and 1920. _) ***Black Cat. Van Vechten A. 149. **Bon-Bon. Rudwin. 112. ***Cask of Amontillado. Oxford. 100. ***Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar. McSpadden B. 17. ***Oblong Box. French E. 76. ***Purloined Letter. French F. 3. McSpadden C. 1. Oxford. 78. 

POST, MELVILLE DAVISSON. (1871- . ) (_See 1918 and 1920. _) American Horses. Post C. 213. **Cambered Foot. Post C. 70. *End of the Road. Post C. 171. **Fortune Teller. Post C. 130. ***Hole in the Mahogany Panel. Post C. 150. *House by the Loch. Post C. 317. *Last Adventure. Post C. 193. *Lost Lady. Post C. 46 *Man in the Green Hat. Post C. 90. *Pumpkin Coach. Post C. 260. **Reward. Post C. 23. **Satire of the Sea. Post C. 301. *Spread Rails. Post C. 235. *Thing on the Hearth. Post C. 1. ***Wrong Sign. Post C. 107. ***Yellow Flower. Post C. 282. 

REEVE, ARTHUR BENJAMIN. (1880- . ) Black Hand. McSpadden C. 167. French F. 33. 

RICKFORD, KATHERINE. (_See 1920. _) ***Joseph: a Story. French C. 70. 

ROBERTSON, MORGAN. *Derelict Neptune. French G. 282. 

ROCHE, ARTHUR SOMERS. (1883- . ) ***Dummy-Chucker. O'Brien D. 198. 

SEDGWICK, ANNE DOUGLAS. (MRS. BASIL DE SÉLINCOURT. ) (1873- . ) (_See 1918. _) ***Autumn Crocuses. Sedgwick. 279. **Carnations. Sedgwick. 168. ***Christmas Roses. Sedgwick. 1. ***Daffodils. Sedgwick. 92. ***Evening Primroses. Sedgwick. 253. **Hepaticas. Sedgwick. 63. ***Pansies. Sedgwick. 121. **Pink Foxgloves. Sedgwick. 147. ***Staking a Larkspur. Sedgwick. 208. 

SIDNEY, ROSE. (1888- . ) ***Butterflies. O'Brien D. 214. 

SMITH, HARRY JAMES. (1880-?. ) **Bucherons. Smith B. 19. ***Fly, My Heart. Smith B. 121. **Garland for Pettipaw. Smith B. 101. **La Belle Mélanie. Smith B. 32. **Privilege. Smith B. 63. **Siméon's Son. Smith B. 44. ***Their True Love. Smith B. 79. 

SPRINGER, FLETA CAMPBELL. (1886- . ) (_See 1920. _) ***Rotter, O'Brien D. 236. 

STEELE, WILBUR DANIEL. (1886- . ) (_See 1918 and 1920. _) ***Out of Exile. O'Brien D. 266. **Yellow Cat. French C. 207. 

"STORM, ETHEL. " ***Three Telegrams. O'Brien D. 293. 

TARKINGTON, BOOTH. (1869- . ) **Gipsy. Van Vechten A. 124. 

"TWAIN, MARK. " (SAMUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS. . ) (1835-1910. ) (_See 1920. _) *Dick Baker's Cat. Van Vechten A. 144. Mr. Bloke's Item. French D. 96. 

WARNER, CHARLES DUDLEY. (1829-1900. ) *Calvin. Van Vechten A. 226. 

WHEELWRIGHT, JOHN TYLER. (1856- . ) ***Roman Bath. O'Brien D. 312. 

WHITMAN, STEPHEN FRENCH. ***Amazement. O'Brien D. 320. 

WILLIAMS, BEN AMES. (1889- . ) (_See 1920. _) ***Sheener. O'Brien D. 348. 

WOOD, FRANCES GILCHRIST. (_See 1920. _) ***Turkey Red. O'Brien D. 359. 

II. ENGLISH AND IRISH AUTHORS

ARCHER, WILLIAM. (1856- . ) **My Fascinating Friend. French E. 207. 

AUMONIER, STACY. (_See 1918. _) ***Bent Tree. Aumonier. 199. ***Brothers. Aumonier. 59. ***Golden Windmill. 3. ***Good Action. Aumonier. 137. ***Great Unimpressionable. Aumonier. 213. ***Little White Frock. Aumonier. 109. *"Old Iron. " Aumonier. 79. ***Source of Irritation. Aumonier. 35. ***Them Others. Aumonier. 169. 

BENSON, EDWARD FREDERIC. (1867- . ) (_See 1920. _) ***Man Who Went Too Far. McSpadden B. 143. French D. 109. 

BLACKWELL, BASIL. (_See 1920. _) History of Andrew Niggs. New Dec. B. 31. 

BLACKWOOD, ALGERNON. (1869- . ) (_See 1920. _) ***Listener. French C. 3. ***May-Day Eve. French D. 3. ***Psychical Invasion. Van Vechten A. 29. 

BURKE, THOMAS. (1887- . ) (_See 1920. _) *Affair at the Warehouse. Burke. 155. *Big Boy Blue. Burke. 171. **Bluebell. Burke. 95. *Cane. Burke. 259. **Dumb Wife. Burke. 77. *Family Affair. Burke. 117. *Game of Poker. Burke. 33. Good Samaritans. Burke. 221. *Heart of a Child. Burke. 65. *Katie the Kid. Burke. 49. **Little Flowers of Frances. Burke. 133. *Mazurka. Burke. 185. ***Miss Plum-Blossom. Burke. 245. *Perfect Girl. Burke. 143. ***Scarlet Shoes. Burke. 197. *Song of Ho Sing. Burke. 271. **Twelve Golden Curls. Burke. 231. **Yellow Scarf. Burke. 11. 

CHOLMONDELEY, MARY. **Dark Cottage. Cholmondeley. 55. **End of the Dream. Cholmondeley. 216. ***Ghost of a Chance. Cholmondeley. 83. **Goldfish. Cholmondeley. 109. **Her Murderer. Cholmondeley. 173. **Romance of His Life. Cholmondeley. 25. *Stars In Their Courses. Cholmondeley. 146. **Votes for Men. Cholmondeley. 200. 

COLLINS, WILLIAM WILKIE. (1824-1889. ) *Biter Bit. French F. 64. **Dream Woman. McSpadden B. 33. **Terribly Strange Bed. French E. 122. Oxford. 148. 

COPPARD, ALFRED EDGAR. (1878- . ) ***Adam and Eve and Pinch Me. Coppard. 67. ***Angel and the Sweep. Coppard. 123. ***Arabesque: The Mouse. Coppard. 133. ***Communion. Coppard. 89. ***Dusky Ruth. Coppard. 25. ***King of the World. Coppard. 57. ***Marching to Zion. Coppard. 9. ***Piffincap. Coppard. 43. ***Princess of Kingdom Gone. Coppard. 81. ***Quiet Woman. Coppard. 97. ***Trumpeters. Coppard. 115. ***Weep Not My Wanton. Coppard. 37. 

CORNISH, GERALD WARRE. (1875-1916. ) *Stowaway. Oxford. 462. 

DICKENS, CHARLES. (1812-1870. ) (_See 1918. _) ***Holly Tree. Oxford. 108. 

DOYLE, SIR ARTHUR CONAN. (1859- . ) (_See 1918. _) *Scandal in Bohemia. French F. 164. McSpadden C. 57. *Secret of Goresthorpe Grange. French D. 203. 

GARNETT, RICHARD. (1835-1906. ) ***Ananda the Miracle Worker. Oxford. 177. ***Demon Pope. Rudwin. 228. **Madam Lucifer. Rudwin. 242. 

GILCHRIST, R. MURRAY. (1867-1917. ) *Gap in the Wall. Oxford. 452. *Witch in the Peak. Oxford. 457. 

GISSING, GEORGE. (1857-1903. ) **Poor Gentleman. Oxford. 380. 

GRANT, CHARLES. (1841-1889. ) **Peppiniello. Oxford. 220. 

HARVEY, WILLIAM F. (_See 1920. _) **Beast With Five Fingers French C. 123. McSpadden B. 193. **Toal. New Dec. B. 54. 

HORNUNG, ERNEST WILLIAM. (1866- . ) *Gentlemen and Players. McSpadden C. 139. 

HUDSON, W. H. ( - . ) (_See 1920. _) ***Dead Man's Plack. Hudson. 3. *Friendly Rat. Van Vechten A. 198. ***Old Thorn. Hudson. 135. 

JAMES, MONTAGUE RHODES. (1862- . ) (_See 1918 and 1920. _) ***Number 13. French C. 45. ***Stalls of Barchester Cathedral. McSpadden B. 121. 

JAMESON, M. STORM. _See_ STORM-JAMESON, M. 

KINGSLEY, CHARLES. (1819-1875. ) ***Spanish Bloodhounds and English Mastiffs. French G. 1. 

LAMB, CHARLES. (1775-1834. ) **First Going to Church. Oxford. 12. 

LAMB, MARY ANN. (1764-1847. ) **Sailor Uncle. Oxford. 1. 

MACHEN, ARTHUR. ***Inmost Light. French D. 158. 

MANN, FRANCIS OSCAR. **Devil in a Nunnery. Rudwin. 1. 

MANSFIELD, KATHERINE. (MRS. J. MIDDLETON MURRY. ) ***Bliss. Mansfield. 116. ***Dill Pickle. Mansfield. 228. ***Escape. Mansfield. 272. ***Feuille d'Album. Mansfield. 218. ***Je Ne Parle Pas Français. Mansfield. 71. ***Little Governess. Mansfield. 239. ***Man Without a Temperament. Mansfield. 172. ***Mr. Reginald Peacock's Day. Mansfield. 194. ***Pictures. Mansfield. 157. ***Prelude. Mansfield. 1. ***Psychology. Mansfield. 145. ***Revelations. Mansfield. 262. ***Sun and Moon. Mansfield. 208. ***Wind Blows. Mansfield. 137. 

MARRYAT, FLORENCE. Box With the Iron Clamps. French E. 157. 

MARRYAT, FREDERICK. (1792-1848. ) *Club-Hauling of the Diomede. French G. 26. 

MASEFIELD, JOHN. ***Devil and the Old Man. Rudwin. 263. ***El Dorado. French G. 324. 

MAUGHAM, W. SOMERSET. *Fall of Edward Barnard. Maugham. 66. *Honolulu. Maugham. 205. *Mackintosh. Maugham. 15. *Pool. Maugham. 148. *Rain. Maugham. 241. *Red. Maugham. 115. 

MERRICK, LEONARD. (1864- . ) (_See 1920. _) **Cafe of the Broken Heart. Merrick C. 83. **Conspiracy for Claudine. Merrick C. 140. *Danger of Being a Twin. Merrick C. 299. **Doll in the Pink Silk Dress. Merrick C. 161. **Dress Clothes of Monsieur Pomponnet. Merrick C. 101. **Fairy Poodle. Merrick C. 240. **Fatal Florozonde. Merrick C. 41. *Hercules and Aphrodite. Merrick C. 318. **How Tricotrin Saw London. Merrick C. 355. **Infidelity of Monsieur Noulens. Merrick C. 373. **Invitation to Dinner. Merrick C. 207. **Judgment of Paris. Merrick C. 225. ***Last Effect. Merrick C. 187. ***Little-Flower-of-the-Wood. Merrick C. 261. **Miracle in Montmartre. Merrick C. 279. **Opportunity of Petitpas. Merrick C. 63. **"Pardon, You Are Mademoiselle Girard!" Merrick C. 384. **Suicides in the Rue Sombre. Merrick C. 121. ***Tragedy of a Comic Song. Merrick C. 1. ***Tricotrin Entertains. Merrick C. 19. 

NEVINSON, HENRY WOODD. (1852- . ) (_See 1920. _) *"Act of Fear. " Nevinson B. 157. ***In Diocletian's Day. Nevinson B. 173. ***Life on the Ocean Wave. Nevinson B. 55. *Pongo's Illusion. Nevinson B. 78. **"Qualis Artifex. " Nevinson B. 1. **"Sitting at a Play. " Nevinson B. 103. **Sly's Awakening. Nevinson B. 27. **Transformation Scene. Nevinson B. 131. 

NIGHTINGALE, M. T. (_See 1920. _) Affair of the Mulhaven Baby. New Dec. B. 82. 

"NOBBS, BILL. " "Once Upon a Time. " New Dec. B. 152. 

OLIPHANT, MARGARET. (1828-1897. ) (_See 1918. _) **Open Door. McSpadden B. 65. 

POWELL, G. H. ***Blue Dryad. Van Vechten A. 131. 

"ROHMER, SAX. " (ARTHUR SARSFIELD WARD. ) (1883- . ) Adventure of the Toadstools. McSpadden C. 121. 

READE, CHARLES. (1814-1884. ) **Merchantman and the Pirate. French G. 75. 

RUSSELL, WILLIAM CLARK. (1844-1911. ) **Storm and a Rescue. French G. 226. 

SADLIER, MICHAEL. (_See 1920, under_ SADLER. ) Bread Upon the Waters. New Dec. B. 20. 

SCOTT, MICHAEL. (1789-1835. ) **Cruise of the Torch. French G. 36. 

STACPOOLE, HENRY DE VERE. (1865- . ) *Salving of the Yan-Shan. French G. 263. 

STEPHENS, JAMES. ***Becuma of the White Skin. Stephens. 219. ***Birth of Bran. Stephens. 91. ***Boyhood of Fionn. Stephens. 35. ***Carl of the Drab Coat. Stephens. 173. ***Enchanted Cave of Cesh Corran. Stephens. 201. ***Little Brawl at Allen. Stephens. 157. ***Morgan's Frenzy. Stephens. 257. ***Oisin's Mother. Stephens. 109. ***Story of Tuan MacCaivill. Stephens. 4. ***Wooing of Becfola. Stephens. 133. 

STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS. (1850-1894. ) (_See 1918 and 1920. _) ***Adventure of the Hansom Cabs. McSpadden C. 93. ***Sire de Malétroit's Door. Oxford. 334. ***Thrawn Janet. French C. 191. 

STORM-JAMESON, M. (_See 1920. _) *Player Perforce. New Dec. B. 158. 

STRACHEY, MARJORIE. *Bamboo-Cutter's Story. Strachey. 123. *Building of Skadar. Strachey. 143. *Courtship of Etain. Strachey. 155. *Janet and Tamlin. Strachey. 73. *Jonkahainen's Sister. Strachey. 101. *Lay of the Ash Tree. Strachey. 23. *Libussa the Prophetess. Strachey. 85. *Saint Iria. Strachey. 49. *Savitri. Strachey. 3. *Vassilissa the Wise. Strachey. 57. *Yanka and Her Brothers. Strachey. 39. 

THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE. (1811-1863. ) *Devil's Wager. Rudwin. 79. **Painter's Bargain. Rudwin. 93. 

VINES, SHERARD. (_See 1920. _) **Salvator Street. New Dec. B. 176. 

WALPOLE, HUGH SEYMOUR. (1884- . ) (_See 1920. _) ***Absalom Jay. Walpole. 13. ***Bombastes Furioso. Walpole. 252. ***Fanny Close. Walpole. 34. ***Hon. Clive Torby. Walpole. 51. ***Lizzie Rand. Walpole. 200. ***Lois Drake. Walpole. 151. ***Lucy Moon. Walpole. 107. ***Miss Morganhurst. Walpole. 69. ***Mrs. Porter and Miss Allen. Walpole. 132. ***Mr. Nix. Walpole. 175. ***Nobody. Walpole. 221. ***Peter Westcott. Walpole. 86. 

WHITE, WILLIAM HALE. ("Mark Rutherford. ") (1831-1913) *"Sweetness of a Man's Friend. " Oxford. 169. 

WILDE, OSCAR. (FINGALL O'FLAHERTIE WILLS. ) (1856-1900. ) (_See 1920. _) ***Birthday of the Infanta. Oxford. 358. 

III. TRANSLATIONS

BALZAC, HONORE DE. (1799-1850. ) (_French. _) ***Afflictions of an English Cat. Van Vechten A. 103. 

BAUDELAIRE, CHARLES PIERRE. (1821-1867. ) (_French. _) ***Generous Gambler. Rudwin. 162. 

BEZA, M. (_Roumanian. _) ***Dead Pool. Roumania. 109. ***Gardana. Roumania. 93. **Zidra. Roumania. 85. 

BRATESCU-VOINESHTI, AL. (_Roumanian. _) ***Bird of Ill Omen. Roumania. 261 ***Fledgling. Roumania. 167. 

"CABALLERO, FERMAN. " (MRS. CECELIA BOHL VON FABER. ) (_Spanish_. ) *Devil's Mother-in-Law. Rudwin. 149. 

CARAGIALE, I. L. (_Roumanian. _) (_See 1920. _) **At Manjoala's Inn. Roumania. 35. ***Easter Torch. Roumania. 11. 

CARGO, FRANCIS. (_French. _) (_See 1920. _) Jim of Molock's Bar. New Dec. B. 9. 

CHEKHOV, ANTON PAVLOVICH. (1861-1904. ) (_Russian. _) (_See 1918 and 1920. _) **Actor's End. Chekhov. G. 303. ***After the Theatre. Chekhov. F. 79. **Avenger. Chekhov G. 245. ***Beauties. Chekhov F. 277. **Beggar. Chekhov G. 179. ***Bet. Chekhov F. 253. ***Cattle-Dealers. Chekhov F. 113. ***Champagne. Chekhov F. 67. **Darkness. Chekhov G. 171. ***Dead Body. Chekhov G. 131. ***Defenceless Creature. Chekhov G. 265. *Enigmatic Nature. Chekhov G. 275. ***First-Class Passenger. Chekhov F. 179. ***Frost. Chekhov G. 209. *Gone Astray. Chekhov G. 237. *Happy Ending. Chekhov G. 141. **Happy Man. Chekhov G. 281. ***Head Gardener's Story. Chekhov F. 267. ***Horse-Stealers. Chekhov G. 3. ***In Exile. Chekhov F. 97. **In the Coach-House. Chekhov F. 229. **In Trouble. Chekhov G. 197. **Jenne Premier. Chekhov G. 255. ***Lady's Story. Chekhov F. 87. **Looking-Glass. Chekhov G. 151. *Minds in Ferment. Chekhov G. 229. ***Misery. Chekhov F. 55. ***Nervous Breakdown. Chekhov F. 17. ***Old Age. Chekhov G. 161. ***On Official Duty. Chekhov F. 153. ***Panic Fears. Chekhov F. 241. **Petchenyeg. Chekhov G. 113. ***Requiem. Chekhov F. 219. ***Safety Match. French F. 229. ***Schoolmistress. Chekhov F. 1. ***Shoemaker and the Devil. Chekhov F. 293. *Slander. Chekhov G. 221. ***Small Fry. Chekhov F. 213. ***Sorrow. Chekhov F. 141. *Story Without a Title. Chekhov G. 189. ***Tragic Actor. Chekhov F. 193. ***Transgression. Chekhov F. 201. ***Troublesome Visitor. Chekhov G. 291. ***Ward No. 6. Chekhov G. 29. 

COROVICH, SVETOZAR. (1875-1918. ) (_Jugo-Slav. _) ***Hodja Saleek. Jugo-Slav. 205

CREANGA, I. (_Roumanian. _) ***Old Nichifor, the Impostor. Roumania. 115. 

DAUDET, ALPHONSE. (1840-1897. ) (_French. _) (_See 1918. _) **Three Low Masses. Rudwin. 167. 

DELAVRANCEA, B. (_Roumanian. _) ***Irinel. Roumania. 267. 

DEULIN, CHARLES. (_French. _) *Devil's Round. Rudwin. 203. 

DOMBROVSKY, IGNATIUS. (_Polish. _) *Legend on the Saturday Sunbeam. Ragozin. 3:165. 

DOSTOEVSKY, FYODOR MIKHARLOVICH. (1821-1881. ) (_Russian. _) (_See 1918 and 1920. _) ***Beggar Boy at Christ's Christmas Tree. Ragozin. 3:173. 

"FRANCE, ANATOLE. " (JACQUES-ANATOLE THIBAULT. ) (1844- . ) (_French. _) (_See 1918. _) ***Lucifer. Rudwin. 250. ***Miracle of the Great St. Nicolas. France. 43. ***Seven Wives of Bluebeard. France. 3. ***Shirt. France. 119. ***Story of the Duchess of Cicogne and of Monsieur de Boulingrin. France. 93. 

GABORIAU, EMILE. (1835-1873. ) (_French. _) *Interview with M. Lecoq. McSpadden C. 29. 

GAUTIER, THEOPHILE. (1811-1872. ) (_French. _) (_See 1918. _) ***Mummy's Foot. French D. 77. 

GLISICH, MILOVAN. (1827-1908. ) (_Jugo-Slav. _) ***First Furrow. Jugo-Slav. 109. 

GOGOL, NIKOLAI VASILIEVICH. (1809-1852. ) (_Russian. _) (_See 1918 and 1920. _) ***St. John's Eve. Rudwin. 56. 

"GORKI MAXIM. " (ALEXEI MAXIMOVICH PYESHKER. ) (1868 or 1869- . ) (_Russian. _) (_See 1918 and 1920. _) ***Devil. Rudwin. 257. 

HAMP, PIERRE. (_French. _) ***Mademoiselle Sowrire. Hamp. 61. ***Man With a Soft Job. Hamp. 44. ***"Miller, You're Asleep. " Hamp. 133. ***Monsieur Becqueriaux. Hamp. 187. ***Monsieur Robled's Throat. Hamp. 29. ***Nonnon. Hamp. 11. ***Screen. Hamp. 199. **Seine Rises. Hamp. 71. ***Sweet Smeller. Hamp. 21. ***Tight-Wads. Hamp. 37. ***At the Chevalier Restaurant. Hamp. 94. *At the Express Window. Hamp. 89. ***Boxers. Hamp. 146. ***Bourbon's Pleasures. Hamp. 157. ***Fat-Mouth. Hamp. 104. **Fly-Catcher. Hamp. 111. ***Fried-Potato Sisters. Hamp. 3. ***Gracieuse. Hamp. 54. **Joy Boys. Hamp. 170. *King's C's. Hamp. 193. 

HAUFF, WILHELM. (1802-1827. ) (_German. _) **From the Memoirs of Satan. Rudwin. 46. 

HUGO, VICTOR. (1802-1885. ) **Corvette Claymore. French G. 181. 

JOVANOVICH, ZMAJ-JOVAN. (1833-1904. ) (_Jugo-Slav. _) ***Vidosava Brankovich. Jugo-Slav. 79. 

KOROLENKO, VLADIMIR GALAKTIONOVICH. (1853- . ) (_Russian. _) (_See 1920. _) ***"Slayer. " Ragozin. 4:109. ***Winter. Ragozin. 4:174. 

LAZAROVICH, LAZAR. (1851-1890. ) (_Jugo-Slav. _) ***By the Well. Jugo-Slav. 123. ***First Matins with My Father. Jugo-Slav. 19. 

LE BLANC, MAURICE. (1864- . ) (_French. _) Sign of the Shadow. McSpadden C. 261. 

LERMONTOF, MICHAIL YURIEVICH. (1814-1841. ) (_Russian. _) ***Travelling Episode. Ragozin. 1:171. 

LESSKOF, NICOLAS STEPANOVICH. (1831-1895. ) (_Russian. _) **Friends. Ragozin. 3:52. ***From an Old Chronicle. Ragozin. 3:99. **Pearl Necklace. Ragozin. 3:20. ***Simpleton. Ragozin. 3:3. 

LJUBISA. STJEPAN MITROR. (1821-1878. ) (_Jugo-Slav. _) ***Kanjosh Macedonovich. Jugo-slav. 51. 

"LOTI, PIERRE. " (LOUIS-MARIE-JULIEN VIAUD. ) (1850- . ) (_French. _) ***Sailor's Wife. French G. 250. 

MACHIAVELLI, NICCOLO. (1469-1527. ) (_Italian. _) **Belphagor, or the Marriage of the Devil. Rudwin. 14. 

MAMIN-SIBIRIÀK, D. W. (_Russian. _) ***Father Elect. Ragozin 2:147. ***Misgir. Ragozin 2:103. 

MATAVULYA, SIMO. (1852-1908. ) (_Jugo-Slav. _) ***Povareta. Jugo-Slav. 187. 

MAUPASSANT, HENRI RENE ALBERT GUY DE. (1850-1893. ) (_French. _) (_See 1918. _) ***Horla. French C. 84. **Legend of Mont St. Michel. Rudwin. 222. ***Man with the Pale Eyes. French D. 230. 

NEGRUZZI, C. (_Roumanian. _) **Alexandru Lapushneanu. Roumania. 51. 

*NIEDZWIECKI, ZYGMUNT. (_Polish. _) *In May. Ragozin 2:201. 

POPOVICI-BANATZEANU, ION. (_Roumanian. _) ***Out in the World. Roumania. 207. 

PUSHKIN, ALEXANDER SERGEYEVICH. (1799-1837. ) (_Russian. _) (_See 1920. _) ***Good Shot. Ragozin 1:51. ***Masquerading. Ragozin 1:5. ***Queen of Spades. Ragozin 1:107. ***Snowstorm. Ragozin 1:79. 

