The Best Short Stories of 1917, and the Yearbook of the American Short Story (part 3 of 4)

The Best Short Stories of 1917, and the Yearbook of the American Short Story (part 3 of 4)

"Well, suit yourself; but that brute Sullivan will kill him some day, I hear."

"I don't know about that, Chief. The Mouse is game."

"So's a trout; but it's got a damn poor show against a shark," the chief had added with a shrug.

Neville's watch went on duty shortly after the twin lights above Sandy Hook had dropped astern. The ship was then rolling heavily enough to make walking difficult on the oily floor of the engine-room; in the boiler-room, lower by three feet, to stand steady even for a moment was impossible. Here, in this badly lighted quarter of the ship, ill humor hung in the air thicker than the coal-gas.

Dan Sullivan, partly sobered, fired his boiler, showing ugly readiness for a fight. Larry, stoking next to him, kept a weather-eye constantly on his fellow-laborer.

Neville's men had been on duty only a few minutes when the engineer came to the end of the passage and called Larry.

"That's right," Dan growled; "run along, you engineer's pet, leavin' your work for me to do!"

Larry gave him no answer as he hurried away.

"Make fast any loose thing you see here," Neville ordered.

Larry went about the machinery-crowded room securing every object that a lurching ship might send flying from its place. When he returned to the fire-room he heard the water-tender shouting:

"Sullivan, you're loafin' on your job! Get more fire under that boiler!"

"An' ain't I doin' double work, with that damn Mouse forever sneakin' up to the engine-room?"

Larry, giving no sign that he had heard Dan's growling answer, drove his scoop into the coal, and with a swinging thrust spread its heaped load evenly over the glowing bed in the fire-box. He closed the fire-door with a quick slam, for in a pitching boiler-room burning coal can fall from an open furnace as suddenly as new coal can be thrown into it.

"So, you're back," Dan sneered. "It's a wonder you wouldn't stay the watch up there with your betters."

Larry went silently on with his work.

"Soft