SADOVEANU, M. (_Roumanian. _) ***Cozma Racoare. Roumania. 141. **Fairy of the Lake. Roumania. 1. ***Wanderers. Roumania. 157. 

SALTYKOF, M. Y. "N. SCHEDRIN. " (1826-1889. ) (_Russian. _) ***Christmas Sermon. Ragozin 2:5. ***Eagle, Patron of Learning. Ragozin 2:77. ***Lost Conscience. Ragozin 2:49. **Peasant and the Two Excellencies. Ragozin 2:31. 

SLAVICI, I. (_Roumanian. _) ***Popa Tanda. Roumania. 175. 

SLUCHEVSKY, K. Y. (_Russian. _) **Can the End Justify the Means? Ragozin 2:169. **Coward or Hero? Ragozin 2:185. 

STANINOKOVICH, CONSTANTINE MIKHAILOVICH. (1844-1903. ) (_Russian. _) *Bobtail. Ragozin 4:6. *Convict. Ragozin 4:56. 

TOLSTOI, LYOF NIKOLAIEVICH, COUNT. (1828-1910. ) (_Russian. _) (_See 1918 and 1920. _) ***Three Deaths. Ragozin 3:187. 

TURGENEV, IVAN SERGIEVICH. (1818-1883. ) (_Russian. _) (_See 1920. _) ***Father Alexey's Story. Turgenev. 125. ***Quiet Backwater. Turgenev. 217. ***Three Meetings. Turgenev. 155. ***Two Friends. Turgenev. 1. 

USPENSKY, GLIEB IVANOVICH. (1840-1905. ) (_Russian. _) *Inspecting the Bride. Ragozin 2:212. 

VESELINOVICH, JANKO. (1862-1905. ) (_Jugo-Slav. _) ***Eternity. Jugo-Slav. 227. ***Kum's Curse. Jugo-Slav. 151. 

VILLIERS DE L'ISLE-ADAM. PHILIPPE AUGUSTE MATHIAS, COMTE DE. (1840-1889. ) (_French. _) ***Torture By Hope. French E. 149. 

ZEISINGER, HELEN. (_Polish. _) *Christmas Eve in the Forest. Ragozin 2:235. 

MAGAZINE AVERAGES

OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921

_The following table includes the averages of American periodicalspublished from October, 1920, to September, 1921, inclusive. One two, three asterisks are employed to indicate relative distinction. "Three-asterisk stories" are of somewhat permanent literary value. Thelist excludes reprints. _

 _______________________________________________________________________ | | | | | No. Of | Percentage | No. Of | Distinctive | of Distinctive Periodicals | Stories | Stories | Stories (Oct. -Sept. ) | Published | Published | Published | |_________________|_________________ | | | | | | | | | * | ** | *** | * | ** | *** _______________________|___________|_____|_____|_____|_____|_____|_____ | | | | | | | All's Well | 14 | 6 | 3 | 2 | 43 | 21 | 14 Asia | 11 | 10 | 1 | 0 | 90 | 9 | 0 Atlantic Monthly | 20 | 13 | 7 | 3 | 65 | 35 | 15 Century | 50 | 35 | 15 | 5 | 70 | 30 | 10 Chicago Tribune | 52 | 11 | 2 | 1 | 22 | 4 | 2 Collier's Weekly | 106 | 12 | 1 | 0 | 12 | 1 | 0 Cosmopolitan | 83 | 15 | 6 | 2 | 18 | 7 | 2 Dial | 16 | 16 | 14 | 11 | 100 | 88 | 69 Everybody's Magazine | 91 | 16 | 7 | 1 | 18 | 8 | 1 Good Housekeeping | 46 | 13 | 4 | 1 | 28 | 9 | 2 Harper's Bazar | 32 | 12 | 1 | 0 | 38 | 3 | 0 Harper's Magazine | 53 | 39 | 24 | 10 | 74 | 45 | 19 Hearst's International | 79 | 18 | 3 | 0 | 23 | 4 | 0 Ladies' Home Journal | 52 | 8 | 0 | 0 | 15 | 0 | 0 McCall's Magazine | 48 | 9 | 3 | 0 | 19 | 6 | 0 McClure's Magazine | 46 | 8 | 2 | 1 | 17 | 4 | 2 Metropolitan | 74 | 18 | 9 | 3 | 24 | 12 | 4 Midland | 15 | 14 | 8 | 3 | 93 | 53 | 20 New York Tribune | | | | | | | Pictorial Review | 65 | 46 | 31 | 21 | 71 | 48 | 32 Red Book Magazine | 116 | 23 | 0 | 0 | 20 | 0 | 0 Saturday Evening Post | 221 | 32 | 7 | 3 | 15 | 3 | 1 Scribner's Magazine | 46 | 24 | 8 | 4 | 52 | 17 | 9 Smart Set | 115 | 29 | 8 | 4 | 25 | 7 | 4 _______________________|___________|_____|_____|_____|_____|_____|_____

_The following tables indicate the rank, during the period betweenOctober, 1920, and September, 1921, inclusive, by number and percentageof distinctive stories published, of the twenty-three periodicals comingwithin the scope of my examination which have published an average of 15per cent in stories of distinction. The lists exclude reprints but nottranslations. _

BY PERCENTAGE OF DISTINCTIVE STORIES

 1. Dial 100% 2. Midland 93% 3. Asia 90% 4. Harper's Magazine 74% 5. Pictorial Review 71% 6. Century 70% 7. Atlantic Monthly 65% 8. Scribner's Magazine 52% 9. All's Well 43% 10. Harper's Bazar 38% 11. Good Housekeeping 28% 12. Smart Set 25% 13. Metropolitan 24% 14. Hearst's International 23% 15. Chicago Tribune 22% 16. Red Book Magazine 20% 17. McCall's Magazine 19% 18. Everybody's Magazine 18% 19. Cosmopolitan 18% 20. McClure's Magazine 17% 21. Saturday Evening Post 15% 22. Ladies' Home Journal 15% 23. Collier's Weekly 12%

BY NUMBER OF DISTINCTIVE STORIES

 1. Pictorial Review 46 2. Harper's Magazine 39 3. Century 35 4. Saturday Evening Post 32 5. Smart Set 29 6. Scribner's Magazine 24 7. Red Book Magazine 23 8. Metropolitan 18 9. Hearst's International 18 10. Dial 16 11. Everybody's Magazine 16 12. Cosmopolitan 15 13. Midland 14 14. Atlantic Monthly 13 15. Good Housekeeping 13 16. Harper's Bazar 12 17. Collier's Weekly 12 18. Chicago Tribune 11 19. Asia 10 20. McCall's Magazine 9 21. McClure's Magazine 8 22. Ladies' Home Journal 8 23. All's Well 6

_The following periodicals have published during the same period ten ormore "two-asterisk stories. " The list excludes reprints, but nottranslations. Periodicals represented in this list during 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, and 1920 are represented by the prefixed letters a, b, c, d, e, and f respectively. _

 1. Bcdef Pictorial Review 31 2. Abcdef Harper's Magazine 24 3. Abcdef Century 15 4. F Dial 14

_The following periodicals have published during the same period five ormore "three-asterisk stories. " The list excludes reprints, but nottranslations. The same signs are used as prefixes as in the previouslist. _

 1. Bcdef Pictorial Review 21 2. F Dial 11 3. Abcdef Harper's Magazine 10 4. Abcdef Century 5

_Ties in the above lists have been decided by taking relative rank inother lists into account. _

INDEX OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED IN AMERICAN MAGAZINES

OCTOBER, 1920, TO SEPTEMBER, 1921

_All short stories published in the following magazines and newspapers, October, 1920, to September, 1921 inclusive, are indexed:_

 All's Well American Magazine Asia Atlantic Monthly Bookman Catholic World Century Chicago Tribune (Syndicate Service) Collier's Weekly Cosmopolitan Delineator Dial Everybody's Magazine Freeman Good Housekeeping Harper's Bazar Harper's Magazine Hearst's International Magazine Ladies' Home Journal Liberator Little Review McCall's Magazine McClure's Magazine Metropolitan Midland New York Tribune Pagan Pictorial Review Red Book Magazine Saturday Evening Post Scribner's Magazine Smart Set Sunset Magazine Touchstone Woman's Home Companion

_Short stories of distinction only, published in the following magazinesduring the same period, are indexed:_

 Adventure Ainslee's Magazine Argosy All-Story Weekly Follies Holland's Magazine Little Story Magazine Live Stories Magnificat Munsey's Magazine New Parisienne Popular Magazine Romance Snappy Stories Telling Tales To-day's Housewife Top-Notch Magazine

_Certain stories of distinction published in the following magazinesduring this period are indexed, because they have been specially calledto my attention:_

 Apropos Current Opinion Midwest Bookman New York Call Magazine Northwestern Miller Western Story Magazine

_I have considered several other magazines without finding any storiesof distinction. The present list includes a small number of distinctivestories published between October, 1919 and September, 1920, which I wasunable to read last year owing to labor and transportationdifficulties. _

_One, two, or three asterisks are prefixed to the titles of stories toindicate distinction. Three asterisks prefixed to a title indicate themore or less permanent literary value of the story, and entitle it to aplace on the annual "Rolls of Honor. " Cross references after an author'sname refer to previous volumes of this series. (H. ) after the name of anauthor indicates that other stories by this author, published inAmerican magazines between 1900 and 1914, are to be found indexed in"The Standard Index of Short Stories, " by Francis J. Hannigan, publishedby Small, Maynard & Company, 1918. The figures in parentheses after thetitle of a story refer to the volume and page number of the magazine. Incases where successive numbers of a magazine are not pagedconsecutively, the page number only is given in this index. _

_The following abbreviations are used in the index:_

 _Adv. _ Adventure _Ain. _ Ainslee's Magazine _Am. _ American Magazine _Am. B. _ American Boy _Apropos. _ Apropos _Arg. _ Argosy All-Story Weekly _Asia. _ Asia _Atl. _ Atlantic Monthly _A. W. _ All's Well _Book. _ Bookman (N. Y. ) _Call. _ New York Call Magazine _Cath. W. _ Catholic World _Cen. _ Century _Chic. Trib. _ Chicago Tribune (Syndicate Service) _Col. _ Collier's Weekly _Cos. _ Cosmopolitan _Cur. O. _ Current Opinion _Del. _ Delineator _Dial. _ Dial _Ev. _ Everybody's Magazine _Fol. _ Follies _Free. _ Freeman _G. H. _ Good Housekeeping _Harp. B. _ Harper's Bazar _Harp. M. _ Harper's Magazine _Hear. _ Hearst's International Magazine _Hol. _ Holland's Magazine _L. H. J. _ Ladies' Home Journal _Lib. _ Liberator _Lit. R. _ Little Review _Lit. S. _ Little Story Magazine _L. St. _ Live Stories _Mag. _ Magnificat _McC. _ McClure's Magazine _McCall. _ McCall's Magazine _Met. _ Metropolitan _Mid. _ Midland _Mid. Book. _ Midwest Bookman _Mun. _ Munsey's Magazine _N. Y. Trib. _ New York Tribune _N. M. _ Northwestern Miller _Pag. _ Pagan _Par. _ New Parisienne _Pict. R. _ Pictorial Review _Pop. _ Popular Magazine (_R. _) Reprint _Red Bk. _ Red Book Magazine _Rom. _ Romance _Scr. _ Scribner's Magazine _S. E. P. _ Saturday Evening Post _Sn. St. _ Snappy Stories _S. S. _ Smart Set _Sun. _ Sunset Magazine _Tod. _ To-day's Housewife _Top. _ Top-Notch Magazine _Touch. _ Touchstone _T. T. _ Telling Tales _W. H. C. _ Woman's Home Companion _W. St. _ Western Story Magazine (_161_) Page 161 (_2:161_) Volume 2, page 161 (_See 1915_) _See_ "Best Short Stories of 1915"

I. AMERICAN AUTHORS

A

ABBOTT, ELEANOR HALLOWELL. MRS. FORDYCE COBURN. (1872- . ) (_See 1915, 1918, 1920. _) (_H. _) Blinded Lady. Pict. R. Sept. (12. ) Book of the Funny Smells--and Everything. L. H. J. Sept. (8. ) Fairy Prince. Pict. R. Dec. , '20. (6. ) Game of the Bewitchments. G. H. (39. )

ABBOTT, HARRIET. He Couldn't Stand Prosperity. Am. June. (14. )

ABBOTT, KEENE. (_See 1915, 1916. _) (_H. _) *Anchored. L. H. J. Mar. , '20. (9. )

ABBOTT, VERNA. *Unbalanced. Arg. Oct. 23, '20. (126:522. )

ABDULLAH, ACHMED. (ACHMED ABDULLAH NADIR KHAN EL-DURANI EL-IDRISSYEH. "A. A. Nadir. ") (1881- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Broadway of It. Mun. Oct. , '20 (71:99. ) ***Dutiful Grief. Pict. R. Aug. (10. ) ***Lute of Jade. Pict. R. Oct. , '20. (8. ) *Perfect Way. T. T. Sept. (126. ) *"There's Corn in Egypt. " Ain. Jan. (64. ) *Triumph. T. T. Aug. (36. )

ADAMS, FRANK R. (1883- . ) (_See 1915, 1916. _) Good Little Bathing Girl. Cos. Aug. (59. ) Man-Handling Ethel. Cos. Jan. (29. ) Miles Brewster and the Super-Sex. Cos. Jul. (35. ) Miss Wife o' Mine. Cos. Feb. (53. ) Near-Lady. Cos. Mar. (33. ) Rival to the Prince. Cos. Dec. , '20. (53. ) Tarnished Chevrons. Cos. Nov. , '20. (43. ) This Eileen Person. Cos. Oct. , '20. (29. ) What's It All About? Cos. May. (53. ) You Have to Choose. Cos. June. (44. )

ADAMS, SAMUEL HOPKINS. (1871- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Amateurs and Others. Red Bk. June. (66. ) Andy Dunne and the Barker. S. E. P. May 7. (5. ) *Barbran. Col. Dec. 25, '20. (8. ) Doom River Bed. Red Bk. Oct. , '20. (32. ) *For Mayme, Read Mary. Col. Mar. 19. (5. ) Salvage. Del. June. (8. ) Shoal Waters. S. E. P. Aug. 27. (14. ) Silverwing. L. H. J. Aug. (10. )

ADDISON, THOMAS. (_See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) Sealed Proposals. Ev. Oct. , '20. (54. )

AGEE, MRS. H. P. _See_ LEA, FANNY HEASLIP. 

AKINS, ZOE. (1886- . ) (_See 1919, 1920. _) Rings and Chains. Cos. Dec. , '20. (25. )

ALDRICH, BESS STREETER. ("MARGARET DEAN STEVENS. ") (1881- . ) (_See 1919, 1920. _) (_See 1916 under_ STEVENS, MARGARET DEAN. ) Father Mason Retires. Am. Oct. , '20. (26. )

ALEXANDER, ELIZABETH. Fifty-Two Weeks for Florette, S. E. P. Aug. 13. (10. )

ALEXANDER, IDA. First Client. W. H. C. Jul. (31. ) Immovable Kelly. Met. Aug. (34. ) Robe for Rodney. W. H. C. Apr. (16. )

"ALEXANDER, MARY. " _See_ KILBOURNE, FANNIE. 

ALEXANDER, MILDRED SCOTT. Be Sociable! G. H. (60. )

ALEXANDER, SANDRA. (_See 1919, 1920. _) *His Absolute Safety. Cen. Dec. , '20. (101:181. )

ALLEN, JAMES LANE. (1849- . ) (_See 1915. _) (_H. _) ***Ash-Can. Cen. Sept. (102:657. )

ALLEN, MARYLAND. (MRS. EDWARD TYSON ALLEN. ) (_See 1915, 1916. _) (_H. _) Urge. Ev. Sept. (135. )

ANDERSON, FREDERICK IRVING. (1877- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Assassins. Pict. R. Feb. (12. ) Dolores Cay. Chic. Trib. Jan. 23. **Phantom Alibi. McC. Nov. , '20 (27. ) Signed Masterpiece. McC. June-Jul. (21. )

ANDERSON. SHERWOOD. (1876- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) ***Brothers. Book. Apr. (53:110. ) ***New Englander. Dial. Feb. (70:143. ) ***Unlighted Lamps. S. S. Jul. (45. )

ANDREWS, A. C. House That Stood Back. Chic. Trib. Aug. 28. 

ANDREWS, MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919. _) (_H. _) *Reluctantly Diana. Scr. Oct. , '20. (68:463. )

ANTHONY, JOSEPH. **Cask of Ale for Columban. Cen. Mar. (101:583. )

APOTHEKER, NAN. John Miles' Stenographer. S. S. Jan. (77. )

APPLE, E. ALBERT. (_See 1915. _) (_H. _) Twenty Miles from Nowhere. Am. June. (46. )

ARBUCKLE, MARY. (_See 1917. _) Big Rich. McCall. Oct. , '20. (14. ) Wasted. Mid. May. (7:177. )

ARMS, LOUIS LEE. Heart-Crusher. Ev. Oct. , '20. (74. )

ARMSTRONG, WILLIMINA L. _See_ "Dost, Zamin Ki. "

ASHBY, W. S. Tied Down by His Wife. Am. Apr. (47. )

ASPINWALL, MARGUERITE. (_See 1918, 1920. _) House on the Island. Sun. Dec. , '20. (32. ) Jan. (30. )

AUSTIN, MARY (HUNTER). (1868- . ) (_See 1918. _) (_H. _) Kiss of Nino Dios. Del. Dec. , '20. (7. ) *Souls of Stitt. Harp. M. Dec. , '20. (142:71. )

AVERY, STEPHEN MOREHOUSE. (_See 1920. _) All About Men. Harp. B. Oct. , '20. (78. ) "Chameleon. " Pict. R. June. (10. ) Mademoiselle Papillon. Pict. R. Mar. (14. ) "Patchwork. " Cen. June. (102:202. )

B

BABCOCK, EDWINA STANTON. (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Lion. Harp. M. Apr. (142:569. ) **Nourishment, Harp. M. Feb. (142:283. )

BACHELLER, IRVING. (1859- . ) (_See 1915, 1918. _) (_H. _) Forks. Am. Jan. (28. ) Riddles. Ev. May. (28. ), June. (44. )

BACHMANN, ROBERT A. (_See 1919. _) (_H. _) Art is Art and Business Business. Met. Dec. , '20. (25. )

BACON, JOSEPHINE DASKAM. (1876- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919. _) (_H. _) Blind Cupid. Col. Oct. 2, '20. (5. ) Oct. 9. (14. ) *Crossed Wires. L. H. J. Feb. (6. ) In September. L. H. J. Oct. , '20 (7. )

BAILEY, (IRENE) TEMPLE. (_See 1915, 1917, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Burned Toast. S. E. P. Dec. 4, '20. (17. ) **Hidden Land. Harp. M. Oct. , '20. (141:553. ) Nov. , '20. (141:795. ) Wait--For Prince Charming. L. H. J. Dec. , '20. (8. ) White Birches. S. E. P. June 18. (8. )

BAKER, KARLE WILSON. ("CHARLOTTE WILSON. ") (1878- . ) *Porch-Swing. Cen. Apr. (101:679. )

BALL, MRS. T. AUSTIN. _See_ STEELE, ALICE GARLAND. 

BALL, WILLIAM DAVID. (_See 1917. _) Brute. McCall. Apr. (10. )

BALMER, EDWIN. (1883- . ) (_See 1915, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Against the World. Del. Nov. , '20. (12. ) Beyond the Alps. Hear. Jul. (10. ) Daughter of Violence. Cos. Jan. (75. ) Lost In Mid-Air. Am. May. (29. ) Queer Reunion of Three Friends. Am. Dec. , '20. (28. ) Settled Down. Ev. Feb. (48. ) Something Big. Met. Aug. (27. ) That Man Called Gentleman. Met. Dec. , '20. (22. ) Wide House of the World. Met. Sept. (26. )

BARKER, CHARLES H. Revival. A. W. Aug. (1:184. )

BARNARD, FLOY TOLBERT. (1879- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919. _) In the Fields of Boaz. McCall. Feb. (8. )

BARNES, DJUNA. (1892- . ) (_See 1918, 1919, 1920. _) **Katrina Silverstaff. Lit. R. Jan. Mar. (27. ) ***Oscar. Lit. R. Apr. , '20. (7. ) **Robin's House. Lit. R. Sept. -Dec. (31. )

BARRETT, RICHMOND BROOKS. (_See 1920. _) "Darling. " S. S. Dec. , '20. (53. ) Fool's Paradise. S. S. Sept. (95. ) Not Without Dust and Heat. S. S. June. (119. )

BARTLETT, FREDERICK ORIN. (1876- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Intangibles. Ev. Nov. , '20. (40. ) Managers. Chic. Trib. Feb. (20. ) Queer Noises. Ev. Apr. (9. ) Reserved. Del. Aug. (9. ) Secret History. S. E. P. Jan. 8. (14. ) Strangle-Hold. Ev. May. (60. )

BARTLEY, NALBRO. (1888- . ) (_See 1917, 1918, 1919. _) After-Wit. Ev. Jan. (21. ) Merely Married. Ev. Nov. , '20. (23. ) Poor Men's Orchids. Ev. May. (13. ) Wise or Otherwise. Ev. June. (23. )

BARTON, BRUCE. (1886- . ) "It Happened In Orchard Street. " W. H. C. May. (29. ) Steve Carter, Who Won the War. W. H. C. Jul. (21. )

BEACH, REX. (ELLINGWOOD. ) (1877- . ) (_See 1919. _) Flowing Gold. Hear. May. (6. )

BEARD, WOLCOTT LE CLEAR. (1867- . ) (_See 1915, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) In Honey's House. Scr. June. (69:741. )

BEAUMONT, GERALD. Called On Account of Darkness. Red Bk. Sept. (56. ) Crab. Red Bk. Aug. (70. ) His Honor the Umps. S. E. P. Jul. 16. (12. ) John McArdle, Referee. Red Bk. Jul. (50. ) Kerrigan's Kid. Red Bk. Apr. (86. ) Leaves of Friendship. Red Bk. June. (37. ) Lil' ol' Red Stockings. Ev. Feb. (12. ) 133 at 3. Red Bk. Mar. (61. ) Rainbow. Red Bk. May. (86. ) United States Smith. Red Bk. Jan. (30. )

BECHDOLT, ADELE FORTIER. Problem of Mother. Sun. Dec. , '20. (40. )

BEER, THOMAS. (1889- . ) (_See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) *Josh and the Lofty Mountain. S. E. P. Jan. 29. (8. ) *Lily Pond. S. E. P. Apr. 16. (28. ) *Little Eva Ascends. S. E. P. Apr. 9. (16. ) *Mighty Man. S. E. P. Mar. 13, '20. (8. ) *Mummery. S. E. P. Jul. 30. (14. ) Yawl. S. E. P. Aug. 6. (16. )

BEHRMAN, S. N. (_See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) *Wraith. S. S. Nov. , '20. (91. )

BELKNAP, G. Y. Without Surrender. S. S. Feb. (57. )

BELL, R. S. WARREN. Lesson. Chic. Trib. Dec. 26, '20. 

BENDA, LILITH. Prosaic Conclusion. S. S. Aug. (101. )

BENNETT-THOMPSON, LILLIAN. _See_ THOMPSON, LILLIAN BENNET _and_ HUBBARD, GEORGE. 

BENSON, E. M. Starfish and Sea Lavender. Hear. Jan. (21. )

BENSON, RAMSEY. (1866- . ) (_See 1917. _) *Whom the Lord Loveth. Rom. Oct. , '20. (8. )

BENTON, MARGARET. What Gitton Learned in 1920. Am. Nov. , '20. (61. )

BERCOVICI, KONRAD. (1882- . ) (_See 1920. _) **Bear-Tamer's Daughter. Adv. Jul. 3. (49. ) *Broken Dreams. Rom. Oct. , '20. (155. ) ***Fanutza. Dial. May. (70: 545. ) *Miracle Machine. McC. Mar. (25. ) **To Shed Blood. Adv. Aug. 18. (89. ) **Vlad's Son. Adv. Mar. 18. (147. )

BERTHOUD, FERDINAND. *Unholy One. Adv. Nov. 3, '20. (67. )

BETTS, THOMAS JEFFRIES. (_See 1916, 1917, 1918. _) *Recall. Scr. Mar. (69: 289. )

BIGGERS, EARL DERR. (1884- . ) (_See 1916, 1917. _) Girl Who Paid Dividends. S. E. P. Apr. 23. (12. ) Idle Hands. S. E. P. June 11. (5. ) John Henry and the Restless Sex. S. E. P. Mar 5. (10. ) Prisoners in Paradise. Am. Jul. (23. ) Selling Miss Minerva. S. E. P. Feb. 5. (10. ) Shining Garments of Success. Pict. R. Oct, '20. (30. )

BLANCHARD, EDWIN H. *Grandpa Drum. S. S. Mar. (87. ) *Hired Girl. S. S. Sept. (86. ) His Book. S. S. Jul. (29. )

BLOCK, RUDOLPH. _See_ "LESSING, BRUNO. "

BLUDGETT, MRS. SIDNEY. _See_ DEJEANS, ELIZABETH. 

BOAS, GEORGE. (_See 1920. _) Better Recipe. Atl. Mar. (127: 379. )

BOOTH, ALICE. Little Lady. G. H. Apr. (24)

BOULTON, AGNES. (MRS. EUGENE G. O'NEILL. ) (1893- . ) (_See 1920. _) *Snob. S. S. June. (83. )

BOUVE, WINSTON. Dollars. Met. Mar. (20. )

BOWEN, HELENE H. Women. Pag. May. (24. )

BOYD, JAMES. (1866- . ) *Old Pines. Cen. Mar. (101: 609) **Sound of a Voice. Scr. Aug. (70: 214. )

BOYER, WILBUR S. (_See 1917, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Lallapaloosa. Ev. Oct. , '20. (61. ) Simps. Col. June 25. (7. )

BOYLE, JACK. Boomerang Bill. Cos. Dec. , '20 (65. ) Child of the Famine. Red Bk. Sept. (52. ) Claws of the Tong. Red Bk. Apr. (47. ) Heart of the Lily. Red Bk. Feb. (25. ) Little Lord of All the Earth. Red Bk. Mar. (33. ) Mother of the Middle Kingdom Red Bk. June. (71. ) Painted Child. Cos. Oct. , '20 (65. )

BRACE, BLANCHE. (_See 1920. _) Adventure of a Ready Letter Writer. S. E. P. Nov. 13, '20 (18. ) Jane Goes In. S. E. P. Jul. 16. (14. )

BRACKETT. CHARLES. Money Matters. S. E. P. Feb. 19. (8. )

BRADLEY, MARY HASTINGS, (_See 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Children of the Street. Met. Mar. (9. )

BRADY, FRANK. Check, Please. McCall. Jan. (13. )

BRALEY, BERTON. (1882- . ) (_See 1915, 1917, 1918. _) (_H. _) High Cost of Hot Cakes. W. H. C. Nov. , '20. (18. ) Nemesis Has a Busy Day. Ev. Oct. , '20. (37. )

BRANDT, WILLIAM E. *Liberator. Lit. S. Dec. , '20. (28. )

BRINIG, MYRON. Blissful Interlude. S. S. Aug. (53. )

BRODY, CATHARINE. American Luck. S. S. Aug. (63. ) Saturday Night Blues. S. S. Oct. , '20. (85. )

BROOKS, ALDEN. . (_See 1916, 1917, 1918. _) (_H. _) *Barren Soil. S. E. P. Mar. 20, '20, (30. )

BROOKS. JONATHAN. (_See 1920. _) Galloping Ghosts. Col. Sept. 3. (3. ) Indiana Pajamas. Col. Jul. 16. (3. ) Monkey Crouch. Col. May 14. (5. ) Roll, Jordan, Roll. Col. Oct. 23, '20. (5. ) Step Lively, Please. Col. Apr. 9. (14. ) Wedding Bells, C. O. D. Col. Sept. 17. (3. )

BROOKS, PAUL. (_See 1920. _) Poor Winnie! Poor Towny! S. S. Dec '20. (99. )

BROWN, ALICE. (1857- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Judgment from Above. Harp. M. June. (143:86. ) *Little Elm. L. H. J. Aug. (8. ) *Shooting-Stars. W. H. C. Nov. , '20. (7. )

BROWN, BERNICE. (_See 1917, 1918. _) Being a Nobody. Col. Sept. 17. (7. ) Double Barriers. McCall. Mar. (11. ) Emperor Hadrian. Col. Apr. 23. (3. ) Fortune Huntress. McCall. Sept. (13. ) Her Thousand Dollars. Col. June 18. (7. ) Stranger--My Dog. Col. Feb. 5. (7. ) Women Are Like That. Col. Jul. 2 (3. )

BROWN, CAMBRAY. Time Clock in the Taj Mahal. Harp. M. Feb. (142:401. )

BROWN, DEMETRA KENNETH. (_See_ "VAKA, DEMETRA. ")

BROWN, KATHARINE HOLLAND. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Argive Helen and the Little Maid of Tyre. Scr. Aug. (70:172. ) Neighbor. W. H. C. Dec. , '20. (26. )

BROWN, ROYAL. (_See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) As Grandpop said to Grant. Cos. Nov. , '20. (27. ) Dynamite. Cos. Jul. (75. ) From Four to Eleven--Three! McC. Oct. , '20. (19. ) Kelly of Charles Street. Cos. Aug. (42. ) Long, Long Shot. McC. Jan. (12. ) Lyons and Miss Mouse. McC. June-Jul. (18. ) Mother Takes a Hand in the Game. Am. Dec. , '20. (13. ) Priscilla Bags a Big One. Cos. Apr. (43. ) This Suspense is Terrible. Cos. Mar. (53. ) Two Hours to Train Time. Red Bk. Oct. , '20. (63. ) Unfair Sex. Cos. May. (37. )

BROWNE, PORTER EMERSON. (1879- . ) (_See 1916, 1918. _) (_H. _) Wild Horses. Col. Jan. 1. (14. )

BROWNELL, AGNES MARY. (---- -1921. ) (_See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) *Doc Greer's Practice. Mid. Jan. (7:26. )

BRUBAKER, HOWARD. (1892- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Ruby Common. Col. Mar. 26. (14. ) Tight Rope. S. E. P. Aug. 20. (14. ) *When Knighthood Was In Bud. Harp. M. Apr. (142:642. ) Writing on the Wall Paper. Col. May 21. (7. ) *Young-Man-Afraid-of-His-Future. Harp. M. May. (142:761. )

BRYSON, LYMAN LLOYD. (1888- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918. _) *Shadow. Scr. Jan. (69:99. )

BUCHANAN, JOHN PRESTON. *Trial of Jonathan Goode. Scr. Dec. , '20. (68:711. )

BULGER, BOZEMAN. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920. _) Class Double A. S. E. P. May 28. (12. )

BULLOCK, WILLIAM. (_See 1915. _) Hereditary Punch. Ev. Aug. (79. ) Mama's Boy. Ev. Sept. (39. )

BURANELLI, PROSPER. *Lost Lip. Harp. M. Jan. (142:242. )

BURNETT, FRANCES HODGSON. (_See 1915, 1917. _) (_H. _) *House in the Dismal Swamp. G. H. Apr. , '20. (16. )

BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS. (1882- . ) (_See 1915, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) **Buchanan Hears the Wind. Harp. M. Aug. (143:274. ) ***Experiment. Pict. R. June. (5. ) *Full Moon. Chic. Trib. Feb. 13. Making of a Patriot. S. E. P. Aug. 13. (14. ) Sweet Syllables. S. E. P. June 11. (3. )

BUTLER, ELLIS PARKER. (1869- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1817, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Man Who Murdered a Fairy. Pict. R. Apr. (12. ) Once a Penguin Always a Penguin. Harp. M. June. (143:129. )

BUZZELL, FRANCIS. (1882- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917. _) (_H. _) *Troubleman. Pict. R. May. (14. )

"BYRNE, DONN. " (BRYAN OSWALD DONN-BYRNE. ) (1888- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Daughter of the Medici. Hear. Sept. (6. ) *Great Gift. Hear. Jul. (13. ) *Keeper of the Bridge. McC. Apr. (6. ) Marriage Has Been Arranged. Hear. May. (10. ) Reynardine. McC. May. (15. ) What Became of M. Gilholme? Hear. Jan. (11. )

C

CABELL, JAMES BRANCH. (1879- . ) (_See 1915, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) ***Image of Sesphra. Rom. Oct. , '20. (87. )

CAMP, (CHARLES) WADSWORTH. (1879- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920. _) (_H. _) Haunted House. Col. Jan. 8. (5. ) Real People. Col. Jul. 9. (5. )

CAMPBELL, MARJORIE PRENTISS. (_See 1919, 1920. _) After Midnight. Hear. May. (41. )

CANFIELD, DOROTHY. (DOROTHEA FRANCES CANFIELD FISHER. ) (1879- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919. _) (_H. _) **Pamela's Shawl. Cen. Aug. (102:504. )

CAREW, HELEN. Tears that Angels Shed. Sun. Nov. , '20. (96. )

CARLISLE, H. GRACE. Marie. Met. Aug. (26. )

CARMAN, MIRIAM CRITTENDEN. (_See 1916. _) Her Own Game. Del. May. (13. )

CARRUTH, (FRED) HAYDEN. (1862- . ) Benefactor of Upper Haddock. Harp. M. Mar. (142:537. )

CARY, HAROLD. (_See 1920. _) Brown Boots. Del. Jul. (15. )

CARY, LUCIAN. (1886- . ) (_See 1918, 1919. _) Art Movement in Real Estate. S. E. P. Oct. 30, '20. (14. ) Bringing Home the Errant Husband. Red Bk. Mar. (57. ) Conquering Male. McCall. Jul. (10. ) Dark Secret. Ev. Feb. (23. ) Daughter of the Rich. Red Bk. Dec. , '20. (67. ) Just Like Any Married Man. Chic. Trib. June 19. Milly of Langmore Street. McCall. Feb. (5. ) Pirate of Park Avenue. Ev. Dec. , '20. (53. ) Voice of the Old Home Town. Red Bk. Oct. , '20. (68. ) Way Wives Are, L. H. J. Apr. (14. ) What if the Girl Wouldn't Go Back? Red Bk. Jan. (64. )

CASEY, PATRICK _and_ CASEY, TERENCE. (_See 1915, 1917, 1920. _) (_See "H. " under_ CASEY, PATRICK. ) *Road Kid. Lib. Jul. (10. )

CAVENDISH, JOHN C. (_See 1919, 1920. _) Common-Sense Romance. S. S. June. (45. ) Faut Pas. S. S. Oct. , '20. (117. ) Mother and Daughter. S. S. May. (39. )

CHADWICK, CHARLES. (_See 1920. _) Man With the Diamond In His Head. Ev. Mar. (43. ) Once In His Life. Del. Nov. , '20 (13. )

CHAMBERLAIN, GEORGE AGNEW. (1879- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917. _) Thieves' Market. Chic. Trib. May 15. 

CHAMBERLAIN, LUCIA. (_See 1917, 1920. _) (_H. _) Corcoran. S. E. P. Mar. 12. (5. ) *Dreamers. S. E. P. Jul. 23. (15. ) Telephone Time. S. E. P. Jul. 2. (16. )

CHAMBERS, ELWYN M. Find the Thief. Am. May. (38. )

CHAMBERS, ROBERT HUSTED. Matter of Medicine. McC. June-Jul. (28. ) *Throw-Back. McC. Dec. , '20 (25. )

CHAMBERS, ROBERT W(ILLIAM). (1865- . ) (_See 1915, 1917, 1919. _) Flaming Jewel. McCall. Aug. (5. ) Master Passion. McCall. Sept. (6. )

CHAPMAN, EDITH. (_See 1920. _) *Immune. S. S. Jul. (97. )

CHAPMAN, FRANCES NORVILLE. (_See 1916. _) *Annie Kearney. S. S. May. (103) **Gossip. S. S. Oct. , '20. (93. )

CHASE, MARY ELLEN. (1887- . ) (_See 1919, 1920. _) *Waste of the Ointment. Pict. R. Jul. (6. )

CHILD, RICHARD WASHBURN. (1881- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Eye of Cleopatra. Chic. Trib. Apr. 24. *Fanny. Pict. R. Sept. (26. ) *From Dark to Day. Pict. R. Apr. (10. ) *Idols. Hear. Aug. (6. ) *Lure. S. E. P. Oct. 9, '20. (12. ) *Man and Gentleman. Hear. Nov. , '20. (8. ) Other Volabia. S. E. P. Jul. 2. (12. ) ***Screen. Pict. R. Mar. (8. ) V for Viper. S. E. P. Oct. 23, '20. (12. )

CHITTENDEN, GERALD. (_See 1915, 1916. _) Victim of His Vision. Scr. May. (69:611. )

CHRISTIE, MORRIS. Middle-Age. S. S. Jul. (121. )

CHURCHILL. DAVID. (_See 1919, 1920. _) Solvent. Cen. Mar. (101:638. ) Trencher. Ev. Dec. , '20. (23. )

CHURCHILL, ROY P. (_See 1919. _) Love Sets the Alarm Clock. Am. Jan. (20. )

CISCO, RUPERT F. Twins--Three of Them. Met. Mar. (33. )

CLAPP, LUCRETIA D. (_See H. _) Gift. McCall. Apr. (12. )

CLARK, (CHARLES) BADGER. (_See 1920. _) Deal in Mules. Sun. Dec. , '20. (36. ) Don't Spoil His Aim. Sun. June. (29. ) Price of Liberty. Sun. Sept. (44. ) Tuck's Quiet Wedding. Sun. Jul. (34. ) Wind to Heaven. Sun. May. (38. ) Young Hero. Sun. Aug. (43. )

CLARK, VALMA. (_See 1920. _) Silhouettes and Starlight. Hear. Mar. (33. ) Sneaking Upon Pa. Am. Apr. (21. ) Uncle Cy--Talented, or Crazy? Am. Sept. (27. )

CLAUSEN, CARL. (_See 1920. _) Might-Have-Been. Ev. Sept. (23. ) Sea Love. Ev. Jul. (47. )

COBB, IRWIN S(HREWSBURY). (1876- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) **Cater-Cornered Sex. S. E. P. Sept. 24. (8. ) ***Darkness. S. E. P. Aug. 20. (3. ) Greatest Thrill I Ever Had. Am. Dec. , '20. (54. ) **Ravelin' Wolf. S. E. P. Feb. 21, '20. (12. ) ***Short Natural History. S. E. P. Oct. 9, '20. (3. )

COBURN, MRS. FORDYCE. _See_ ABBOTT, ELEANOR HALLOWELL. 

COCKS, DOROTHY. Americanization Stuff. Sun. Feb. (34. )

COHEN, BELLA. (_See 1920. _) **Passing of the Stranger. L. St. Mar. (45. )

COHEN, LESTER. Fraudway. Pag. Aug. -Sept. (9. )

COHEN, OCTAVUS ROY. (1891- . ) (_See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) Bird of Pray. S. E. P. Nov. 13, '20. (10. ) End of the Rainbow. Am. Mar. (23. ) Evil Lie. S. E. P. Sept. 10. (14. ) H2O Boy! S. E. P. June 4. (14. ) Less Miserable. Chic. Trib. Sept. 25. Midsummer Knight's Dream. Hear. Sept. (45. ) Oft In the Silly Night. S. E. P. Mar. 12. (10. )

COLCORD, LINCOLN (ROSS). (1883- . ) (_See 1915. _) (_H. _) ***Instrument of the Gods. Am. Apr. (10. ) May. (47. ) *Moments of Destiny. Pop. Aug. 20. (126. )

COLEMAN, SARA LINDSEY. (_See H. _) Honeymoon House. Del. June. (15. )

COMFORT, WILL LEVINGTON. (1878- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_See also in 1920_, COMFORT, WILL LEVINGTON _and_ DOST, ZAMIN KI. ) Plucked One. Red Bk. Jul. (94. ) *Red Handed. S. E. P. Jan. 1. (8. ) *Deadly Karait. Asia. Aug. (21:663. )

CONDON, FRANK. (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) By Ten Feet. Col. Jan. 29. (10. ) Followed by Laughter. Ev. Nov. '20. (47. ) Punch and Julie. Col. Aug. 6. (6. ) Red Monahan. Col. May 21. (3. )

CONNELL, RICHARD. Cage Man. S. E. P. Nov. 6, '20 (18. ) Gretna Greenhorns. McCall. Aug. (11. ) Man In the Cape. Met. May. (31. ) Sin of Monsieur Pettipon. S. E. P. Sept. 24. (12. ) Suzi Goes Back to the Land. McCall. Apr. (8. ) Tiger Syrup. Ev. Dec. , '20. (71. ) $25, 000 Jaw. S. E. P. Aug. 27. (22. )

CONNOLLY, JAMES BRENDON. (1868- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Bill Jackson's Adeline. Col. Nov. 20, '20. (5. ) *Captain Joe Gurley. Col. Feb. 26. (5. ) *His Three Fair Wishes. Red Bk. Jul. (35. ) Not Down in the Log. Col. Jan. 22. (7. )

COOKE, GRACE MACGOWAN. _See_ MACGOWAN, ALICE AND GRACE MACGOWAN COOKE. 

COOPER COURTNEY RYLEY (1886- . ) (_See 1917, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Christmas Eve at Pilot Butte. Red Bk. Jan. (39. ) Envy. Red Bk. Apr. (42. ) Fear. Red Bk. Mar. (38. ) Fiend. Cos. Mar. (59. ) Love. Red Bk. June. (56. ) Mother. Chic. Trib. Apr. 10. Old Scarface. Pict. R. Apr. (24. ) Pin-Point Pupil. Red Bk. Nov. , '20. (64. ) *Simp. Pict. R. Nov. , '20. (22. ) To Oblige a Lady. McC. Sept. (27. )

COOPER, COURTNEY RYLEY _and_ CREAGAN, -- LEO S. Martin Garrity Finally Pulls a Bone -- Am. Apr. (29. ) Martin Garrity Gets Even. Am. Jul. (20. )

COPELAND, FRED. Dude-Puncher Steve. Scr. Mar (69:343)

COWAN, HOY PASCAL. *Accompanist. S. S. Oct. , '20. (103. )

COWDERY, ALICE. (See 1915, 1917, 1919. ) (_H. _) **Tree. Harp. M. Nov. , '20. (141:710. )

"CRABB, ARTHUR. " (_See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) Jigger. Met. Mar. (27. ) Jimmy Evans Comes Back. Ev. Dec. , '20. (64. ) Juror No. 5. Col. June 11. (14. ) Miss Jeremiah. Ev. Nov. , '20. (64. ) Old Man Ladd. Sun. Sept. (28. )

CRABBE, BERTHA HELEN. (1887- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919. _) ***On Riverside Drive. Touch. Dec. , '20. (8:194. )

CRAM, MILDRED R. (1889- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920. _) *Anna. McCall. Mar. (5. ) Bridge. Harp. B. Apr. (46. ) Chestnuts in the Fire. Harp. B. June. (44. ) *Gold Woman. Red Bk. Feb. (44. ) Kitty Passes. Harp. B. May. (60. ) Mirage. Red Bk. Sept. (85. ) Oh, La-La. Harp. B. Aug. (44. ) **Stranger Things. Met. Jan. (15. ) **Sun. McCall. Aug. (7. )

CRANE, CLARKSON. (_See 1916, 1920. _) **American. S. S. Nov. , '20. (107. ) *Magnificent Major. S. S. Dec. , '20. (89. ) Morning Walk. S. S. June. (55. )

CREAGAN, LEO F. _See_ COOPER, COURTNEY RYLEY _and_ CREAGAN, LEO F. 

CROWELL, ELINOR ROBINSON. "Hold 'em, Harvard!" Met. Jan. (14. )

CRUMP, IRVING R. (_See 1919. _) (_H. _) King-Dog. Red Bk. Jul. (69. )

CURTISS, PHILIP (EVERETT). (1885- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Fancy Skater of Meloumerang. Harp. M. May. (142:737. ) *"Gum-Shoe. " Scr. Feb. (69:169. ) Left-Handed Piccolo Player. Harp. M. Dec. , '20. (142:87. ) Pentelicus the Younger. Harp. B. Oct. , '20. (68. ) *Postmaster-General of Mindanao. Harp. M. Oct. , '20. (141:644. ) **Waving Palm and the Blue Lagoon. Harp. M. Jan. (142:154. )

CURWOOD, JAMES OLIVER. (1878- . ) (_See 1917, 1918, 1919. _) (_H. _) Country Beyond. Cos. Jul. (29. ) Honor and the Outlaw. Cos. Sept. (30. ) Jolly Roger of the Forests. Cos. Aug. (35. )

CUTNER, JEAN. Surrender. S. S. May. (89. )

CUTTING, MARY STEWART (DOUBLEDAY. ) (1851- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1918. _) (_H. _) Fairy Godmother. W. H. C. June. (16. )

D

DALLETT, MORRIS. *Balances. Cen. Feb. (101:470. )

DALRYMPLE, C. LEONA. (1885- . ) (_See 1915, 1918, 1919. _) (_H. _) His Secrets. Pict. R. Feb. (20. ) Love's Derelict. Pict. R. Oct. , '20. (10. )

DAMER, JOHN. "In Vino. " Lib. Jan. (5. )

DAVIS, CHARLES BELMONT. (1866- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1919. _) (_H. _) Small Part People. Met. Aug. (13. )

DAVIS, ELMER (HOLMES). (1890- . ) Double Indemnity. Ev. Aug. (61. )

DAVIS, MAURICE. (_See 1920. _) Morning in Spring. S. S. May. (85. )

DAVIS, ROBERT (HOBART. ). (1869- . ) Conjugal Bolshevist. Cen. Apr. (101:725. )

DAY, JR. , CLARENCE. (_See 1915, 1916. _) (_H. _) Grand Tour of Horlick. Harp. M. Feb. (142:376. ) Tragedy of Gustatory Selection. Harp. M. Dec. , '20. (142:111. )

DAY, HOLMAN FRANCIS. (1865- . ) (_See 1915, 1918, 1919. _) (_H. _) Contribution Neggle-ance. S. E. P. Aug. 20. (12. ) Court Took a Recess. Col. Aug. 20. (7. ) *That Vanished. Col. Jul. 23. (6. ) While the Biscuits Baked. Col. June 4. (5. )

DEAN, WILLIAM HARPER. Second Youth of Zachary Howe. L. H. J. Oct. , '20. (25. )

DECAMP, CHARLES B. (_See H. _) Glass of Fashion. Met. Jan. (25. ) Mildred, the Head-Hunter. Met. Sept. (36. )

DEJEANS, ELIZABETH (MRS. SIDNEY BLUDGETT. ) (_See H. _) *Twixt the Cup and Lip. Met. Nov. , '20. (13. )

DELANO, EDITH BARNARD. (_See 1915, 1917, 1918, 1920. _) _See "H. " under_ BARNARD, EDITH, _and_ DELANO, EDITH BARNARD. Heart That Understands. L. H. J. Feb. (14. ) *Let the Anchor Hold. McCall. May. (6. )

DELANUX, EYRE. Man in the Wheel. Del. May. (19. )

DELEON, WALTER. Brooders. Ev. Jul. (59. ) In Hell-Hole Swamp. Ev. Aug. (139. ) Plague o' My Hearth. Ev. May. (54. )

DELL, STANLEY. Nickel's Worth of Greatness. S. S. May. (57. )

DERIEUX, SAMUEL A. (1881- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) Bolter. Am. Sept. (50. ) Figgers Can't Lie. Del. Apr. (7. ) Old Frank to the Rescue. Am. Mar. (41. ) Pursuit. Am. Nov. , '20. (29. )

DICKENSON, EDWIN C. (_See 1918. _) Altar Rock. Scr. Apr. (69:433. )

DICKSON, HARRIS. (1868- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Above Suspicion. Col. Dec. 4, '20. (5. ) Buster, the Catspaw. Cos. May. (81. ) Crook and the Crazy Man. Cos. June. (87. ) Ghost and the Gallows Nail. Col. Apr. 2. (5. ) Legs is Legs. Cos. Sept. (95. ) Old Reliable on Guard. Cos. Mar. (75. ) Squeeze In and Freeze Out. S. E. P. Mar. 26. (10. ) Wedlocked in Bond. Cos. Apr. (79. )

DIVINE, CHARLES. (_See 1917. _) Silver Box. Ev. June. (5. )

DOBIE, CHARLES CALDWELL. (1881- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) **All or Nothing. Harp. M. Jul. (143:151. ) *From a Balcony. Harp. B. Sept. (34. ) **Paying the Piper. Pict. R. Nov. '20. (14. )

DODGE, HENRY IRVING. (1861- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Ladies and Joe O'Brien (Pt. 2. ) McC. Oct. , '20. (12. )

DODGE, LOUIS. (1870- . ) (_See 1917, 1918, 1920. _) Love Strike. McC. Dec. '20. (16. ) **Opal Flagon. Scr. Oct. , '20. (68:446. )

"DOST, ZAMIN KI" (WILLIMINA L. ARMSTRONG. ) _See_ COMFORT, WILL LEVINGTON _and_ DOST, ZAMIN KI. 

DOUGLAS, FORD. (_See 1920. _) (_H. _) Heel of Achilles. S. S. Mar. (29. )

DOWST, HENRY PAYSON. (1876- . ) (_See 1915, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Runt. S. E. P. Oct. 9, '20. (30. ) Sawmiller's Job. S. E. P. Feb. 19. (12. ) Whip Hand. S. E. P. Dec. 18, '20. (12. )

DREISER, THEODORE. (1871- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) **Chains. L. St. Dec. , '20. (3. ) *Phantom Gold. L. St. Feb. (3. )

DU BOIS, THEODORA. Devils and Four Gold Cups. Cen. June. (102:252. ) Sieve. Met. June. (16. )

DUFF, NELLIE BROWNE. Golden Gown. Am. May. (50. )

DUGAN, FRANCES DORWIN. *Outsider. Mid. Aug. (7:297. )

DUNN, JOSEPH ALLAN. (1872- . ) (_See 1915. _) (_H. _) *Smuggler's House. Ev. Feb. (63. )

DURAND, MRS. ALBERT C. _See_ SAWYER, RUTH. 

DUTTON, LOUISE ELIZABETH. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Breaking Up. S. E. P. Sept. 17. (14. ) Dream Tree. S. E. P. Apr. 9. (10. ) Three of a Kind. S. E. P. June 11. (14. )

DWYER, JAMES FRANCIS. (1874- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Berries of the Bittersweet. W. H. C. June. (7. ) "Cath. " W. H. C. Mar. (7. ) *Goliath Gamble and Fate. Ain. Jan. (41. ) *Herb Woman. Hol. Nov. , '20. (7. ) Miss Thistledown and Mr. Tinker. W. H. C. May. (14. ) *They Came to Ophir. Col. June 4. (9. )

DYER, WALTER ALDEN. (1878- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920. _) (_H. _) Elijah and the Widow. Del. Jul. (22. )

E

EARLS, S. J. MICHAEL. Shadow Before. Cath. W. June. (113:366. )

EASTMAN, REBECCA HOOPER. (_See 1915, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Great American Husband. S. E. P. (Oct. 23, '20. ) (16. ) Man Trap. S. S. Dec. , '20. (27. ) Yellow Tree. G. H. Nov. , '20. (30. )

EATON, WALTER PRICHARD. (1878- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919. _) (_H. _) Auction Hounds. Del. Jan. (8. ) Miss Agatha's Gardener. Del. Aug. (5. ) Procrastinated Christmas. Chic. Trib. Dec. 19, '20. Two in the Town. Del. Feb. (4. ) Uses of Adversity. Del. Sept. (10. )

EDENS, OLIVE. Her Secret and His. Met. Feb. (25. ) In Place of God. McC. Mar. (32. )

EDGAR, RANDOLPH. (_See 1916, 1917, 1919. _) Simple Saga. N. M. Feb. 9. (125:635. )

EDMONDSON, K. T. Green Cord. S. S. Jan. (45. )

"ELDERLY SPINSTER. " (MARGARET WILSON. ) (1882- . ) (_See 1918, 1919. _) *Speaking of Careers. Asia. Jul. (21:575. ) *Waste. Atl. Feb. (127:180. )

ELKIN, MARCIA. Butterfly so Bright. Am. Jan. (38. ) Order of the Garter. W. H. C. Jul. (22. )

ELLERBE, ALMA MARTIN ESTABROOK. (1871- . ) _and_ ELLERBE, PAUL LEE. (_See 1915 under_ ESTABROOK, ALMA MARTIN; _1917 under_ ELLERBE, ALMA ESTABROOK; _1919 under_ ELLERBE, ALMA MARTIN, _and_ ELLERBE, PAUL LEE; 1920. ) (_See "H. " under_ ELLERBE, PAUL LEE. ) Mrs. Franklin. Col. Jul. 2. (12. )

ELLERBE, ALMA _and_ ELLERBE, PAUL. Pound Calico. Sun. Sept. (17. ) When the Ice Went Out. Sun. May. (28. )

ELLERBE, ROSA L. (_See 1917, 1920. _) (_H. _) Cyclone. Chic. Trib. Aug. 21. 

ENDERS, GORDON. *Danzy. Asia. Oct. , '20. (20:871. )

ENGLAND, GEORGE ALLAN. (1877- . ) (_See 1916, 1919. _) (_H. _) Fifty-Fifty. S. E. P. Mar. 19. (20. ) Girl Across the Way. McCall. June. (10. )

ESTY, ANNETTE. Play-Acting. Scr. Apr. (69:491. )

EVANS, FRANK E. (1876- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1920. _) (_H. _) Grandstand Player, Red Bk. Nov. , '20. (69. ) Hip! Hip! Red Bk. Oct. , '20. (87. )

EVANS, IDA MAY. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Her Place in the Sun. Cos. Jan. (53. ) Loves Between. Cos. Jul. (93. ) Valencia Comes a Cropper. G. H. Dec. , '20. (26. )

EVARTS, HAL G. (_See 1920. _) Glutton. S. E. P. June 25. (10. ) Last Move. Red Bk. Dec. , '20. (86. ) Savagery. Red Bk. Jan. (44. ) Swamp Colony, S. E. P. May 14. (9. ) Traveling Otter. S. E. P. Apr. 23 (8. ) Vanishing Squadron. Red Bk. Aug. (55. )

F

FAHNESTOCK, MRS. WALLACE WEIR. _see_ HUMPHREY, (HARRIET) ZEPHINE. 

FARNHAM, MATEEL HOWE. (_See 1920. _) (_H. _) Fat of the Land. Del. Mar. (13) Little Matter of Business. W. H. C. Jul. (14. ) Million-Dollar Invitation. W. H. C. Nov. , '20. (9. )

FELLOM, JAMES. Celestial Chattel. Pict. R. May (12. )

FERBER, EDNA. (1887- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Not a Day Over Twenty-One. Col. Aug. 13. (3. )

FERGUSON, CHARLES A. Passing of the Chief. Cath. W. Apr. (113:83. )

FIELD, DOROTHY LLEWELLYN FIELD. It Can Be Done. Ev. Feb. (40)

FIELD, FLORA. (_See 1918, 1920. _) Mister Montague's Premises. Del. May. (15. )

FINGER, CHARLES J. (1871- . ) (_See 1919, 1920. _) ***Derailment of Train No. 16. A. W. Sept. (1:196. ) *Liar. A. W. Feb. (1:47. ) ***Lizard God. A. W. Dec. , '20. (10. ) Cur. O. May. (623. ) **Some Mischievous Thing. (_R. _) A. W. May. (1:118. ) *Tale of the Far South. A. W. June. (1:145. )

FISHER, DOROTHEA FRANCES CANFIELD. _See_ CANFIELD, DOROTHY. 

FISHER, SALLY. Rose Dupré's Escape. Del. Jan. (15. )

FITZGERALD, FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. (_See 1920. _) His Russet Witch. Met. Feb. (11. ) Jelly-Bean. Met. Oct. , '20. (15. ) *Lees of Happiness. Chic. Trib. Dec. 12, '20. Tarquin of Cheapside. S. S. Feb. (43. )

FITZGERALD, HENRY. (_See 1915. _) Tale of the Chase. S. S. Sept. (105. )

FITZHERBERT, N. V. A B C's of a Man. Pag. Aug. Sept. (49. )

FLANDRAN, GRACE HODGSON. (_See 1918, 1920. _) Rubies in Crystal. S. S. June. (65. ) Terry Sees Red. Harp. M. Dec. , '20. (142:18. )

FLANNER, JANET. In Transit and Return. Cen. Oct. , '20. (100:801. )

FLEISCHMAN, LEON. Fly. Con. Apr. (101:768. )

FOLSOM, ELIZABETH IRONS. (1876- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) **Along the White Road. Hear. Jul. (49. ) *Masterpiece. Met. Jan. (32. ) *Mrs. Charles Grimes. Sun. Oct. , '20. (33. ) *Pitch. Met. Dec. , '20. (17. ) What Opened Jerry's Eyes to Bertha. Am. Oct. , '20. (39. )

FOOTE, JOHN TAINTOR. (_See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Fowl Disaster. Col. Mar. 19. (12. ) Soft Craws. S. E. P. Jul. 23. (8. ) Spirit Dope. Am. Oct. , '20. (57. )

FORRESTER, IZOLA L. (_See 1918 under_ FORRESTER, IZOLA L. _and_ PAGE, MANN; _see_ "_H. _" _under_ FORRESTER, IZOLA L. ) Christmas Highwayman. Del. Dec. , '20. (16. ) Eyes of Angels. Del. Aug. (20. ) His Own Vineyard. Del. Oct. , '20. (20. ) Leaven of Love. Del. Nov. , '20. (14. )

FORSYTH, LOUISE. (_See 1918. _) *Initiation. Cen. Nov. , '20. (101: 81. )

FORTUNE, MARGARET EMMANUEL. Yolanda Comes and Goes. Sun. Jul. (42. )

FOSTER, HARRY L. Bradley's Wife. Met. Aug. (30. )

FOSTER, MARY. (_See 1919. _) Maragh of the Silent Valley. Cath. W. Mar. (112: 771. )

FOX, PAUL HERVEY. (_See 1917, 1918. _) Grand Passion. S. S. Feb. (65. ) Last Picture. S. S. Dec. , '20. (63. )

FRANK, WALDO. (1890- . ) (_See 1916, 1917. _) **Under the Dome. Dial. Oct. , '20. (69:329. )

FRASER, W(ILLIAM) A(LEXANDER). (1859- . ) (_H. _) Delilah. S. E. P. June 11. (10. ) Static. S. E. P. Apr. 23. (5. ) Who Laughs Last. S. E. P. Jul. 9. (16. )

FREDERICK, JUSTUS GEORGE. (1882- . ) (_See 1919. _) (_H. _) "I Love You Exclamation Point. " Ev. Mar. (53. )

FUESSLE, NEWTON A. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918. _) Cheaters. S. S. Mar. (61. )

FULLERTON, HUGH STEWART. (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) "Pay to T. Hartley, Good Sport, $10, 000. " Am. Nov. , '20. (40. ) Triple Cross. Col. Nov. 27, '20. (5. )

G

GAITHER, RICE. Then Came Sue. W. H. C. Mar. (11. )

GALE, ZONA. (1874- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) "Patches. " W. H. C. Mar. (9. )

GARRETT, GARET. (1878- . ) (_See 1917, 1920. _) Luck Lepee's Tale. S. E. P. Mar. 26. (14. ) Wall Street Baptism. S. E. P. Jan. 15. (23. )

GASCH, MARIE MANNING. _See_ MANNING, MARIE. 

GATLIN, DANA. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919. _) (_H. _) Altar Fires. Cos. Aug. (103. ) Dark Man in Her Future. Cos. Feb. (27. ) Martyr's Crown. G. H. Feb. (58. ) Not a Marrying Man. Cos. Apr. (53. ) Old Home Town. Cos. Sept. (36. ) Out of the Forest. McCall. Nov. , '20. (9. ) Royal Unrepentant. Cos. Nov. , '20. (61. )

GELZER, JAY. (_See 1920. _) *Flower of the Flock. Cos. Aug. (73. )

GEROULD, KATHARINE FULLERTON. (1879- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) ***French Eva. Scr. Nov. , '20. (68:549. ) **Keeper of the Gate. Ev. May. (74. )

GERRY, MARGARITA SPALDING. (1870- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1920. _) (_H. _) ***"To Meet His Majesty. " Harp. M. Jul. (143:233. )

GIBSON, STUART. Dainty Marie. McCall. Feb. (6. )

GIESY, JOHN ULRICH. (1877- . ) (_See 1917. _) *Beyond the Violet. Arg. Nov. 27, '20. (128:118. )

GIFFORD, FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS. (MRS. AUGUSTUS MCKINSTRY GIFFORD. ) (1884- . ) (_H. _) **"New England. " Atl. Apr. (127:505. )

GILBERT, GEORGE. (1874- . ) (_See 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) Devil of the Pool. Sun. Apr. (16. ) Man Who Was Strangely Tempted. Am. Oct. , '20. (21. ) "Most Wise! Most Subtle!" Sun. Feb. (17. )

GILBERT, MORRIS. Bitter Moment. S. S. May. (19. )

GILKYSON, T. WALTER. **Illumined Moment. Atl. Apr. (127:458. )

GIRARDEAU, CLAUDE M. (_See 1915. _) Opal Amulet. Harp. B. Oct. , '20. (62. )

GLASGOW, ELLEN (ANDERSON GHOLSON). (1874- . ) (_See 1916, 1917. _) ***The Past. G. H. Oct. , '20. (64. )

GLASPELL, SUSAN (KEATING). (MRS. GEORGE CRAM COOK. ) (1882- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) ***His Smile. Pict. R. Jan. (15. )

GLASS, MONTAGUE MARSDEN. (1877- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Keeping Expenses Down. Hear. Aug. (10. ) Never Begin with Lions. Hear. June. (13. ) Sixth McNally. Hear. May. (13. ) Squaring Mr. Turkeltaub. Cos. Oct. , '20. (17. )

GODFREY, WINONA. (1877- . ) (_See 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Quintin and the Quince. Am. Feb. 29. Tarradiddle. Sun. Nov. , '20. (50. ) Webs. Sun. Oct. , '20. (74. )

GOETCHIUS, MARIE LOUISE. _See_ "RUTLEDGE MARYSE. "

GOODFELLOW, DOROTHY. Camel-Driver. McCall. May. (13. )

GOODLOE, ABBIE CARTER. (1867- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Talisman. Scr. Sept. (70:337. )

GOODMAN, HENRY. *Faith and Jack London. Book. (N. Y. ) Sept. (54:13. )

GOULD, F. Baby Vamp. S. S. Sept. (91. )

GRACE, JULIA H. "Doit" Case. A. W. Apr. (1:93. )

GRAEVE, OSCAR. (1884- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Change. S. E. P. Jul. 9. (10. ) Stars. S. E. P. Jan. 22. (33. )

GRANT, MRS. ETHEL WATTS-MUMFORD. _See_ MUMFORD, ETHEL WATTS. 

GRAVES, LOUIS. (_See 1915, 1920. _) (_H. _) Menton Marvel. Met. Oct. , '20. (28. )

GRAY, DAVID. (1870- . ) (_See 1915, 1917, 1919. _) (_H. _) Self-Determination with the Lenoxes. S. E. P. May 14. (5. )

GREIG, ALGERNON. (_See 1920. _) Isn't it Funny?--But It's True! Met. Nov. , '20. (21. ) Scrambled Eggs. Met. Dec. , '20. (20. )

GREY, ZANE. (1875- . ) (_H. _) Great Slave. L. H. J. Dec. , '20. (10. )

GRIGGS, VETA HURST. Call It What You Please. Ev. Apr. (70. )

GWYNNE, BERTHA LOWRY. Rose Mary Garland. W. H. C. Feb. (20. )

H

HAINES, DONAL HAMILTON. (1886- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Three Swallows, Clear! S. S. Jan. (61. )

HALL, AMANDA BENJAMIN. Bubble of Bliss. S. S. Feb. (25. ) Eye of the Beholder. S. S. Mar. (103. ) Fortunes of Mr. Finn. S. S. Sept. (51. ) Sunday. S. S. Aprl. (57. )

HALL, HERSCHEL S. (_See 1919 under_ HALL, H. S. , _1920. _) Kick. S. E. P. Oct. 16, '20. (16. ) Prospectors. S. E. P. Jan. 29. (5. )

"HALL, HOLWORTHY. " (HAROLD EVERETT PORTER. ) (1887- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Fog of Orleans. McC. Feb. (16. ) Freddie the Fifth. Harp. B. Feb. (44. ) His Dear Cassandra. McC. Nov. '20. (13. ) Ironies. Chic. Trib. Oct. 17, '20. Madam President. Cos. June. (29. ) Man Who Wouldn't Be Told. Cos. Aug. (89. ) Miss Nemesis. McC. Sept. (8. ) Mopus. Pict. R. May. (24. ) Runner-Up. Col. Mar. 5. (5. ) Target. L. H. J. Feb. (10. ) Turtle's Head. McCall. Aug. (8. )

HALL, WILBUR (JAY). (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) Americanization of Jonesy. Sun. Aug. (48. ) Communism in Shadow Valley. Red Bk. Oct. , '20. (78. ) Stringer Blood. S. E. P. June 25. (12. )

HALLET, RICHARD MATTHEWS. (1887- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) **Bluebeard Shadrach. S. E. P. Mar. 20, '20. (20. ) ***Harbor Master. Harp. M. June. (143:36. ) Jul. (143:198. ) *Mountain and Mahomet. Harp. M. Nov. , '20. (141:735. ) **Whale of a Story. Pict. R. Nov. , '20. (20. )

HAMBY, WILLIAM HENRY. (1875- . ) (_See 1916, 1918, 1919. _) (_H. _) Dance of the Clog-Footed. Ev. Oct. , '20. (45. )

HAMILTON, GERTRUDE BROOKE. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Finette of the Streets. Par. Nov. , '20. (43. ) Thunderstorm. G. H. Sept. (24. )

HAMILTON, H. M. Devil à la Mode. Pag. Mar. -Apr. (23. )

HAMPTON, EDGAR LLOYD. (_See 1916, 1920. _) Rolling Stone. Sun. Nov. , '20. (43. )

HANSON, NELL. *Jimsie of Kilmack. Rom. Oct. , '20. (3. )

HARDY, ARTHUR SHERBURNE. (1847- . ) (_See 1916, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Comedy at the Prefecture. Harp. M. Feb. (142:339. ) **Tragedy on the Upper Snake River. Scr. Jul. (70:53. )

HARLOWE, B. Freud _vs. _ William B. Thompkin. S. S. Feb. (109. )

HARRIS, KENNETT. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Birds in Their Little Nests. S. E. P. Jul. 16. (5. ) Junk. S. E. P. Dec. 25, '20. (16. ) Peacock-Blue Album. S. E. P. Dec. 18, '20. (15. ) Pest and the Pie-Dough Cake. S. E. P. Feb. 12. (8. ) Roland Stoops to Conquer. S. E. P. Apr. 2. (3. )

HART, FRANCES NOYES. **Contact. Pict. R. Dec. , '20. (16. ) ***Green Gardens. Scr. Jul. (70:24. )

HATCH, LEONARD. (_See 1915, 1920. _) (_H. _) Something Desperate. W. H. C. Dec. , '20. (15. ) Sunny Side of Nineteen. Ev. Aug. (23. )

HAWLEY, J. B. (_See 1920. _) Friendship. S. S. June. (111. ) Sacred Story. S. S. Jan. (113. )

HAWTHORNE, CHRISTOPHER. Disappearing Statues. S. S. Oct. , '20. (27. )

HECHT, BEN. (1896- . ) (_See 1915, 1917, 1918, 1919. _) ***Bomb Thrower. Little Review. Sept. -Dec. (18. )

HENDERSON, GERTRUDE. (_H. _) World Without End. Atl. Jul. (128:82. )

"HENRY, O. " (WILLIAM SYDNEY PORTER. ) (1867-1910. ) (_H. _) *Shamrock and the Palm. (_R. _) Ain. Sept. (141. )

HERGESHEIMER, JOSEPH. (1880- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) **Beyond the Bridge. S. E. P. Dec. 11, '20. (5. ) *Early Americans. S. E. P. Aug. 27. (8. ) *Juju. S. E. P. Jul. 30. (5. ) **Scarlet Ibis. S. E. P. Nov. 13, '20. (5. ) *Sprig of Lemon Verbena. S. E. P. Sept. 17. (8. )

HICKS, JANE. Aspiring Becky Pye. Met. Sept. (56. )

HILL, FLORENCE BRUSH. Buds. Pag. Aug. -Sept. (31. )

HILLIS, RICHARD DWIGHT. (_See 1918. _) Reform of Leadpipe Neumann. Met. Sept. (31. ) Stateroom on Deck "A. " Met. May. (28. )

HILLYARD, ANNA BRANSON. Love Laughs. W. H. C. Feb. (15. )

HINTON, LEONARD. (_See 1915. _) Teacup. S. S. Apr. (73. )

HOLDING, ELIZABETH SANXAY. (_See 1920. _) *Marie's View of It. Cen. Dec. , '20. (101:210. ) Mollie, The Ideal Nurse. Cen. Jan. (101:326. )

HOLLINGSWORTH, CEYLON. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Blood and Bacon. Col. Mar. 12. (9. ) I Ain't a Coward, Maw. Col. May 14. (9. ) Love and Sediment. Col. Feb. 12. (12. )

HOLLOWAY, WILLIAM. (_See 1915, 1916. _) Follow Through. Cen. Feb. (101:509. )

HOLT, HENRY. Mystic Swab. Met. Sept. (34. )

HOPPER, JAMES (MARIE). (1876- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Flash Molloy. Cos. Aug. (69. ) **Little Cave-Boy. Ev. Jan. (67. ) *Sculptor and His Wife. Cos. June. (81. )

HORTON, CHARLES M. (_H. _) *Miguel Arrieta. Scr. Oct. , '20. (68:491. )

HOSTETTER, VAN VECHTEN. (_See 1920. _) Escape. S. S. Oct. , '20. (109. )

HOUSTON, MARGARET BELLE. (_See 1917, 1918, 1919. _) (_H. _) *Atmosphere. L. H. J. Mar. (3. )

HOWARD, SIDNEY. **Stars in Their Courses. Col. Nov. 6, '20. (5. )

HOWLAND, HENRY C. Chimney. S. E. P. May 7. (21. )

HUBBARD, GEORGE, _and_ THOMPSON, LILLIAN BENNET --. _See_ THOMPSON, LILLIAN BENNET -- _and_ HUBBARD, GEORGE. 

HUGHES, RUPERT. (1872- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Love the Subliculous. Cos. Oct. , '20. (71. ) Wallflower. Col. Sept. 10. (3. ) *When Crossroads Cross Again. Col. Jan. 29. (5. )

HULL, ALEXANDER. (_See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) **Gray Valley. Scr. Nov. , '20. (68:607. ) Letty, the Grabber. Am. Jan. (13. ) Winner. Am. June. (39. ) Youth and Mr. Forrest. L. H. J. May. (12. )

HULL, HELEN R. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) **Men of Their Race. Touch. Oct. , '20. (8:1. ) *Waiting. Touch. Feb. (8:346. )

HUMPHREY, (HARRIETTE) ZEPHINE. (MRS. WALLACE WEIR FAHNESTOCK. ) (1874- . ) (_See 1915, 1916. _) Return. Del. Nov. , '20. (15. )

HUNT, FRAZIER. (1885- . ) (_See 1916. _) (_H. _) Lightning Flashes Around the World. Col. Apr. 2. (12. ) Nice and White and Innocent. Col. May 7. (9. ) Tea Stands for Tokyo. Col. Apr. 23 (7. ) Tell It to the Marines. Col. May 21. (12. ) Where Lightning Strikes. Col. July 2. (11. )

HUNTER, REX. Wild Eyes. A. W. Sept. (1:221. )

HURST, FANNIE. (1889- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) **"Guilty. " Cos. Feb. (14. ) **Roulette. Cos. May. (18. ) ***She Walks in Beauty. Cos. Aug. (28. )

HUSSEY, L. M. (_See 1919, 1920. _) *Husband of Carmen Maria. Cen. Jan. (101:346. ) **Lost Art. S. S. Oct. , '20. (69. ) Saint of Valera. S. S. Sept. (109. ) Twilight of a God. S. S. May (63. ) *Ugliest Woman on the Boardwalk. S. S. Nov. , '20. (63. )

I

IMRIE, WALTER MCLAREN. (_See 1919. _) *Faith. S. S. Jan. (101. ) ***Remembrance. Mid. Oct. , '20. (6:182. )

IRWIN, WALLACE. (1875- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Hickory Dickory Dock. McC. May. (8. ) Old School. Pict. R. Apr. (6. ) Only One. McC. Oct. , '20. (30. ) Silver Heels. S. E. P. June 18. (5. ) Sophie Semenoff. S. E. P. Nov. 27, '20. (10. ) Who's Who. S. E. P. Apr. 9. (14. )

IRWIN, WILL(IAM HENRY). (1873- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Cassidy's Job. S. E. P. Sept. 17. (12. ) Tom. S. E. P. Jan. 22. (12. ) Round Turn. S. E. P. Aug. 13. (12. ) Uses of Calamity. S. E. P. Sept. 3. (14. ) Woman Inside. S. E. P. Dec. , '20 (12. )

ISH-KISHOR, SULAMITH. Roofs of Dhoum. S. S. Apr. (95. )

J

JACKSON, SELBY. Chasm. Sun. Feb. (46. )

JENKINS, N. W. Seeing Hearts. W. H. C. Dec. , '20. (16. )

JOHN, W. A. P. (_See 1920. _) Frisky Whisky. S. E. P. Sept. 24. (14. )

"JOHN O' GATHAM. " Acknowledgment. Met. Nov. , '20. (29. )

JOHNSON, ALVIN SAUNDERS. (1874- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919. _) *Object Matrimony. S. S. July. (83. )

JOHNSON, OLIVE MCCLINTIC. (_See 1920. _) De Nation's Bu'ffday. Col. July 9. (9. ) First Kind Word. Col. Sept. 3. (7. ) Infatuation. Col. Jan. 22. (5. ) Insane Truth. Col. Oct. 9, '20. (7. ) Isn't Nature Wonderful! Col. Feb. 26. (7. )

JOHNSON, OWEN (MCMAHON). (1878- . ) (_See 1915, 1916. _) Bathtub King. Hear. Apr. (17. ) Girl They Loved. Hear. June. (22. ) Mosquito-Proof Socks. Hear. Sept. (39. )

JOHNSTON, CALVIN. (_See 1915, 1917, 1919. _) (_H. _) *Mr. Bliven's Day of Fate. Sun. Nov. , '20. (22. ) *Temple Dusk. S. E. P. Oct. 16, '20. (3. )

JONES, ALICIA. **First Sorrowful Mystery. Mid. Jan. (7:1. )

JONES, HOWARD MUMFORD. (_See 1919. _) At the Pool of Bethesda. S. S. Mar. (49. ) Concerto in A-Flat. S. S. Apr. (99. ) **Drigsby's Universal Regulator. Mid. Nov. , '20. (6:157. )

JONES, WALTER. (_H. _) Boob's Progress. McC. Dec. , '20. (6. ) Framed for Broadway. McC. Nov. , '20. (10. ) Nanny. Cos. Oct. , '20. (37. ) Vampires Ahoy! McC. May. (24. )

JORDAN, ELIZABETH (GARVER). (1867- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) His Son's Wife. W. H. C. May. (7. ) Miss Mary Smith. Chic. Trib. July 10. Rev. Archie Reconstructs. Chic. Trib. Nov. 28, '20. Tears of Dorothea. Chic. Trib. Sept. 4. 

JORDAN, KATE (MRS. F. M. VERMILYE). (_See 1915, 1920. _) On Margin. S. E. P. Dec. 11, '20. (13. )

JULIUS, EMANUEL HALDEMAN --. (1888- . ) _and_ JULIUS, MRS. EMANUEL HALDEMAN --. (_See 1919, 1920. _) (_See 1917, 1918 under_ JULIUS, EMANUEL HALDEMAN. ) Unworthy Coopers. Atl. May. (127:614. )

K

KAHLER, HUGH MACNAIR. (_See 1917, 1919, 1920. _) Allie Rebsoll's Better Self. S. E. P. Mar. 19. (12. ) Commune, Limited. S. E. P. Apr. 30. (16. ) *Davy Corbutt's Brother. S. E. P. May 28. (14. ) East Wind. S. E. P. Oct. , 23, '20. (3. ) Failure. L. H. J. Jan. (5. ) Fool's First. S. E. P. Nov. 20, '20. (12. ) Like a Tree. S. E. P. Jan. 22. (5. ) Number One. S. E. P. Mar. 5. (5. ) Once a Peddler. S. E. P. Sept. 3. (6. ) Oppressor. S. E. P. June 25. (14. ) Pink Sheep. S. E. P. Dec. 4, '20. (14. ) Playboy. Ev. Mar. (5. ) Unbowed. S. E. P. Dec. 25, '20. (5. )

KEIL, ESTHER W. Divorced. Cath. W. Nov. , '20. (195. )

KELLAND, CLARENCE BUDINGTON. (1881- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Conflict. Red Bk. Aug. (65. ) Grandma Cutcheon--Detective. Am. Jan. (30. ) Scattergood and the Missing Organ Fund. Am. Mar. (31. ) Scattergood and the Tongue of Gossip. Am. Feb. (21. ) Scattergood Baits a Hook. Am. Sept. (21. ) Scattergood Buys a Church. Am. June. (21. ) With the Help of the Duke. Chic. Trib. Nov. 7, '20. 

KELLOGG, VERNON LYMAN. _See_ "VERNON, MAX. "

KENNON, HARRY B. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) Amber Door. A. W. Jan. (1:10. ) Dvorak Op. 101, No. 7. A. W. Mar. (1:63. ) My Seat on the Aisle. A. W. July. (1:163. )

KENTY, GERTRUDE SNOW. Grandmother's Shoes. W. H. C. Apr. (15. )

KEON, GRACE. Partners. Cath. W. Oct. '20. (74. )

KERR, SOPHIE. (1880- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_See "H. " under_ UNDERWOOD, SOPHIE KERR. ) Beach Comber. L. H. J. Jan. (10. ) Girl Who Hated Her Mother. Del. Sept. (12. ) Home Brew. Met. June. (14. ) Smashed-To-Bits Heart. W. H. C. June. (11. ) Talker. McC. Aug. (21. ) Wild Earth. S. E. P. Apr. 2. (10. )

KILBOURNE, FANNIE ("MARY ALEXANDER. "). (_See 1915, 1917, 1918, 1920, under_ KILBOURNE, FANNIE, _and 1917 under_ ALEXANDER, MARY. ) Any Other Girl Can Tell. L. H. J. Mar. (8. ) Cinderella Dyes Them Black. Am. June. (31. ) Corner on William. L. H. J. Nov. , '20. (18. ) Cupid Takes Up Advertising. S. E. P. Jul. 2. (10. ) Magic. Del. Nov. , '20. (10. ) May Magic. S. E. P. Jul. 30. (12. ) Office Beauty. L. H. J. June. (8. ) Oh, yes--Nora Understood Men! Am. Nov. , '20. (54. ) Phyllis Tills the Soil. L. H. J. Sept. (14. ) Red-Haired Girl Can Always Get a Man. L. H. J. Oct. , '20. (14. ) Sunny Goes Home. S. E. P. May 7. (10. ) William Learns All About Women. Am. Aug. (21. )

KILMAN, JULIAN. Bookman. Atl. Feb. (127:214. )

KING, ELIZABETH R. Hard-Hearted Wretch. S. E. P. Oct. 16, '20. (20. )

KIRK, R. G. (_See 1917. _) Malloy Campeador. S. E. P. Sept. 17. (3. )

"KIRKLAND, JEANNE. " (_See 1920. _) Boomerang of Conscience. Pag. Aug. -Sept. (24. )

KITTREDGE, H. C. *Undiscovered Country. Atl. Nov. , '20. (126:646. )

KLINE, BURTON. (1877- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919. _) Another Football of Fate. Chic. Trib. Nov. 21. '20. *Forgotten Goddess. Red Bk. Aug. (45)

KLING, JOSEPH. Discretion. Pag. Jan. -Feb. (31. )

KOMROFF, MANUEL. (_See 1919, 1920. _) ***Little Master of the Sky. Dial. Apr. (70:386. )

KORNGOLD, RALPH. Father and Son. A. W. July, (1:166. )

KOVEN, JOSEPH. Hammid Hassan, Camel-Driver. Asia. Dec. , '20. (20:1087. )

KRAMER, EDGAR D. *Hero. Pag. Nov. -Dec. , '20. (29. )

KRYSTO, CHRISTINA. (1887- . ) (_See 1917, 1918. _) *Star-Dust. Atl. Mar. (127:315. )

KUMMER, FREDERICK ARNOLD. (1873- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919. _) (_H. _) Lantern of Diogenes. L. H. J. Nov. , '20. (187. ) Other Wife. Cos. June. (22. ) Woman Outside. Cos. Apr. (65. ) Woman Who Ate Up a Man. Cos. July. (58. )

KYNE, PETER BERNARD. (1880- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917. _) Evil Genius. Cos. Oct. , '20. (53. )

L

LAINE, A. T. Not "Seen. " Met. June. (36. )

LARDNER, RING W. (1885- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Battle of Long Island. S. E. P. Nov. 27. '20. (12. ) Comic. S. E. P. May 14. (12. ) Frame-Up. S. E. P. June 18. (14. ) Only One. S. E. P. Feb. 12. (5. )

LASKER, LOUISE. Beatrice Henderson. Pict. R. July. (24. )

LAUFERTY, LILIAN. (_See 1919. _) Cherry Ripe. Cos. Feb. (59. ) Some Men Are Like That. Cos. July. (99. )

LAUGHLIN, CLARA ELIZABETH. (1873- . ) (_See 1916. _) (_H. _) Junior and Junior's Mate. Met. May. (14. )

LAWRENCE, EMMA. (MRS. JOHN S. LAWRENCE. ) *At Thirty. Atl. Sept. (128:364. )

LAZAR, MAURICE. (_See 1917, 1920. _) Legal and Sufficient. S. S. Aug. (123. )

LEA, FANNIE HEASLIP. (MRS. H. P. AGEE. ) (1884- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Beach-Comber. G. H. Jul. (20. ) Friendship at Least. S. E. P. Apr. 30. (5. ) Gleam. Del. Dec. , '20. (15) In Every Port. G. H. May. (53. ) Just the Right People. McC. Oct. , '20. (16. ) Mary Is Here. Chic. Trib. Jan. 30. Old Flame. G. H. Oct. , '20 (8. ) One Flesh. Del. Aug. (12. ) One or Two Women. McC. Feb. (30. ) Something Afar. G. H. Feb. (15. ) Unstable. Harp. B. Dec. , '20. (54. ) Wild Ginger. McCall. Sept. (9. )

LEACH, PAUL R. (_See 1920. _) Taps. Col. May 28. (3. )

LEE, JENNETTE (BARBOUR PERRY). (1860- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) **Uncle 'Bijah's Ghost. Pict. R. July. (10. )

LEE, MUNA. (_See 1915, 1920. _) Quarrel. S. S. June. (63. )

LENGEL, WILLIAM C. Stopover Privileges. Hear. Aug. (45. )

LEONARD, ORVILLE H. *Alone at Tiger Gulch. W. St. June 18. (69. ) *Chef for the Yellow Bar. W. St. July 9. (76. ) *Drybones. W. St. Feb. 26. (34. ) *For Ridin' Like a Fool W. St. May 7. (76. ) *Hot Grit. W. St. June 4. (28. ) *In Spite of Himself. W. St. July 30. (77. ) *Lebaudy Starts for Lonesome Gulch. W. St. Apr. 23. (64. ) *Old-Timer's Hunch. W. St. Apr. 9. (127. ) *Rebranded. W. St. Mar. 5. (124. ) *Schooled in the West. W. St. Mar. 12. (130. ) *Soaked and Dried. W. St. Feb. 5. (120. ) *Water Boy. W. St. Apr. 30. (39. )

"LESSING, BRUNO" (RUDOLPH BLOCK). (1870- . ) (_See 1916, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Baron's Bridge. Hear. Apr. (50. ) Business Is Business. McC. Apr. (25. ) Cave Man Stuff. Hear. Oct. , '20. (48. ) Echo from Bohemia. Hear. Mar. (50. ) From Him That Hath Not. McC. Nov. '20. (29. ) Greatest Man In Kenashee. Hear. May (52. ) Honor of Poli. Hear. July. (54. ) Aug. (56. ) Lure of Love and Lucre. Hear. Jan. (52. ) Nine and One. Hear. Sept. (50. ) One That Lost. Hear. Feb. (52. ) Peach by Any Other Name. Hear. Dec. , '20. (52. ) Thoroughbred. Chic. Trib. May 8. Truth or Nothing. Hear. Nov. , '20. (52. )

LEVICK, MILES. (_See 1919, 1920. _) *Calla Lillies. S. S. Feb. (121. ) *Gold Dragon. S. S. Dec. , '20. (117. )

LEVISON, ERIC. (_See 1917, 1918, 1920. _) *Coat for Jacob. T. T. Oct. , '20. (85. )

LEWARS, ELSIE SINGMASTER. _See_ SINGMASTER, ELSIE. 

LEWIS, ORLANDO FAULKLAND. (1873- . ) (_See 1918, 1919, 1920. _) Get-Away. Red Bk. Feb. (78. ) In the Midst of Life. Red Bk. Dec. , '20. (58. ) It's a Long Lane. Red Bk. Nov. , '20. (87. ) Sparks That Flash in the Night. Red Bk. Oct. , '20. (53. )

LEWIS, OSCAR. (_See 1916, 1920. _) Paula. S. S. Mar. (121. ) *Yesterday's Leaves. S. S. Aug. (69. )

LEWIS, SINCLAIR. (1885- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) *Citizen of the Mirage. Red Bk. May. (47. ) Good Sport. S. E. P. Dec. 11, '20. (9. ) Matter of Business. Harp. M. Mar. (142:419. ) Number Seven to Sagapoose. Am. May. (20. ) *Post-Mortem Murder. Cen. May. (102:1. )

LIEBE, HAPSBURG. (_See 1915, 1918, 1919. _) (_H. _) Pal to Jim Lane. Col. July 23. (11. ) Trimmed and Burning. Col. Sept. 10. (12. )

LINCOLN, JOSEPH C(ROSBY). (1870- . ) (_See 1915, 1919. _) (_H. _) "Injun" Control. Cos. Nov. , '20. (57. )

LISTER, WALTER B. Courage. S. S. Aug. (87. )

LIVINGSTONE, FLORENCE BINGHAM. (_See 1920. _) Christmas Dimes, Limited. McCall. Dec. , '20. (14. ) Keep Your Ego, Jeremiah! McCall. June. (16. ) Lettie Clears the Decks. McCall. Nov. , '20. (16. ) Lettie on the Firing Line. McCall. Feb. (18. ) Silk Hangings. McCall. Mar. (16. )

LOCKWOOD, MARION WARD. Unbuilt Houses. McCall. Mar. (8. )

LOCKWOOD, SCAMMON. _(See 1916, 1920. )_ **One Kiss in Paradise. Ain. Nov. '20. (48. )

LONG, E. WALDO. Old Sam and the Dollar Mule. Am. Aug. (46. )

LORING, EMILIE. Box from Nixon's. W. H. C. May. (9. )

LOWE, CORINNE. (_See 1917, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Psycho-Anne. S. E. P. May 21. (10. )

LUDWIG, FRANCES A. (_See 1917, 1918. _) (_H. _) Doing Without Mother. Am. Oct. , '20. (50. ) Girl Who Changed Her Mind. Am. Nov. , '20. (21. )

LUEHRMANN, ADELE. Lurania Mystery. McCall. Nov. , '20. (6. )

LUTHER, MARK LEE. (1872- . ) (_H. _) Something Different. Red Bk. Jan. (73. )

M

MABIE, LOUISE KENNEDY. (_See 1915, 1917, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Bird of Paradise. L. H. J. Apr. (8. ) Does Mr. Broderick Fail? L. H. J. Oct. , '20. (22. )

MCCASLIN, DAVIDA. *To Remove Mountains. Mid. Feb. (7:67. )

MCCREA, MARION. (_See 1918, 1920. _) Advertise For Him! Met. May. (33. ) Use Crystalsweet. Cos. Dec. , '20. (79. )

MCCUTCHEON, GEORGE BARR. (1866- . ) (_See 1918, 1919. _) (_H. _) Sporting Chance. Chic. Trib. Sept. 18. 

MCELLIOTT, MABEL. Ennui. S. S. June. (107. ) Unlucky at Cards. Chic. Trib. Mar. 13. 

MACFARLANE, PETER CLARK. (1871- . ) (_See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Bulls and Buckers. Red Bk. July (84. ) Crossing Up Augustus. Red Bk. Apr. (76. ) Puss or Bear Cat. Red Bk. Nov. , '20. (37. ) Taste of Revenge. Red Bk. Mar. (66. )

MACGOWAN, ALICE (1858- . ) _and_ GRACE MACGOWAN COOKE. (1863- . ) _See 1915 under_ COOKE, GRACE MACGOWAN; _1916, 1917 under_ MACGOWAN, ALICE; _"H" under both heads. _ *Runt. Pict. R. Aug. (24. )

MACHAR, AENGUS. Grandmamma. Cath. W. July (113:524. )

MACHARG, WILLIAM BRIGGS. (1872- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1918. _) (_H. _) Mr. Cord. Red Bk. Oct. , '20. (83. ) Price of a Party. Cos. Feb. (75. ) Rockhound. Cos. Jan. (58. ) Wildcatter. Cos. Dec. , '20. (30. )

MACKARNESS, KAY. Happy the Bride. Hear. Dec. , '20. (21. )

MCKAIG, ALEXANDER. "Picture-Picture. " W. H. C. Mar. (19. )

MACMANUS, SEUMAS. (1870- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Donal o' the Moor. Mag. Nov. , '20. (44. )

MCNUTT, WILLIAM SLAVENS. (_H. _) Kind Deeds. Met. Sept. (29. )

MACY, J. EDWARD. (_See 1920. _) *Out of the Hurricane. Scr. Aug. (70:232. )

MAHONEY, JAMES. (_See 1920. _) Hairs of the Occasion. Cen. May. (102:89. ) Wilfred Reginald and the Dark Horse. Cen. Aug. (102:553. )

MANNERS, GUY. Man to Man. Red Bk. May. (81. )

MANNING, MARIE (MRS. HERMAN E. GASCH). (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920. _) (_H. _) Love the Detective. L. H. J. Aug. (6. )

MARKEY, GENE. (_See 1920. _) Cynthia of the Sonnets. Harp. B. Apr. (54. ) Toujours, Priscilla. Harp. B. Aug. (66. )

MARQUAND, J. P. Right That Failed. S. E. P. July 23. (12. )

MARQUIS, DON (ROBERT PERRY). (1878- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920. _) (_H. _) Healer and the Pentient. Pict. R. Feb. (23. ) *Looney the Mutt. Ev. Jan. 62. Saddest Man. Red Bk. Aug. (79. )

MARRIOTT, CRITTENDEN. (1867- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1920. _) (_H. _) Those Most Concerned. G. H. Oct. , '20. (58. )

MARSDEN, GRIFFIS. (_See 1919, 1920. _) Two Chairs. S. S. Feb. (85. )

MARSH, GEORGE T. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919. _) (_H. _) *High Brotherhood. Red Bk. Jan. (78. ) Mistake of Mr. Bruette. Red Bk. Mar. (23. ) *Once at Drowning River, Red Bk. Sept. (70. )

MARSHALL, EDISON. (1894- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920. _) *Heart of Little Shikara. Ev. Jan. (40. ) Never Kill a Porcupine. Am. Dec. , '20. (23. )

MARTYN, WYNDHAM. (_See 1915, 1916, 1918. _) Samuel Perkins, Unable Mariner. Ev. Apr. (54. )

MARZONI, PETTERSEN. Kick at the End. Met. June. (34. )

MASON, GRACE SARTWELL. (1877- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Call It a Day! S. E. P. June 18. (12. ) Connecting Wire. L. H. J. Sept. (12. ) **Glory. Harp. M. Apr. (142:545. ) Peachy Walks the Weary. S. E. P. Apr. 16. (14. )

MASON, LAURA KENT. Engaged. S. S. Jan. (123. )

MAXON, HARRIET. (MRS. GILBERT THAYER. ) ***Kindred. Mid. Jul. (7:260. )

MAYER, EDWARD B. Revolt. Pag. June-Jul. (17. )

MAYNARD, RICHARD FIELD. P. D. Q. Scr. Apr. (69:450. )

MEANS, E(LDRED) K(URTZ). (1878- . ) (_See 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Head for Business. Mun. Nov. , '20. (71:266. ) *Poisoned Pugilism. Mun. June. (73:181. ) *Who's Who and Why. Mun. Feb. (72:66. )

MELLETT, BERTHE KNATVOLD. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917. _) Hi! Hippity! Col. Nov. 13, '20. (5. ) It is a Wise Daughter. Col. Feb. 19. (8. ) One Large Picture of Him. Col. Dec. 11, '20. (10. ) Red Mike. Col. Jan. 8. (8. ) Secret Sorrow. Col. Apr. 30. (7. ) Will o' the Wisp. Col. June 4. (14. )

MERWIN, SAMUEL. (1874- . ) (_See 1915, 1920. _) (_H. _) Eva on the Ice. S. E. P. Nov. 6, '20. (10. ) Garage of Enchantment. Red Bk. Apr. (27. ) Little Matter of Living. S. E. P. Aug. 13. (5. ) New Platitude. Chic. Trib. Mar. 6. Old Lost Stars. L. H. J. May. (14. ) Saving Sister. S. E. P. Nov. , '20. (8. ) There Are Smiles. McC. Apr. (14. ) Time Out for Granberry. McC. Feb. (18. )

MILHAM, C. G. After Twenty Years. Ev. Sept. (147. )

MILLER, ALICE DUER. (1874- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Give Matrimony a Chance. Red Bk. Jul. (64. ) Protecting Instinct. Red Bk. Dec. , '20. (48. ) Woman Who Hated Politics. Red Bk. Jan. (25. )

MILLER, EVELYN DEWEY. Highroad to Freedom. Ev. Mar. (71. )

MILLER, HELEN TOPPING. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920. _) Fireflies. S. E. P. Feb. 12. (32. ) Marsh Light. S. E. P. Oct. 9, '20. (16. ) Signed--"T. F. " W. H. C. Oct. , '20. (23. ) *"Two Women . .. At a Mill. " G. H. May. (18. )

MILLER, HUGH S. (See 1916. ) Spice of Danger. Scr. Feb. (69:222. )

MILLER, WARREN H. (1876- . ) (_See 1919. _) Ruler the Persistent. Red Bk. Feb. (64. )

MILLEY, ELEANOR. Janet's Face. S. S. Apr. (49. )

MILLS, DOROTHY CULVER. (_See 1918, 1919. _) James to Anita With Love. Del. Dec. , '20. (19. )

MINNIGERODE, MEADE. (_See 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920. _) Hush Stuff. Col. Feb. 26. (10. ) "Saddest Tale. " Col. May 28. (12. )

MINOR, MARY HEATON VORSE O'BRIEN. _See_ VORSE, MARY (MARVIN) HEATON. 

MITCHELL, RUTH COMFORT. (MRS. SANBORN YOUNG. ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Nebber No Mo'. Del. Oct. , '20. (15. ) Ringmaster. W. H. C. Feb. (17. ) Slip'ry Flies Out, L. H. J. Dec. , '20. (20. ) Trap. Met. Mar. (16. )

MONTAGUE, MARGARET PRESCOTT. (1878- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) 'To Will to Go. ' Atl. May. (127:650. )

MOONEY, RALPH E. (_See 1919, 1920. _) Look Like a Million! Am. Jul. (44. )

MOORE, ANNE. *Their Expiation. Touch. Oct. , '20. (8:28. )

MORGAN, BYRON. (1889- . ) (_See 1918, 1919. _) Hell Diggers. S. E. P. Oct. 2, '20. (8. ) Too Much Speed. S. E. P. May 28. (5. )

MORLEY, CHRISTOPHER (DARLINGTON). (1890- . ) (_See 1917, 1918, 1919. _) Curious Case of Kenelm Digby. Book. Mar. (53:10. ) Apr. (53:157. ) Disappearance of Dunraven Bleak. Book. June. (53:312. )

MOROSO, JOHN ANTONIO. (1874- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) McCann's Danny. Ev. Aug. (53. ) Mary Two-Sides. Red Bk. Aug. (94. ) Old Detective Who Had Retired. Am. Dec. , '20. (46. ) Storm-Cloud. Del. Feb. (8. )

MORRIS, GOUVERNEUR. (1876- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919. _) (_H. _) *End of the Road. Harp. B. Oct. , '19. (54. ) **Open Door. Cos. Apr. (25. ) *Silver Screen. McC. Aug. (28. )

MORTON, JOHNSON. (_See 1917. _) (_H. _) *Second Day of Spring. Harp. M. Feb. (142:350. )

MOSELLE, ROSE. Little Girl Named Jennie. Touch. Jan. (8:263. )

MOTT, FRANK LUTHER. (_See 1918. _) ***Man with the Good Face. Mid. Dec. , '20. (6:202. )

MOUAT, HELEN. **Aftermath. G. H. Sept. (38. )

MOUNT, RICHARD. Honour of an Artiste. S. S. May. (33. )

MUILENBURG, WALTER J. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918. _) **Peace. Mid. Apr. (7:159. )

MULLETT, MARY B. (_See 1918. _) (_H. _) Rivals. Am. Dec. , '20. (39. )

MUMFORD, ETHEL WATTS (MRS. ETHEL WATTS-MUMFORD GRANT. ) (1878- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) "Aurore. " Pict. R. Feb. (18. ) *Pupil of Raphael. Ain. Apr. (144. ) *Red Gulls. Pict. R. Oct. , '20. (12. )

MURRAY, ROY IRVING. (1882- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1919, 1920. _) Fixed Idea. Scr. Apr. (69:481. )

MYGATT, GERALD. (_See 1920. _) (_H. _) Alibi Absolute. Red Bk. May. (32. ) Strictly Legitimate. S. E. P. Dec. 11, '20. (18. )

MYGATT, GERALD _and_ SMITH, GARRET. Q. E. D. S. E. P. Mar. 19. (14. )

N

NEIDIG, WILLIAM JONATHAN. (1870- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Firebug. Ev. Apr. (39. ) Wire Cutter. S. E. P. Apr. 2. (14. )

NICHOLSON, MEREDITH. (1866- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Campbells Are Coming. McC. Aug. (13. ) Poor Dear Papa. Red Bk. Apr. (62. ) What Would You Do? McC. Jan. (16. )

NILES, BLAIR. (_See 1920. _) *Candles of Faith. Scr. Dec. , '20. (68:725. ) Cheating the Jungle. Scr. Mar. (69:360. )

NORRIS, KATHLEEN. (1880- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Bluebeard's Closet. G. H. Jan. (43. ) Dam. G. H. Sept. (30. ) *Heart of a Mouse. G. H. June, '20. (36. ) Miss Mack of the Sixth. G. H. June. (20. ) Pioneers. G. H. Mar. (14. ) Truthful James. Cos. Sept. (75. )

NOYES, FRANCES NEWBOLD. _See_ HART, FRANCES NOYES. 

NUGENT, ELLIOTT. Larry Pyramids. S. S. Apr. (111. )

O

O'HIGGINS, HARVEY JERROLD. (1876- . ) (_See 1915, 1917, 1918, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Dr. Adrian Hale Hellmuth. Cen. June. (102:179. ) ***Peter Quayle. McC. Oct. , '20. (25. ) Nov. , '20. (25. )

OLIVER, OWEN. (_See 1915, 1920. _) Red Fisher. Chic. Trib. July 17. Turning. Del. Jan. (13. )

O'MAHONEY, JAMES. Blind Alleys. Met. Oct. , '20. (32. )

O'MALLEY, ELEANOR. Moral Woman. S. S. Sept. (33. )

O'MALLEY, FRANK WARD. (1875- . ) Thence by Seagoing Hack. S. E. P. Nov. 27, '20. (8. )

O'NEIL, LYDIA M. D. Hearts and Clubs. Sun. Nov. , '20. (30. )

O'NEILL, AGNES BOULTON. _See_ BOULTON, AGNES. 

ONSLEY, CLARE. Delinquents All. Touch. Jan. (8:280. )

O'REILLY, EDWARD SINNOTT. (1880- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919. _) His Fortunate Face. Pict. R. Apr. (9. )

ORFINGER, ESTHER. Used Up. Pag. Mar. -Apr. (39. )

ORMSBEE, HELEN. (_H. _) Long Shadow. W. H. C. Mar. (14. )

OSBORNE, WILLIAM HAMILTON. (1873- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Swift Work. S. E. P. Nov. 13, '20 (36. ) Very Narrow Squeak. S. E. P. May 28. (10. )

OSBOURNE, LLOYD. (1868- . ) (_See 1915, 1917, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Man Who. S. E. P. Jan. 1. (3. )

O'SULLIVAN, VINCENT. (1872- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920. _) ***Master of Fallen Years. S. S. Aug. (91. )

OVERTON, JACQUELINE M. Sahib. Scr. July. (70:102. )

OWEN, PHILIP. In Pleasant Places. S. S. Mar. (115. )

"OXFORD, JOHN BARTON. " _See_ SHELTON, (RICHARD) BARKER. 

P

PAINE, ALBERT BIGELOW. (1861- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Ordeal of Art. Harp. M. Oct. , '20. (141:681. ) Reforming Julius. Harp. M. Dec. , '20. (142:129. )

PAINE, RALPH DELAHAYE. (1871- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1920_. ) (_H. _) Bound to the Westward. Ev. Oct. , '20. (30. )

PANGBORN, GEORGIA WOOD. (1872- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1920. _) (_H. _) Grasshoppers' Harvest. L. H. J. Nov. , '20. (30. ) Orris Island. W. H. C. Dec. , '20. (18. )

PARADISE, VIOLA. (_See 1919. _) *Matches. Atl. Nov. , '20. (126:608. )

PARK, JAMES. Preponderance of the Evidence. Atl. Dec. , '20. (126:800. )

PARMENTER, CHRISTINE WHITING. (1877- . ) (_See 1918, 1919, 1920. _) "For Better--For Worse--" Del. July. (12. ) Lynette--the Plain One. W. H. C. July. (25. ) Magic Wreath. Del. Dec. , '20. (11. ) Mr. Piper of Hamlin. Am. Oct. , '20. (45. ) "Old Enough to be Her Father. " W. H. C. Oct. , '20. (24. ) Things Worth While. Sun. Oct. , '20. (43. )

PATERSON, ISABEL. What It Was Like. Del. Aug. (16. )

PATRICK, JOHN. (_See 1916. _) Message to Santa. L. H. J. Dec. , '20. (181. )

PATTERSON, MARY. (_See 1916. _) Dropped Torch. Harp. B. Mar. (42. )

PATTULLO, GEORGE. (1879- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Catfish Kid. S. E. P. July 30. (10. ) Gasoline Gus. S. E. P. Dec. 4, '20. (10. ) Hard to Beat. S. E. P. Feb. 26. (6. ) Her Man. S. E. P. July 2. (8. ) K. I. K. S. E. P. May 21. (8. ) Kincaid's Angel Child. Red Bk. Mar. (76. )

PAYNE, WILL. (1855- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Acquitted. Cos. July. (53. ) Judge's Fall. Chic. Trib. June 5. Magic of Jewels. Cos. Sept. (69. )

PELLEY, WILLIAM DUDLEY. (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) *Dream Beautiful. Red Bk. Dec. , '20. (81. ) "Hold It--Stradivarius!" Pict. R. Mar. (10. ) Last Dollar. Cos. June. (65. ) Plaid Moth. Cos. Mar. (81. ) Third-Speed Tarring. Ev. Dec. , '20. (59. )

PELTIER, FLORENCE. (_See 1920. _) *Left-Handed Jingors and the Builders of the Yomei Gate. Asia. Jan. (21:41. )

PERRY, LAWRENCE. (1875- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Big Idea. S. E. P. June 4. (12. ) Girl Who Took the Bumps. Red Bk. Feb. (30. ) Holdout. S. E. P. May 21. (14. ) Man to Man. S. E. P. Nov. 20, '20. (26. ) Rocks of Avalon. Red Bk. Dec. , '20. (71. ) Son of His Mother. Chic. Trib. Oct. 31, '20. 

PERRY, MONTANYE. (_See 1920. _) "Dear Neighbors. " W. H. C. Feb. (26. )

PHILLIPS, DOROTHY S. "Practically Engaged. " Am. Sept. (45. )

PHILLIPS, MICHAEL JAMES. (_See 1919, 1920. _) Salome--Where She Danced. Red Bk. Nov. , '20. (32. )

PICKTHALL, MARJORIE L(OWRY) (CHRISTIE). (_See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Green Loco. Del. July. (9. )

PITT, CHART. (_See 1917, 1918. _) Debt of the Snows. Sun. Apr. (30. )

PLUMLEY, LADD. (_H. _) Doc Jenny. Scr. Sept. (70:362. )

POPE, LAURA SPENCER PORTOR. _See_ PORTOR, LAURA SPENCER. 

PORTER, AGNES. Who Was Robinson? Scr. Dec. , '20. (68:748. )

PORTER, HAROLD EVERETT. _See_ "HALL, HOLWORTHY. "

PORTER, REBECCA N. (_H. _) Wives of Xerxes. Scr. Jan. (69:49. )

PORTERFIELD, ALEXANDER. Bacchanale of the Boulevards. Harp. M. Aug. (143:316. )

PORTOR, LAURA SPENCER. (LAURA SPENCER PORTOR POPE). (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919. _) (_H. _) ***Sightseers. Harp. M. Aug. (143:359. )

POST, CHARLES JOHNSON. (1873- . ) (_See 1915. _) (_H. _) Eve Incorporated. G. H. Sept. (23. ) Middals an' Houses. G. H. Dec. , '20. (33. ) Pent an' Powdher. G. H. Jan. (52. )

POST, MELVILLE DAVISSON. (1871- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) **Expert Detective. Ev. Oct. , '20. (15. ) *Girl in the Picture. Pict. R. Jan. (26. ) *Last Adventure. Hear. Sept. (9. ) *Man Who Threatened the World. Hear. Dec. , '20. (8. ) *Man With Steel Fingers. Red Bk. Sept. (34. ) *Mottled Butterfly. Red Bk. Aug. (60. ) *"Mysterious Stranger. " Defense. Ev. June. (32. ) ***Unknown Disciple. Pict. R. Dec. , '20. (14. )

POTTER, GRACE. (_See 1919. _) **Beginning. Lib. Aug. (11. )

POTTLE, JULIET WILBOR TOMPKINS. _See_ TOMPKINS, JULIET WILBOR. 

POWYS, LLEWELYN. *In Africa the Dark. Met. May. (17. ) *Not Guilty. S. S. Jul. (118. ) **"Stunner. " Free. Nov. 10, '20. (2:200. )

PRATT, LUCY. (1874- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919. _) (_H. _) Real Father. McCall. May. (8. )

PULVER, MARY BRECHT. (1883- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Annie Carey. S. E. P. Oct. 9, '20. (8. ) *Bitter Valley. G. H. Apr. (68. ) *Gus. G. H. Aug. (59. ) **Secret. G. H. Nov. , '20. (16. ) Silent House. S. E. P. June 4. (16. )

PUTNAM, NINA WILCOX. (1888- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Fattening Calf. S. E. P. Nov. 13, '20. (12. ) Hooch Owl. S. E. P. Feb. 26. (12. ) Little Drops of Water. S. E. P. Oct. 2, '20. (20. ) Men, the Brutes! S. E. P. Sept. 10. (10. ) Tall Money. S. E. P. Nov. 6, '20. (14. ) Two Weeks With Pay. S. E. P. Oct. 9. '20. (20. ) Vox Potpourri. S. E. P. Oct. 30, '20. (12. )

Q

QUEEN, HELEN DUNCAN. (_H. _) High Hurdles. Sun. June. (24. )

R

RABELL, DU VERNET. (_See 1920. _) Returning Prophet. Ev. Nov. , '20. (29. )

RALEY, HELEN. *Posadas. Mag. Dec. , '20. (73. )

RANCK, REITA LAMBERT. (_See 1918, 1919. _) Withered Petals. Harp. M. June. (143:57. )

RAPHAELSON, SAMPSON. (_See 1920. _) Romantic Realism of Rosalie. Hear. Oct. , '20. (17. ) Rosalie and the Emotional Appeal. Hear. Feb. (21. )

RASCOE, BURTON. Caste. S. S. May. (117. )

RAVENEL, BEATRICE WITTE. (1870- . ) (_See 1919, 1920. _) *Maison Cadwallader. Harp. M. Sept. (143:429. )

RAY, MARIE BEYNON. (_See 1920. _) Hostess of Tragedy. S. S. Apr. (119. ) Understanding Heart. Harp. B. Sept. (64. )

RAYMOND, CLIFFORD. (_H. _) Oak from the Acorn. Chic. Trib. Jul 31. 

READ, MARION PUGH. (_See 1915, 1916. _) (_H. _) **Everlasting Grace. Atl. Mar. (127:343. )

REAMER, LAWRENCE. (_H. _) "C in Alt. " Cen. Jul. (102:377. ) Second Breakfast. S. S. Mar. (69. )

REDINGTON, HELEN. Winning Sister. Ev. Jul. (173. )

REDINGTON, SARAH. (_See 1919, 1920. _) "Au Bonheur des Co-Eds. " Scr. Nov. , '20, (68:590. ) Matherson and the Spirit World. Scr. Aug. (70:200. )

REELY, MARY KATHARINE. (_See 1917, 1918. _) (_H. _) *Late Spring. Touch. Nov. , '20. (93. )

REESE, LOWELL OTUS. (1866- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) Feminine Touch. Col. May 28. (7. ) Killer. S. E. P. Sept. 10. (8. ) Monkey Wrench. S. E. P. May 7. (24. ) When Weasel-Face Came Back. Col. Feb. 12. (10. ) Yellow Dog's Bone. Col. Mar. 12 (12. )

REYHER, FERDINAND M. (1891- . ) (_See 1916, 1917. _) Enchanted Mountain. McC. Aug. (18. )

REYNOLDS, HARRY WAIT. Man Who Fought But Once. Ev. June. (66. )

RHODES, HARRISON (GARFIELD). (1871- . ) (_See 1915, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) ***Miss Sunshine. Chic. Trib. May 29. Night Life and Thomas Robinson. S. E. P. June 4. (8. ) Thomas Robinson--Man of the World. S. E. P. Apr. 23. (14. )

RICHARDSON, NORVAL. (_See 1917. _) (_H. _) *Man-Made Lady. Harp. B. Oct. , '19. (84. )

RICHMOND, GRACE (LOUISE) S(MITH). (1866- . ) (_See 1917, 1918, 1919. _) (_H. _) Bells of St. Johns. G. H. Dec. , '20. (10. )

RICHTER, CONRAD (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) "You're Too Contwisted Satisfied--Jim Ted!" Am. Feb. (39. )

RIGGS, KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN. _See_ WIGGIN, KATE DOUGLAS. 

RITCHIE, ROBERT WELLES. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) Birdie, the Heaven Hen. Sun. Mar. (28. )

RITTENHOUSE, MARIAN F. What Was "Too-Pay?" W. H. C. Dec. , '20. (25. )

ROBBINS, LEONARD H. (1877- . ) (_See 1920. _) Betty's Painter. Ev. Mar. (29. ) Mr. Downey Sits Down. Ev. June. (61. )

ROBBINS, TOD. (_See 1918. _) ***Toys of Fate. Mun. Jan. (71:597. )

ROBERTS, CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS. (1860- . ) (_See 1915, 1917, 1918. _) (_H. _) *Cave of the Bear. Met. Mar. (22. ) Fishers of the Air. McC. Sept. (24. ) Mustela of the Lone Hand. McC. Apr. (22. ) Quills the Indifferent. McC. Feb. (19. ) Winged Scourge of the Dark. McC. Mar. (27. )

ROBERTS, HELEN C. Poise. S. S. Dec. , '20. (123. )

ROBERTSON, CLYDE. On Nebo's Lonely Mountain. Pag. Nov. -Dec. , '20. (13. )

ROBIN, MAX. Freedom. S. S. Nov. , '20. (123. ) **Young School Teacher. Pag. May. (5. )

ROCHE, ARTHUR SOMERS. (1883- . ) (_See 1915, 1917, 1918, 1920. _) (_H. _) Limit of the Christmas Kid. Cos. Apr. (75. )

ROE, VINGIE E. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Eighteenth Leap. Ev. Mar. (23. ) Fuzzyface. Sun. Mar. (19. ) Jimmy Lee--A Colfax. G. H. Dec. , '20. (32. ) Old Square Horns. Col. Sept. 24. (7. ) Princiep'--and True Love. Chic. Trib. Apr. 3. Stuff o' Heroes. Sun. Jan. (26. )

ROOF, KATHERINE METCALF. (_See 1915, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Vengeance of Arjan Dai. Hol. Mar. (20. )

ROSENBLATT, BENJAMIN. (1880- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Thinker. Lit. S. Apr. (8. )

ROULET, MARIE ANTOINETTE DE. Little Wooden Bowl. Cath. W. May. (113:228. )

ROWLAND, HENRY C(OTTRELL). (1874- . ) (_See 1918, 1919. _) (_H. _) April Fool Candy. Red Bk. Apr. (81. ) Fury of the Sheep. Red Bk. Jul. (74. ) Playing Safe. Chic. Trib. Jul. 24. 

RUSSELL, JOHN. (1885- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) Shots. Cos. June. (53. )

"RUTLEDGE, MARYSE, " (MARYSE RUTLEDGE HALE). ("MARICE RUTLEDGE. ") (MARIE LOUISE GOETCHIUS. ) (MARIE LOUISE VAN SAANEN. ) (1884- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918 under_ VAN SAANEN, MARIE LOUISE; _1920 under_ "RUTLEDGE, MARYSE. ") (_See "H. " under_ GOETCHIUS, MARIE LOUISE. ) Sad Adventurers. S. E. P. Apr. 30. (8. )

RYERSON, FLORENCE. (_See 1915, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) Anna the Absolute. Am. Feb. 11. Bargain Day for Babies. Am. Apr. (38. )

S

SACHS, EMANIE N. *Damned Nigger. S. S. Oct. , '20. (21. )

SANGSTER, MARGARET ELIZABETH, JR. , (1894- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) *Across the Years. G. H. June. (34. )

SAPINSKY, RUTH _and_ SAPINSKY, JOSEPH. (_See 1915, 1916 under_ SAPINSKY, ROSE; _1920 under_ SAPINSKY, JOSEPH. ) Exit Yourself. McCall. Oct. , '20. (20. )

SATUREN, PAUL. *Witch-Face. Pag. Jan. -Feb. (10. )

SAWHILL, MYRA. (_See 1917, 1919, 1920. _) Curing a Bully With His Own Medicine. Am. Feb. (50. ) Shirley Langdon Takes a Flyer. Am. Nov. , '20. (48. ) *Wagon and the Star. Scr. Dec. , '20. (68:735. )

SAWYER, RUTH (MRS. ALBERT C. DURAND). (1880- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Christopher Titmouse, B. B. G. H. May. (63. ) Heart of a Boy. Ev. Dec. , '20. (13. ) *Mother. G. H. Nov. , '20. (54. ) Pebbles of Pettingale's Point. Col. Apr. 16. (9. )

SAXBY, CHARLES. (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920. _) (_H. _) Beach of Jewels. Met. Nov. , '20. (15. ) *Hole in the Film. Cen. Aug. (102:530. ) Proud Piece. Ev. Oct. , '20. (23. ) Road of Hate. Chic. Trib. Sept. 11. Singer of the Night. Ev. Feb. (5. ); Mar. (16. ) *Walking Ann Fools the Sheriff. Am. Aug. (29. )

SCHAUFFLER, MARGARET WIDDEMER. _See_ WIDDEMER, MARGARET. 

SCOBEE, BARRY. ***The Wind. Adv. Jan. 3. (54. )

SCOVILLE, JR. , SAMUEL. (1872- . ) (_See 1920. _) (_H. _) Devil. L. H. J. Jan. (171. ) Sea Otter. L. H. J. Sept. (34. )

SEABROOK, W. B. *Won. S. S. Jan. (41. )

SEDGWICK, JOHN HUNTER. Miss Melby's Change of Heart. S. S. Dec. , '20. (81. ) Pepperell Square. S. S. Jan. (81. )

SEIFERT, SHIRLEY L. (_See 1919, 1920. _) Bittersweet. L. H. J. Jan. 22. Blue Morning-Glories. L. H. J. Aug. (3. ) Sept. (22. ) For the Sake of Phyllis. L. H. J. Nov. , '20. (14. )

SEIFFERT, MARJORIE ALLEN. (1885- . ) (_See 1918, 1919, 1920. _) *Woman From Over the Sky-Line. S. S. Mar. (97. )

SERGEL, R. L. **Glare of Circumstance. Mid. June. (7:223. )

SEXTON, BERNARD. (_See 1920. _) *Parrots and the Lady. Asia. Nov. , '20. (20:989. )

SHANNON, JAMES. Terrible Meek. S. S. Mar. (113. )

SHELTON (RICHARD) BARKER. (_See 1916, 1917 under_ "OXFORD, JOHN BARTON. ") (_See 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Inspiration. S. E. P. Sept. 10. (22. ) Splendid Faith. Col. Apr. 9. (9. )

SHERMAN, EDITH BISHOP. *Seconds. Met. June. (60. )

SHOLES, HELEN. Still-Life. S. S. Feb. (117. )

SHOLL, ANNA MCCLURE. (_See 1916, 1918. _) (_H. _) Girdle. W. H. C. July. (26. )

SHORE, VIOLA BROTHERS. (_See 1919, 1920. _) Heritage. S. E. P. Feb. 5. (16. ) O Tempora! O Mawruss! S. E. P. Oct. 30, '20. (16. ) They Always Do. L. H. J. July. (6. )

SHOWERMAN, GRANT. (1870- . ) (_See 1916, 1917. _) (_H. _) **Country Benedict. Cen. Sept. (102:692. )

SINGER, MARY. He Who Gets--Has! Am. Dec. , '20. (52. ) Lie That Waked Tom Up. Am. Aug. (40. )

SINGMASTER, ELSIE (ELSIE SINGMASTER LENAR). (1879- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Apple Country. W. H. C. July. (11. ) *Face in the Mirror. McCall. May. (16. ) *Noah's Ark. L. H. J. Dec. , '20. (24. )

SISK, HERMAN. One Woman in a Million. Sun. Mar. (50. )

SLADE, CHRISTINE JOPE. Amateur Vamp. Met. Nov. , '20. (7. ) Caretakers Within. S. E. P. Feb. 5. (12. ) Catchpenny Ann. Met. Apr. (28. ) Golden Idol. S. E. P. Apr. 16. (10. ) Grubstaking Cinderella. S. E. P. June 11. (12. ) Wild Lad from Wigan. Sun. July. (18. )

SMITH, GARRET. (_See 1920. _) _See also_ MYGATT, GERALD, _and_ SMITH, GARRET. Buccaneer Blood. S. E. P. Nov. 13, '20. (26. )

SMITH, GORDON ARTHUR. (1886- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Aristocrat. Harp. M. Nov. , '20 (141:759. ) Dreamlight. S. E. P. Aug. 20. (8. ) *Love Thy Neighbor. Dial. Jan. (70:29. )

SMITH, MAXWELL. (_See 1919, 1920. _) Chigger. Ev. May. (45. ) Sheared Ears. Red Bk. Oct. , '20 (48. )

SMITH, W. EDSON. (_See 1915. _) (_H. _) Big Top o' the World. Scr. Feb. (69:185. )

SNEDDON, ROBERT W. (1880- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Grease-paint and Tears. L. St. Dec. , '20. (27. )

SÖDERBERG, HJALMAR. *Blue Anchor. Hear. July. (44. )

SOLANO, SOLITA. (_See 1920. _) Vespers. S. S. Feb. (47. ) Virgin. S. S. Aug. (114. )

SOLOMANS, THEODORE SEIXAS. (_See 1915, 1920. _) Little "Dame" on the Second Floor. Am. Oct. , '20. (13. )

SPEARS, RAYMOND SMILEY. (1876- . ) (_See 1917, 1918, 1920. _) (_H. _) Revenge. Col. Dec. 18, '20. (10. ) Ten Thousand Dollars a Wag. Col. Mar. 5. (9. ) Trainer. Col. Oct. 30, '20. (10. )

SPEYER, LEONORA. (_See 1919. _) Red Roses. S. S. Oct. , '20. (77. )

SPRINGER, FLETA CAMPBELL. (1886- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1918; see 1917 under_ CAMPBELL, FLETA. ) (_H. _) **Mountain of Jehovah. Harp. M. Mar. (142:470. ) ***Role of Madame Ravelles. Harp, M. Sept. (143:466. )

SQUIER, EMMA LINDSEY. Alfred the Seal. G. H. Aug. (46. ) Fairy Night. G. H. Mar. (8. ) Hector, the Hawk. G. H. Sept. (64. ) Henry, the Heron. G. H. May. (30. ) Leonard. G. H. Apr. (32. ) O'Henry, the Quail Baby. G H. July. (26. ) Skygak. G. H. Mar. (11. ) Timothy, the Dirty Bear. G. H. June. (29. ) U-Chu-Ka. G. H. Apr. (31. )

STARKEY, MAY CHAPMAN. His Second Wife. Del. June. (7. )

STARRETT, VINCENT. (_See 1918, 1920. _) *Last Veteran. A. W. June. (1:136. ) Thirty Pieces of Silver. A. W. Feb. (1:53. )

STEELE, ALICE GARLAND (MRS. T. AUSTIN-BALL). (1880- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) "Ah! Moon of My Delight. " W. H. C. Apr. (13. )

STEELE, WILBUR DANIEL. (1886- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) ***At Two-in-the-Bush. Harp. M. Oct. , '20. (141:574. ) ***Footfalls. Pict. R. Oct. , '20. (20. ) **Fouled Anchor. Harp. M. Apr. (142:591. ) ***Life. Pict. R. Aug. (5. ) ***Shame Dance. Harp. M. Dec. , '20. (142:39. ) ***'Toinette of Maisonnoir. Pict. R. July. (13. )

STEFFENS, (JOSEPH) LINCOLN. (1866- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918. _) (_H. _) *White Streak. Col. Jan. 15. (5. )

STERNE, ELAINE. (1894- . ) (_See 1919. _) Fluff. Met. Apr. (31. )

STERRETT, FRANCES ROBERTA. (1869- . ) (_H. _) Cozy Little Word. Met. Jan. (27. )

STETSON, CUSHING. (_H. _) Spud's Secret. Met. Mar. (31. )

"STEVENS, MARGARET DEAN. " _See_ Aldrich, Bess Streeter. 

STEWART, WILLIAM R. When the Rising Sun Went Down. Hear. Feb. (33. )

STOCKVIS, GERALDINE. **Christmas Eve at Brenner's Falls. Pict. R. Dec. , '20. (28. )

STOCKARD, WILLETT. (_See 1916. _) As Handsome Does. Ev. Feb. (72. )

STORRS, MARGUERITE LUSK. *Daughter of Romley. Harp. M. Jan. (142:216. )

STRAHAN, KAY CLEAVER. (1888- . ) (_See 1915, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Exception. Ev. July. (121. ) Jack and Jill, Revised. Del. Oct. , '20. (12. ) With the Odds to the Gods. Del. Jan. (5. )

STREET, JULIAN (LEONARD). (1879- . ) (_See 1915, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) **Voice in the Hall. Harp. M. Sept. (143:409. )

STREETER, EDWARD. (1891- . ) (_See 1920. _) Break the Glass and Pull Down the Hook. S. E. P. Nov. 13, '20. (14. )

STRIBLING, T. S. (_See 1920. _) What a Young Man Should Know. Ev. Jan. (71. )

STRINGER, ARTHUR (JOHN ARBUTHNOTT). (1874- . ) (_See 1915, 1920. _) (_H. _) Gun-Play. McC. Feb. (21. ) Interception. Hear. Feb. (8. ) Lion Must Eat. McC. Mar. (19. ) Lost Titian. S. E. P. Oct. 30, '20. (5. ) Snowblind. Hear. Mar. (13. )

STROBEL, MARION. High Illusion. McC. Aug. (30. )

SUCKOW, RUTH. *Resurrection. Mid. June. (7:217. ) *Retired. Mid. Apr. (7:150. ) **Uprooted. Mid. Feb. (7:83. )

SWORDS, F. JACQUELIN. Between the Lines. Atl. Dec. , '20. (126:761. )

SYNON, MARY. (1881- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Comes Now the Plaintiff. G. H. Jan. (15. ) *Common Ground. McCall. Aug. (15. ) *Heredity? Red Bk. Sept. (47. ) *Once in a Northern Twilight. Chic. Trib. Apr. 17. *Saturday Afternoon. Pict. R. Jan. (41. ) *Second Round. Scr. Dec. , '20. (68:654. )

T

TARKINGTON, (NEWTON) BOOTH. (1869- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Jeannette. Red Bk. May. (27. ) *Laurence and Roger. Red Bk. June. (32. ) *Party. Red Bk. July. (45. ) *Street of Bad Children. Red Bk. Aug. (40. ) *Tiger. Red Bk. Sept. (37. )

TAYLOR, KATHARINE HAVILAND. (_See 1918. _) Mrs. Upton Has Her Fling. Pict. R. Jan. (12. ) Simply a Matter of Love. Pict. R. July. (8. )

TERHUNE, ALBERT PAYSON. (1872- . ) (_See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Grand Larceny. Cos. Dec. , '20. (37. ) High Cost of Lying. Hear. Feb. (18. ) Not Guilty. L. H. J. Aug. (14. ) Old Man. S. E. P. Jan. 1. (12. ) She Always Wins. Cos. May. (43. ) Skin-Deep. S. E. P. Apr. 30. (12. ) Slobsy the Magnificent. Red Bk. Feb. (68. ) "Youth Will Be Served!" Harp. B. Jan. (52. )

TERRILL, LUCY STONE. (_See 1915. _) (_H. _) Grist of the Gods. Sun. Dec. , '20. (24. )

THAYER, MRS. GILBERT. _See_ MAXON, HARRIET. 

THOMAS, MARTHA BANNING. Thin Slice of Romance. L. H. J. Dec. , '20. (18. )

THOMASON, CHRISTINE WASSON. Baddy. A. W. O. L. Sun. Oct. , '20. (116. )

THOMPSON, LILLIAN BENNET -- _and_ HUBBARD, GEORGE. (_See 1916, 1917. _) White Dreams. Cen. July. (122:397. )

THOMSON, CHARLES GOFF. Mr. Stokes and the Eighth Ancestor. Pict. R. Aug. (14. )

TILDEN, FREEMAN. (_See 1915, 1917. _) (_H. _) *Garments of Truth. Pict. R. May. (22. )

TISDALE, ALICE. **Letting in of the Wilderness. Cen. Oct. , '20. (100:730. )

TITUS, HAROLD. (1888- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Asphalt Sportsman. Del. Aug. (14. ) Built Upon a Rock. Red Bk. June. (87. ) Caution of Abner Rowland. Red Bk. Feb. (49. ) Courage of Number Two. Met. June. (11. ) Faith of Holy Joe. Red Bk. Apr. (32. )

TOMPKINS, JULIET WILBOR. (JULIET WILBOR TOMPKINS POTTLE. ) (1871- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Eleanora Comes Back. Harp. M. May. (142:714. ) Eye of the Needle. W. H. C. July. (7. ) John Chinaman. L. H. J. June. (12. ) Mrs. Dutton and Mrs. Pine. G. H. Feb. (24. )

TOOHEY, JOHN PETER. (1880- . ) (_See 1919, 1920. _) Hook, Line and Sinker. Col. Aug. 13. (7. )

TORREY, GRACE. (_See 1917, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Deadly Usual. Ev. Nov. , '20. (69. ) Story of a Day in June. Pict. R. June. (24. )

TOWNE CHARLES HANSON. (1877- . ) (_H. _) "Courtesy of Mr. Frohman. " Met. Oct. , '20. (19. ) *Man Behind the Screen. Ain. July. (47. ) ***Shelby. S. S. Oct. , '20. (55. )

TRAIN, ARTHUR (CHENEY). (1875- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Blindfold Chess. S. E. P. Jan. 29. (12. ) Crooked Fairy. McCall. July. (6. ) In Witness Whereof. S. E. P. May 7. (18. ) Presumption of Innocence. S. E. P. Apr. 9. (18. ) Saving His Face. S. E. P. Aug. 6. (18. ) That Sort of Woman. S. E. P. Mar. 5. (16. ) Tutt and Mr. Tutt. S. E. P. Oct. 2, '20. (12. )

TRAIN, ETHEL KISSAM (MRS. ARTHUR TRAIN). (1875- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1920. _) Child Who Came Back. S. E. P. July. 9. (14. )

TRITES, WILLIAM BUDD. (1872- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919. _) (_H. _) Angels in an Almond Grove. Hear. June. (39. ) Lady Monica's Batman. S. E. P. Mar. 26. (30. ) One of Our Reds. Col. Dec. 18, '20 (5. ) Told in Two Letters. Hear. Nov. , '20. (21. )

TRUMBULL, WALTER. Man Who Heard Everything. S. S. Apr. (27. ) Roses. Met. Aug. (16. )

TUCKERMAN, ARTHUR. (_See 1920. _) Cynthia and the Crooked Street. Scr. Nov. , '20. (68:573. ) *Winged Interlude. Scr. Aug. (70:223. )

TUPPER, TRISTRAM. **Grit. Met. Apr. (15. ) Man Who Knew Nothing on Earth. Met. Aug. (9. )

TURNBULL, HECTOR. Picture Stuff. Col. Apr. 30. (12. )

TURNER, MAUDE SPERRY. (_See 1917, 1918, 1919. _) She Criticized Her Husband. Del. July. (24. )

U

UELAND, BRENDA. (_See 1920. _) Shooting Cooper. Met. Apr. (12. )

UNDERHILL, RUTH MURRAY. (_See 1917, 1918, 1920. _) Atalanta-Jane. Ev. Mar. (66. )

UNDERWOOD, SOPHIE KERR. _See_ KERR, SOPHIE. 

UPPER, JOSEPH. (_See 1920. _) Star Magic. S. S. Jan. (49. ) Vigil. S. S. Nov. , '20. (59. ) Yesterdays. Pag. June-Jul. (31. )

V

"VAKA, DEMETRA" (DEMETRA KENNETH BROWN). (1877- . ) (_See 1915, 1916. _) (_H. _) *Lady of the Stars. Asia. Mar. (21:199. )

VAN DE WATER, VIRGINIA (BELLE) TERHUNE. (1865- . ) (_See 1916, 1920. _) (_H. _) Ashes of Roses. Hear. Aug. (35. ) Down to Greenwich Village. Hear. Nov. , '20. (11. ) I Show Faith the Village. Hear. Mar. (37. ) Paul and the Purple Pig. Hear. June. (36. ) Paul Goes to Greendale. Hear. Jan. (31. ) Stronger Than the Mighty. S. S. Feb. (99. )

VAN SAANEN, MARIE LOUISE. _See_ "RUTLEDGE, MARYSE. "

VENABLE, EDWARD CARRINGTON. (1884- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919. _) ***Madame Tichepin. Scr. Jan. (69:108. )

VERMILYE, KATE JORDAN. _See_ JORDAN, KATE. 

"VERNON, MAX" (VERNON LYMAN KELLOGG. ) (1867- . ) Deserter from the Brutus. Ev. Nov. , '20. (54. )

VORSE, MARY (MARVIN) HEATON. MARY HEATON VORSE O'BRIEN MINOR. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Apple. Lib. Feb. (25. ) **Dollar. Lib. Apr. (22. ) Lucia Asks the World. W. H. C. May. (26. ) June. (24. ) *Master Passion. W. H. C. Oct. , '20. (13. ) This Astounding Generation. McCall. Oct. , '20. (9. ) ***Wallow of the Sea. Harp. M. Aug. (143:340. )

W

WAGNER, ROB. (_See 1919. _) Smudge. W. H. C. Oct. , '20. (21. )

WALDO, SIDNEY. *Craggy Barren. Mun. Dec. , '20. (71:452. )

WALDRON, WEBB. Little Brown Satchel. Col. Aug. 27. (7. )

WALTON, EMMA LEE. (_See 1920. _) (_H. _) Bethany Stage. Scr. May. (69:600. )

WARREN, MAUDE (LAVINIA) RADFORD. (1875- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918. _) (_H. _) Firefly. S. E. P. May 21. (18. )

WATERHOUSE, IRMA. (_See 1920. _) Rest of Their Lives. Cen. Oct. , '20. (100:822. )

WATSON, MARIAN ELIZABETH. Blue Battalin--Transformer. L. H. J. Oct. , '20. (10. ) **Bottle-Stoppers. Pict. R. June. (14. )

WEAVER, BENNETT. *Web on the Altar. Mid. Mar. (7:132. )

WEAVER, JOHN VAN ALSTYNE. Melodrama. Harp. B. Feb. (26. )

WEIK, MARY H. Return of Mary Rooney. Met. Sept. (13. )

WEIMAN, RITA. (1889- . ) (_See 1915, 1919, 1920. _) Lizard. S. E. P. Dec. 18, '20. (5. ) Stage Door. S. E. P. Nov. 27, '20. (16. ) Vengeance Is Mine. S. E. P. May 21. (16. )

WEITZENKORN, LOUIS. (1893- . ) (_See 1920. _) Adventure of a Private Wire. Met. Feb. (32. ) If Woman is X? Met. Nov. , '20. (32. ) Table Stakes. Met. June. (31. )

WELLES, HARRIET OGDEN DEEN. (_See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) Beyond Science. Scr. Dec. , '20. (68:667. ) Cricket. Del. June. (13. ) *Her Excellent Excellency. L. H. J. Mar. (10. ) *Laninii. Scr. June. (69:702. )

WESTON, GEORGE (T. ). (1880- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Blue Moon. Red Bk. Dec. , '20. (62. ) Dangerous Game. S. E. P. Mar. 26. (12. ) Fat Angel. S. E. P. Aug. 6. (8. ) Finger of Fate. McCall. Jan. (14. ) Little Rain-in-the-Face. S. E. P. Jan. 15. (8. ) Open Door. S. E. P. Jan. 8. (5. ) People's Choice. S. E. P. Aug. 27. (11. ) Petrified Man. S. E. P. Dec. 18, '20. (8. ) Richelieu Diamonds. S. E. P. Feb. 12. (10. ) Young, Rich and Beautiful. S. E. P. June 25. (5. )

WHEELER, ELEANOR P. *Refusal. Touch. Oct. , '20. (8:95. )

WHEELER, GERTRUDE R. Resurrection Window. Pag. June-July. (5. )

WHITCOMB, JESSIE WRIGHT. Thirty-Eight. W. H. C. May. (22. )

WHITE, E. L. Crushed Poppies. Met. June. (24. )

WHITE, NELIA GARDNER. (_See 1920. _) *Man Who Wasn't Wanted. Am. July. (38. )

WHITE, WILLIAM ALLEN. (1868- . ) (_See 1915. _) (_H. _) And the West is West. S. E. P. June 18. (10. ) Teaching Perkins to Play. S. E. P. Aug. 6. (12. )

WHITE, WILLIAM PATTERSON. (_H. _) Rider of Golden Bar. Ev. Sept. (157. )

WHITMAN, STEPHEN FRENCH. (_See 1915, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) **Many Kisses. Cen. Aug. (102:607. ) *Stronger Than Death. Jan. McC. (22. )

WIDDEMER, MARGARET. (MARGARET WIDDEMER SCHAUFFLER. ) (_See 1915, 1917, 1918, 1920. _) (_H. _) Adjustment. Col. Nov. 20, '20. (9. ) As One Having Authority. Col. Aug. 6. (3. ) Dorothea, Pioneer. W. H. C. Feb. (13. ) Sporting. G. H. July. (72. )

WIERMAN, FRANCIS. Women of Our Block. S. S. Nov. , '20. (17. )

WIGGIN, KATE DOUGLAS. (KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN RIGGS. ) (1859- . ) (_See 1917. _) Creeping Jenny. McCall. Dec. , '20. (5. ) Matt Milliken's Improvements, G. H. Mar. (47. )

WILBER, W. C. Biggest Man In Town. S. S. Sept. (67. ) Complete Bounder. S. S. June. (29. )

WILCOX, UTHAI VINCENT. Very Worst Boy. Sun. June. (43. )

WILEY, HUGH. (1894- . ) (_See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) C. O. D. S. E. P. Jan. 8. (18. ) Fresh Fish. S. E. P. Dec. , '20. (16. ) Release. Sun. Aug. (18. ) Roped. S. E. P. Oct. 30, '20. (10. ) Temple of Luck. S. E. P. July 9. (18. ) *Tong. S. E. P. Dec. 18, '20. (24. ) Wildcat Luck. S. E. P. Feb. 19. (16. )

WILKES, ALLENE TUPPER. Toop Goes Skating. W. H. C. Nov. , '20. (11. )

WILKINSON, LUPTON. *Episode, Paris, 1794. Lit. S. Oct. -Nov. , '20. (3. )

WILLIAMS, BEN AMES. (1889- . ) (_See 1917, 1918, 1910, 1920. _) *Buried Madness. Cos. Jan. (23. ) **Coward. Cos. Aug. (79. ) *His Honor. Cos. July. (40. ) *"Jeshurun Waxed Fat. " Cen. Sept. (102:723. ) ***Man Who Looked Like Edison. Cos. May. (70. ) *"So My Luck Began. " Col. Feb. 5. (5. )

WILLS, SHELDON. Hard Nut to Crack. Am. Sept. (40. )

WILSON, JR. , EDMUND. *Death of a Soldier. Lib. Sept. (13. ) *Oppressor. Lib. May. (25. )

WILSON, JOHN FLEMING. (1877- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920. _) (_H. _) Golden Witch of Hollister. Hear. Apr. (6. ) Other Shoe. Chic. Trib. May 22. 

WILSON, MARGARET. _See_ "ELDERLY SPINSTER. "

WILSON, MARGARET ADELAIDE. (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920. _) (_H. _) Mr. Crump's Sunday. W. H. C. Apr. (19. )

WILSON, RUTH DANENHOWER. One Home-Grown Soviet. Scr. Oct. , '20. (68:481. )

WINSLOW, HELEN STERLING. (_See 1915. _) (_H. _) Tytgat the Toy-Man. Scr. June. (69:723. )

WINSLOW, THYRA SAMTER. (1889- . ) (_See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) Amy's Story. S. S. Jan. (25. ) Evelyn Tries Her Wings. S. S. Apr. (79. ) *Good Chance. S. S. Nov. , '20. (49. ) *Her Own Room. Cen. Jan. (101:363. ) His Honeymoon. S. S. Oct. , '20, (29. ) Last Will of Stephen Forsby. S. S. Sept. (119. ) Love Affair. S. S. Jul. (57. ) On a Pleasant Sunday Afternoon in August. S. S. Dec. , '20. (107. ) Studies in Husbands Case 14. S. S. May. (47. )

WINTHROP, ARTHUR. (_See 1920. _) **Study. Lit. R. Sept. -Dec. , '20. (76. )

WISEHART, M. K. *Song of Autumn. Cen. Oct. , '20. (100:753. )

WITWER, HARRY CHARLES. (1890- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) Art for Artie's Sake. Col. Sept. 24. (3. ) Chicasha Bone Crusher. Round IX of the Leather Pushers. Col. Jan. 15. (15. ) Compleat Mangier. Col. June 11. (5. ) He Raised Kane. Round VIII of the Leather Pushers. Col. Dec. 11, '20. (5. ) Joan of Newark. Col. Apr. 16. (5. ) Lovers' Handy Man. Col. Jul. 30. (5. ) Merchant of Venice, Cal. Col. Aug. 27. (3. ) Oliver's Twist. Col. Tune 25. (3. ) Strike Father, Strike Son! Col. Mar. 26. (5. ) When Kane Met Abel. Col. Feb. 19. (5. ) Whipsawed! Round VI of the Leather Pushers. Col. Oct. 16. '20. (7. ) Young King Cole. Round VII of the Leather Pushers. Col. Nov. 6, '20. (8. )

WOLFF, WILLIAM ALMON, JR. (1885- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Black Heart of Murray Broome. Col. Feb. 19. (15. ) Dobbin and the Star. Chic. Trib. Jan. 9. "Every Blond is Silver Lined. " Col. Oct. 23, '20. (8. ) Last Half of the Ninth. Met. Sept. (16. ) Man Who Never Was. Col. May 7. (7. ) Mud of Maytown. Col. Jan. 22. (10. ) Other Side of the Moon. McCall. June. (9. ) Stuck a Feather in His Hat. Chic. Trib. Jul. 3. Thalassa! Thalassa! Ev. Jul. (129. )

WONDERLY, W. CAREY. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917. _) (_H. _) Field Lilies. Met. Dec. , '20. (18. )

WOOD, A. B. W. Padre Settles Things. Cath. W. Feb. (112:618. )

WOOD, FRANCES GILCHRIST. (_See 1918, 1920. _) *Price of the Prophets. Del. Sept. (16. )

WOODROW, MRS. WILSON. (NANCY MANN WADDEL WOODROW. ) (_See 1915. _) (_H. _) By the Clock. Red Bk. Mar. (52. ) Counsel for the Defense. Red Bk. Nov. , '20. (53. ) Every Man Has His Price. Red Bk. Apr. (52. ) Green Glass. Red Bk. Oct. , '20. (37. ) Medium's Miniature. Red Bk. Dec. , '20. (53. ) Never Deal With a Woman. Red Bk. Feb. (54. ) Peaches and Caviar. L. H. J. May. (8. ) Vanishing Violin. Red Bk. May (66. ) Widening Circle. Red Bk. Jan. (49. )

WOODRUFF, HELEN S. (1888- . ) Asia the U. S. Post. W. H. C. Nov. '20. (14. )

WOODSON, MARY BLAKE. Happiest Day. W. H. C. Dec. , '20. (21. )

WOOLLEY, EDWARD MOTT. (1867- . ) (_H. _) Disappearing Bed. Red Bk. Mar. (81. ) Ten Dollars a Day. Red Bk. Nov. , '20. (48. ) Whispering Motives. Red Bk. May. (76. )

WORMSER, GWENDOLYN RANGER (_See 1919, 1920. _) ***Gossamer. Pict. R. Mar. (12. ) ***Second-Hand. Pict. R. Nov. , 20. (18. )

WORTS, GEORGE FRANK. (1892- . ) (_See 1918, 1919, 1920. _) Detour--Road Washed Out. Ev. Apr. (32. ) F. O. B. Cambodia. Ev. Jul. (67. ) God of the Green Gulf. Ev. May. (20. ) Running Wild. Col. Jul. 30. (9. )

WRATH, CALEB. *Cobbler of Acanthus Alley. Book. May. (206. ) *Patch of Plaster. Call. Jan. 9. (10. ) *Smelted from the Same Ore. Scr. May. (69:586. )

WRIGHT, RICHARDSON (LITTLE). (1886- . ) (_See 1915, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) Princess of Beacon Hill. S. S. Jul. (107. )

Y

YATES, DORNFORD. **Trick of Memory. Ev. Apr. (25. )

YATES, L. B. (_See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Fox-Hunting Fairies. S. E. P. Jan. 29. (16. )

YEZIERSKA, ANZIA. (1886- . ) (_See 1915, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) **Brothers. Harp. M. Sept. (143:512. ) **How I Found America. Cen. Nov. , '20. (101:73. ) ***My Own People. Met. Feb. (30. ) *To the Stars. Cen. May. (102:65. )

YOUNG, MRS. SANBORN. _See_ MITCHELL RUTH COMFORT. 

YUST, WALTER. Pound of Chocolates. S. S. Jan. (53. )

II. ENGLISH AND IRISH AUTHORS

A

ANDREWS, JAMES C. *Wolf's-Head and Eye-for-Bane. Cen. Apr. (101:695. )

ARLEN, MICHAEL. *Defeat of Mr. Theodore Sampson. Fol. Jul. (115. )

ATKEY, BERTRAM. (1880- . ) (_See 1919. _) Slave of the Pit. Ev. Aug. (35. ) Winnie and the Broken Heart. S. E. P. Feb. 26. (10. ) Winnie and the Tiger Man. S. E. P. Mar. 12. (12. ) Winnie and the Ultra-Superba. S. E. P. May 14. (14. ) Winnie and the Wolves. S. E. P. Oct. 23, '20. (8. ) Winnie O'Wynn and the Dark Horses. S. E. P. Sept. 24. (17. ) Winnie O'Wynn and the Silent Player. S. E. P. Jan. 15. (14. )

AUMONIER, STACY. (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) ***Beautiful Merciless One. Pict. R. Sept. (14. ) *Business and Desires. S. E. P. Oct. 2, '20. (16. ) ***Little White Frock. Pict. R. Dec. , '20. (20. ) *Old Iron. McCall. Jan. (5. ) *Where Was Wych Street? S. E. P. Feb. 26. (14. ) **White Flower of a Blameless Life. McCall. Apr. (2. )

AUSTIN, FREDERICK BRITTEN. (1885- . ) (_See 1915, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Infernal Machine. Chic. Trib. Aug. 7. Red Rays of Ahmed Hassan. Hear. Mar. (8. ) Return. Red Bk. Nov. , '20. (83. ) *Siren of the Tropics. Col. Aug. 20. (3. ) When Wrong Was Right. The Strange Case of the Scatterthwaites. Hear. Oct. , '20. (13. ) **White Dog. Red Bk. Dec. , '20. (43. )

B

BAILEY, H(ENRY) C(HRISTOPHER). (1878- . ) Fool and the Queen. Ev. Jul. (165. ) *Tale of an Empress. Ev. May. (38. ) *Tale of the King's Heir. Ev. June. (54. ) Tale of a Triumph. Ev. Sept. (51. ) Tale of a Villein. Ev. Aug. (171. )

BAILY, F(RANCIS) E(VANS). (1887- . ) Bargain's a Bargain. Hear. May. (17. ) Cecily the Panther. Hear. Aug. (53. ) If Three Should Play. Hear. Feb. (25. ) Patriotic Pamela. Hear. Sept. (43. ) Tangent Into Gilead. Hear. Apr. (46. ) Too-Perfect Barbara. Hear. June. (10. )

BARRINTON, E. *Fair Rosemonde. Atl. June. (127:799. ) **Walpole Beauty. Atl. Sept. (128:300. )

BECHHOFER, C. E. **Captain Valya. S. S. Nov. , '20. (41. )

BECK, L. ADAMS. (_See 1920. _) *Emperor and the Silk Goddess. Asia. Feb. (21:141. ) *Hatred of the Queen. Asia. May. (21:393. ) ***How Great is the Glory of Kwannon. Atl. Oct. , '20. (126:484. ) ***Interpreter. Atl. Jul. (128:37. ) Aug. (128:233. )

BEERBOHM, MAX. (1872- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1919. _) ***F. Fenning Dodworth. Dial. Aug. (71:130. ) ***William and Mary. Cen. Dec. , '20. (101:161. )

BELL, J(OHN) J(OY). (1871- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919. _) (_H. _) Jacobites. Chic. Trib. Jan. 16. 

BELL, JOHN KEBLE. _See_ "HOWARD, KEBLE. "

BENNETT, ARNOLD. (1867- . ) (_H. _) *Mysterious Destruction of Mr. Lewis Apple. Harp. B. Aug. (27. )

BENSON, EDWARD FREDERIC. (1867- . ) (_See 1917. _) Dodo and the Maharajah. Hear. June. (45. ) Highness. Harp. B. Nov. , '20. (82. )

BERESFORD, JOHN DAVYS. (1873- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) ***Expiation. Harp. M. Jan. (142:179. ) *No Defense. Met. Mar. (15. ) *Successful Marriage. Harp. B. Jul. (54. ) *Wilderness. McCall. Nov. , '20. (15. )

BIANCO, MRS. FRANCESCO. _See_ WILLIAMS, MARGERY. 

BIBESCO, PRINCESS ANTOINE. Successor. McCall. Jul. (7. )

BLACKWOOD, ALGERNON. (1869- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) ***Confession. Cen. Mar. (101:556. ) **Lane That Ran East and West. McCall. Sept. (10. )

BOTTOME, PHYLLIS. (MRS. FORBES DENNIS. ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Archduke's Tapestry. S. E. P. Jul. 9. (8. ) **Tug of War. Cen. Nov. , '20. (101:122. )

BUCHAN, JOHN. (1875- . ) (_See 1920. _) (_H. _) *Eaucourt by the Waters. Adv. Apr. 3. (140. ) *End of the Road. Adv. May 18. (115. ) *Englishman. Adv. Feb. 18. (62. ) *Eyes of Youth. Adv. Mar. 3. (54. ) *Hidden City. Adv. Apr. 3. (150. ) *Hightown Under Sunfell. Adv. Feb. 18. (53. ) *In the Dark Land. Adv. May 3. (142. ) *Last Stage. Adv. May 18. (109. ) *Lighted Chamber. Adv. May 3. (135. ) *Maid. Adv. Mar. 18. (52. ) *Marplot. Adv. Apr. 18. (160. ) *Regiside. Adv. Apr. 18. (153. ) *Wife of Flanders. Adv. Mar. 3. (47. ) *Wood of Life. Adv. Mar. 18. (58. )

BUCHANAN, MERIEL. (_See 1920. _) Idyl of the Shadows. McC. May. (31. )

BURKE, THOMAS. (1887- . ) (_See 1916, 1919, 1920. _) *Big Boy Blue. Cos. Nov. , '20. (53. ) *Fools Keep Faith. Cos. Jan. (45. ) *Katie the Kid. Ain. Aug. (119. ) **Yellow Scarf. Sn. St. Dec. 25, '20. (27. )

C

CAIRNS, WILLIAM. Awful Miss Brown. Cen. Nov. , '20. (101:14. )

CARY, JOYCE. _See_ "JOYCE, THOMAS. "

CASTLE, AGNES (SWEETMAN), _and_ CASTLE, EGERTON. (1858-1920. ) (_See 1917, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Ivory Angel. Chic. Trib. Jan. 2. 

CHESTERTON, GILBERT KEITH. (1874- . ) (_See 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) **Bottomless Well. Harp. M. Mar. (142:504. ) **Fad of the Fisherman. Harp. M. June. (143:9. ) *Fantastic Friends. Harp. B. Nov. , '20. (47. ) *Finger of Stone. Harp. B. Dec. , '20. (36. ) Home Wreckers of Humanity. Hear. Dec. , '20. (32. ) *Man Who Shot the Fox. Hear. Mar. (11. ) **Yellow Bird. Harp. B. Feb. (66. )

CHOLMONDELEY, MARY. (_See 1916, 1919. _) (_H. _) **Refuge. Pict. R. Oct. , '20. (18. )

CLOUSTON, J. STORER. (1870- . ) **Devil's House. Rom. Oct. , '20. (94. )

COLEM, PADRAIC. (1881- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919. _) **Sad Sequel to Puss-In-Boots. Dial. Jul. (71:28. )

COPPARD, ALFRED EDGAR. (1878- . ) ***Hurly-Burly. Dial. Apr. (70:369. ) ***Tiger. Met. Apr. (17. )

D

DELL, ETHEL M. (_See 1919. _) (_H. _) Odds. Del. Oct. , '20. (10. ) Sacrifice. Col. June 11. (9. ) Tenth Point. Met. May. (11. )

DENNIS, MRS. FORBES. _See_ BOTTOME, PHYLLIS. 

DUDENEY, MRS. HENRY E. (1866- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Legacy. S. E. P. Apr. 9. (36. ) **"Two Together. " Harp. M. Feb. (142:315. )

E

EDGINTON, MAY. (_See 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow. " Chic. Trib. Feb. 27. *In Devon. Hol. Oct. , '20. (11. ) Itinerant Lover. Chic. Trib. June 26. 

ERVINE, ST. JOHN. (_See 1915, 1919. _) (_H. _) *It Sometimes Happens So. G. H. June, '20. (29. )

EVANS, C. S. (1883- . ) *Calf Love. Cen. Nov. , '20. (101:34)

F

FLETCHER, A. BYERS. (_See 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920. _) Little Deeds of Kindness. L. H. J. Feb. (165. )

FLOWER, (WALTER) NEWMAN. (1879- . ) (_H. _) Weeds. S. E. P. Jan. 22. (14. )

FRANKUN, GILBERT. (1884- . ) (_See 1916, 1919. _) Moth and the Star. Ev. Jul. (113. )

G

GALSWORTHY, JOHN. (1867- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) ***Awakening. Scr. Nov. , '20. (68:515. ) ***Hedonist. Cen. Jul. (102:321. ) ***Timber. Ev. Dec. , '20. (19. )

GEORGE, W. L. (1882- . ) (_See 1917, 1920. _) *Counter Attack. Red Bk. Aug. (84. ) *Education of Celia. Red Bk. May. (42. ) Green Parrot. Am. Mar. (8. ) *Husband of Mrs. Walton. Red Bk. Jul. (79. ) *Lady Alcuin Intervenes. S. E. P. Jul. 16. (8. ) *Postman of Cotterbury. Harp. B. Apr. (70. ) *Profiteer's Wife. Red Bk. June. (76. ) *Reprieve. S. E. P. Jan. 8. (10. ) Rosy Can't Fall in Love. Red Bk. Sept. (66. ) *Shadows. L. H. J. Jul. (14. ) Three Daughters of Cadriano. Hear. Jan. (8. ) *Through the Needle's Eye. Del. May. (11. ) *Winter Roses. Harp. B. Feb. (54. )

GIBBON, PERCEVAL. (1879- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Bad Companions. S. E. P. Nov. 27, '20. (14. ) *James. S. E. P. Jan. 15. (12. ) *Money's Worth. S. E. P. Dec. 4, '20. (18. ) **Rewards and Furies. S. E. P. Oct. 23, '20. (20. ) ***Statistics. S. E. P. Dec. 18, '20. (16. ) *Touching Pitch. Red Bk. Sept. (61. ) *When Gentlefolk Meet. Cos. Feb. (37. )

GIBBS, SIR PHILIP. (_See 1915, 1919. _) Chateau in Picardy, S. E. P. Dec. 4, '20. (5. ) Escape to Geneva. S. E. P. Apr. 16. (8. ) *Lieutenant of the Marble Venus. S. E. P. Jan. 1. (16. ) Madonna of the Hungry Child. Cos. Mar. (23. ) Through Enchanted Seas. L. H. J. Dec. '20. (3. ) Return of a Rebel. S. E. P. Nov. 9, '20. (5. ) Venetian Lovers. S. E. P. Nov. 30, '20. (8. )

GRIMSHAW, BEATRICE. (_See 1915, 1916, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Beach of Vanalona. Ev. Apr. (18. ) Down to the Sea. Red Bk. Nov. , '20. (73. ) *Lost Wings. Red Bk. May. (52. ) Treasure Hole. Red Bk. Sept. (75. )

H

HAMILTON, COSMO. (_See 1915, 1916, 1918, 1919. _) At the Gates of Delhi. Hear. Apr. (41. )

HARKER, LIZZIE ALLEN. (1863- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918. _) (_H. _) Bribe. Scr. Sept. (70:305. )

HARRINGTON, KATHERINE. (MRS. ROLF BENNETT. ) (_See 1920. _) Unfit Survivor. Hear. May. (36. )

HERBERT, A. P. (_See 1919. _) **Mouse Trap. Met. June. (26. )

HORN, HOLLOWAY. (1886- . ) *Lie. Harp. B. May. (74. )

HOWARD, FRANCIS MORTON. (1880- . ) *How He Got Her. Cen. Jan (101:391. )

"HOWARD, KEBLE. " (JOHN KEBLE BELL. ) (1875- . ) (_See 1915. _) (_H. _) Child Who Bought a Policeman. Harp. B. Dec. , '20. (58. ) Hand maid to the Rumbelows. Harp. B. (46. )

HUDSON, STEPHEN. ***Southern Women. Lit. R. Sept. Dec. , '20. (44. )

HUTCHINSON, ARTHUR STUART MENTETH. (1880- . ) (_See 1920. _) (_H. _) **"Some Talk of Alexander. " Ev. Nov. , '20. (9. ) *Strike Breaker. Harp. M. Mar. (142:444. )

HUXLEY, ALDOUS. ***Tillotson Banquet. Cen. Jan. (101:297. )

J

JACOBS, W(ILLIAM) W(YMARK). (1863- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Handsome Harry. Hear. Dec. , '20. (18. )

JEPSON, EDGAR. (1864- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1919. _) Submerged Conflict. S. E. P. Sent. 3. (10. )

"JOYCE, THOMAS. " (JOYCE, GARY. ) (_See 1920. _) Salute to Propriety. S. E. P. Oct. 9, '20. (40. )

K

KINROSS, ALBERT. (1870- . ) (_See 1915, 1916. _) (_H. _) **Disciple. Cen. Apr. (101:754. ) **Forbidden Fruit. Cen. July. (102:342. ) **Truth About Vignolles. Cen. Feb. (101:427. )

L

LAWRENCE, DAVID HERBERT. (1885- . ) (_See 1915, 1917, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Rex. Dial. Feb. (70:169. ) **Wintry Peacock. Met. Aug. (21. )

LESLIE, SHANE. *Study in Smoke. Scr. Sept. (70:369. )

LYONS, A(LBERT MICHAEL) NEIL. (1880- . ) (_See 1916, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Inefficient Mr. Jones. Ev. Oct. , '20. (65. )

M

MCFEE, WILLIAM. ***Knights and Turcopoliers. Atl. Aug. (128:170. )

MCKENNA, STEPHEN. (1888- . ) *Daughter of Pan. Chic. Trib. Aug. 14. 

"MALET, LUCAS. " (MARY ST. LEGER HARRISON. ) *Fillingers. Harp. B. Mar. (34. )

MAUGHAM, W. SOMERSET. (1874- . ) *Macintosh. Cos. Nov. , '20. (15. ) *Pool. Cos. Sept. (58. ) *Red. Asia. Apr. (21:301. )

MAXWELL, WILLIAM BABINGTON. (_See 1917, 1919. _) (_H. _) *"All to Husband. " Del. Apr. (19. ) Ghosts at Grosvenor Square. Hear. July. (45. ) Light Is Coming. Hear. May. (45. )

MERRICK, LEONARD. (1864- . ) (_See 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Girl Who Tired of Love. Harp. B. Jan. (40. )

MORDAUNT, ELINOR. (EVELYN MAY. ) (_See 1915, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) **Ganymede. Met. Aug. (33. ) **Helen of the Town of Troy. Met. Feb. (21. ) *Hodge. Met. Apr. (9. ) *Rider in the King's Carriage. Met. May. (24. )

N

NEWTON, W. DOUGLAS. (1884- . ) (_See 1915, 1920. _) Menena. Cen. Apr. (101:711. )

NIVEN, FREDERICK (JOHN). (1878- . ) *Excitement at Wind River Crossing. Mun. July. (73:357. ) *Injun Maid. Pop. Aug. 20. (145. )

NOYES, ALFRED. (1880- . ) (_See 1916, 1918. 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Immortal. Red Bk. June. (42. )

O

ONIONS, MRS. OLIVER. _See_ "RUCK, BERTA. "

OPPENHEIM, E(DWARD) PHILLIPS. (1866- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918. _) (_H. _) Broad-Minded Marquis. Hear. Apr. (9. ) Cunning of Lord Felixstowe. Hear. July. (50. ) Customs of the Family. Hear. June. (50. ) Domville Case. Red Bk. Nov. , '20. (27. ) Duke's Dilemma. L. H. J. Apr. (18. ) Greatest Argument. L. H. J. May. (26. ) Invincible Truth. Red Bk. June. (47. ) Mischief. Red Bk. Jan. (35. ) Mr. Cray Comes Home. Red Bk. Aug. (75. ) Mr. Homer's Legacy. Red Bk. May. (57. ) Recalcitrant Mr. Cray. Red Bk. July. (55. ) Reckoning. Red Bk. Feb. (35. ) Rift. Red Bk. Mar. (48. ) Satan and the Spirit. Red Bk. Apr. (67. ) Tragedy at Greymarshes. L. H. J. Mar. (18. ) Two Philanthropists. Red Bk. Dec. , '20. (33. )

OWEN, H. COLLINSON. (_See 1920. _) **Blackmail for Two. Pict. R. Jan. (17. ) **King of Paris. Pict. R. Nov. , '20. (30. ) **La Douloureuse. Pict. R. Oct. , '20. (15. ) Studio in the Rue Tartarin. Pict. R. Feb. (30. ) *Villa at Neuilly. Pict. R. Apr. (26. )

P

PERTWEE, ROLAND. (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) Delicate Adjustment. S. E. P. Oct. 16, '20. (12. ) Only One in Queensbridge. Hear. Nov. , '20. (31. ) Really Horrid Relation. L. H. J. Jan. 14. *Respectable Girl. Hear. May. (40. ) *Silly Thing To Do. S. E. P. Nov. 20, '20. (16. ) Uncle From Australia. Hear. Dec. , '20. (10. )

PHILLPOTTS, EDEN. (1862- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1920. _) (_H. _) *Obi. Rom. Oct. , '20. (147. ) *Thief. Chic. Trib. Nov. 14, '20. *Three Dead Men. Chic. Trib. June 12. 

PRYCE, RICHARD. (_See 1915. _) ***Girl in the Omnibus. Harp. M. Nov. , '20. (141:775. )

Q

QUIRK, V. *One of the Fools. T. T. Aug. (29. )

R

ROBERTS, CECIL. (1892- . ) *Night of Glory. Col. Apr. 30. (3. ) ***Silver Pool. Pict. R. Jan. 8. 

ROBEY, GEORGE. Beware of the Dog! Ev. Dec. , '20. **Double or Quits. Ev. Sept. (81. ) Special Effort. Ev. Jan. (49. )

ROBINS, ELIZABETH. (MRS. GEORGE RICHMOND PARKS. ) (_H. _) Little Man Monday. Met. Sept. (23. )

"ROHMER, SAX. " (ARTHUR SARSFIELD WARD. ) (1883- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1920. _) (_H. _) White Hat. Col. Nov. 13, '20. (8. )

"RUCK, BERTA. " (MRS. OLIVER ONIONS. ) (_See 1919. _) Marriage That Was Arranged. Chic. Trib. May 1. 

S

SABATINI, RAFAEL. (1875- . ) (_See 1920. _) (_H. _) *Casanova's Alibi. Cen. June. (102:222. ) *While the Clock Ticked. Top. Nov. 15, '20. (133. )

ST. MARS, F. (1883-1921. ) (_See 1915. _) Kilfarn. Ev. July. (155. ) Pack. Ev. June. (38. )

SINCLAIR, MAY. (_See 1915, 1917, 1920. _) (_H. _) ***Lena Wrace. Dial. Jul. (71:50. ) ***Return. Harp. M. May. (142:693. )

STACPOOLE, HENRY DE VERE. (1865- . ) (_See 1916, 1918, 1920. _) (_H. _) *End of the Road. Pop. Aug. 20. (139. ) *Magic. Pop. Dec. 7, '20. (73. ) Oh, Mommer! Del. Mar. (10. ) *Return. Cen. Feb. (101:451. )

STEPHENS, JAMES. (_See 1915, 1918, 1920. _) (_H. _) ***In the Beechwood. Dial. Dec. , '20. (69:559. )

STOCK, RALPH. (1881- . ) (_See 1915, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) We of Malita. Col. Feb. 12. (7. )

SWINNERTON, FRANK (ARTHUR). (1884- . ) (_See 1918. _) *Babies. Chic. Trib. Mar. 27. **Boy. Ev. Feb. (7. ) *Restaurant of "The Silver Bells. " Harp. M. July. (143:175. ) *Too Proud to Fight. Chic. Trib. Feb. 6. 

V

VACHELL, HORACE ANNESLEY. (1861- . ) (_H. _) *Barbens of Barben-Lacy. L. H. J. Apr. (30. ) Jade Buddha. Chic. Trib. Oct. 3, '20. *Paul Lamerie Cup. L. H. J. June. (14. )

W

WADSLEY, OLIVE. (_See 1917. _) Pampered Young Man. Harp. B. Mar. (50. )

WALPOLE, HUGH. (1884- . ) (_See 1915, 1920. _) ***Bombastes Furioso. Pict. R. Dec. , '20. (29. ) ***Critic. S. S. Dec. , '20. (23. ) ***Lizzie Rand. Pict. R. Jan. (10. ) ***Lucy Moon. Pict. R. Nov. , '20. (12. ) ***Nobody! Pict. R. Mar. (26. ) Peter Westcott's Nursery. Pict. R. Feb. (14. ) ***Strange Case of Mr. Nix. Pict. R. Oct. , '20. (6. )

WARD, ARTHUR SARSFIELD _See_ "ROHMER, SAX. "

WEBB, MARY. **Caer Cariad. Book. Feb. (52:487. )

*WHARTON, ANTHONY. (_See 1919, 1920. _) *Ann's Hat. S. E. P. Feb. 14, '20. (16. ) Needles and Pins. S. E. P. Nov. 6, '20. (8. )

WILDRIDGE, OSWALD. *Redemption. Col. Oct. 30, '20. (7. )

WILLIAMS, MARGERY. (MRS. FRANCESCO BIANCO. ) *Candlestick. Harp. B. Aug. (52. ) Velveteen Rabbit. Harp. B. June. (72. )

WILLIAMSON, CHARLES NORRIS. (1859- . ), _and_ WILLIAMSON, ALICE MURIEL. (_See 1916. _) Strange Case of Jessamine Lynd. Chic. Trib. Oct. 24, '20. 

WODEHOUSE, PELHAM GRENVILLE. (1881- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_H. _) Bit of All Right. Cos. Nov. , '20. (77. ) Coming of Gowf. McC. June-July. (13. ) First Aid for Loony Biddle. Cos. Dec. , '20. (43. ) "Mother's Knee, " Cos. Jan. (81. ) Rough Stuff. Chic. Trib. Oct. 10, '20. Salvation of George Mackintosh. McC. Sept. (18. ) Sundered Hearts. McC. Dec. , '20. (10. ) Washy Makes His Presence Felt. Cos. Oct. , '20. (43. ) Wigmore-Venus. Cos. Feb. (81. )

WYLIE, I(DA) A(LENA) R(OSS). (1885- . ) (_See 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919. _) *Lord Bolshevik and Lady Circumstance. G. H. Aug. (22. ) *Silent Room. G. H. Mar. (62. ) *Way Home. G. H. Jan. (29. ) **Wonderful Story. G. H. Dec. '20. (60. )

III. TRANSLATIONS

B

BERNHARDT, SARAH. (_French. _) Daughter of Normandy. McCall. Mar. (9. ) Heart of the Rose. McCall. Feb. (10. ) Hearts Unreasoning. McCall. Dec. , '20. (8. ) Temptation. McCall. Jan. (8. ) Untold Story. McCall. May. (14. )

"BERTHEROY, JEAN. " (BERTHE CARIANNE LE BARILLIER. ) (1860- . ) (_See 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_French. _) *Alcestis. N. Y. Trib. Dec. 5, '20. Colette's Wish. N. Y. Trib. Mar. 20. Lesson of the Deep. N. Y. Trib. Jan. 23. Mars-En-Careme. N. Y. Trib. Sept. 4. Marthe Lesner's Awakening. N. Y. Trib. June 5. Peace Maker. N. Y. Trib. July 10. Three Pigeons. N. Y. Trib. Oct. 10, '20. 

BLANCO-FOMBONA, RUFINO. (_Spanish. _) *Confession of a Cripple. Mid. Book. May. (13. ) **Election Eve at Camoruco. Free. July. 6. (3:391. )

BLASCO IBÁÑEZ, VICENTE. (1867- . ) (_See 1919 under_ IBÁÑEZ, VICENTE BLASCO, _1920. _) (_Spanish. _) *General's Automobile. Chic. Trib. Mar. 20. **Hero. Chic. Trib. Dec. 5, '20. 

BOJER, JOHAN. (_Norwegian. _) *Fisherman's Christmas. Hear. Jan. (30. ) **Skobebf Was a Horse. Hear. May. (48. ) *When the Cuckoo Crowed. Hear. Oct. , '20. (36. )

BOUTET, FREDERIC. (_See 1917, 1918, 1920. _) (_French. _) "At the End of the Route. " N. Y. Trib. Dec. 28, '20. Blackmailer. N. Y. Trib. Apr. 17. *Bracelet. Par. June. (17. ) *Combatants. N. Y. Trib. Oct. 24, '20. Cornerstone of Bliss. N. Y. Trib. Sept. 25. *Godmother. Follies. Sept. (115. ) Her Wasted Evening. N. Y. Trib. Feb. 6. His Admirer. N. Y. Trib. May 15. Loan. N. Y. Trib. Aug. 21. Memories. N. Y. Trib. Jan. 2. *Orphan. Tod. Oct. , '20. (3. ) Price of Her Silence. N. Y. Trib. July. 3. Without Varnish. N. Y. Trib. Mar. 13. 

CLEMENCEAU, GEORGES. (_See 1920. _) (_French. _) *Schlome the Fighter. Hear. Nov. , '20. (14. ) Story of a Hungry Millionaire. Hear. Feb. (20. )

D

DELARNE-MARDRUS, LUCIE. _See_ MARDRUS, LUCIE DELARNE. 

DUVERNOIS, HENRI. (_See 1919. _) (_French. _) At the End of the Rainbow. N. Y. Trib. May 1. *Hunger. N. Y. Trib. June 19. *Inseparables. N. Y. Trib. Dec. 12, '20. 

F

FOMBONA, RUFINO BLANCO --. _See_ BLANCO -- FOMBONA, RUFINO. 

G

GINISTY, PAUL. (_French. _) Aladdin's Lamp. N. Y. Trib. Sept. 18. Her Letters. N. Y. Trib. Feb. 13. Step-Mother. N. Y. Trib. July. 31. Vandamme's Christmas Eve. N. Y. Trib. Dec. 19, '20. 

"GORKY, MAXIM. " (ALEXEI MAXIMOVITCH PYESHKOV. ) (1868- . ) (_See 1915, 1916, 1918. _) (_H. _) (_Russian. _) ***Rivals. Met. Jan. (21. )

Gourmont, Remy de. (1858- . ) (_French. _) **Yellow. Pag. Nov. -Dec. , '20. (5. )

H

HARAUCOURT, EDMOND. (1856- . ) (_See 1918, 1920. _) (_H. _) (_French. _) *Birth of a Sage. N. Y. Trib. July. 24. Bonhomme Michel. N. Y. Trib. Jan. 30. Honor of His Roof. N. Y. Trib. Apr. 24. Madman in the Jungle. N. Y. Trib. Oct. 17, '20. *Return. N. Y. Trib. Apr. 3. 

I

IBÁÑEZ, VICENTE BLASCO. _See_ BLASCO IBÁÑEZ, VICENTE. 

J

JALOUX, EDMOND. (_See 1918, 1920. _) (_French. _) *Glory. S. S. May. (113. )

L

LATZKO, ANDREAS. (_Austrian. _) *Scar. S. S. Aug. (31. )

LE BARILLIER, BERTHE CARAINNE. _See_ "BERTHEROY, JEAN. "

LEMAITRE, JULES. (_See 1919. _) (_French. _) **Marriage of Telemachus. Apropos. June. (11. )

LEVEL, MAURICE. (_See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_French. _) *One Evening in Autumn. Hear. May. (20. )

M

MANN, THOMAS. (1875- . ) (_German. _) ***Loulou. Dial. Apr. (70:428. )

MARDRUS, LUCIE DELARNE --. (_See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_French. _) Crape Hanger. N. Y. Trib. June 12. His Second Death. N. Y. Trib. Mar. 6. *Medallion. N. Y. Trib. Aug. 14. Mystic Waltz. N. Y. Trib. Jan. 16. Peacemaker. N. Y. Trib. Nov. 21. '20. 

MENDES, CATULLE (ABRAHAM). (1841-1909. ) (_H. _) (_French. _) *Isoline--Isolin. Pag. Nov. -Dec. , '20. (20. ) Le Pire Supplice. Pag. June-July. (38. )

MILLE, PIERRE. (1864- . ) _(See 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_French. _) *Bomb and the Judge. N. Y. Trib. Sept. 11. *Francis Bacon. Cen. Aug. (102:525. ) *Ghostly Perfume. N. Y. Trib. Dec. 26, '20. *Hat. N. Y. Trib. Feb. 20. Invisible Ghost. N. Y. Trib. Aug. 7. *Memory Cure. N. Y. Trib. Nov. 14, '20. Shade of Byron. N. Y. Trib. June 26. Shark. N. Y. Trib. May 8. Third Party. N. Y. Trib. Apr. 10. 

MORAND, PAUL. (_French. _) **Hungarian Night. Dial. Nov. , '20 (69:467. ) **Turkish Night. Dial. Sept. (71:281. )

R

REMIZOV, ALEKSEI. (_Russian. _) ***White Heart. Dial. Jan. (70:65. )

ROSNY, J. -H. , AINE. (_See 1920. _) (_French. _) *Bolshevists' Restitution. N. Y. Trib. Nov. 7, '20. Desert Romance. N. Y. Trib. Mar. 27. Dromedary. N. Y. Trib. May 29. Easter Chimes. N. Y. Trib. Jan. 9. Lesson of Reality. N. Y. Trib. Feb. 27. 

S

SANDOR, EMMERICH. (_German. _) September Tale. Pag. Mar. -Apr. (7. )

SCHNITZLER, ARTHUR. (1862- . ) (_See 1918, 1920. _) (_Austrian. _) ***Greek Dancer. Dial. Sept. (71:253. )

SWEDEN, PRINCE CARL WILHELM LUDWIG OF. (_Swedish. _) ***Pearls. Pict. R. Jan. (6. )

T

TAGORE, RABINDRANATH. (RAVINDRANATHA THAKURA. ) (1861- . ) (_See 1916, 1918. _) (_H. _) (_Hindustani. _) *Emancipation. Hear. July. (39. ) **Jagamohan the Atheist. Hear. Jan. (34. ) **On the Calcutta Road. Asia. Feb. (21:103. )

V

VALDAGNE, PIERRE. (_See 1918, 1919, 1920. _) (_French. _) Fatal Lie. N. Y. Trib. May 22. *Deliverance. N. Y. Trib. Oct. 31, '20. Intruder. N. Y. Trib. July. 17.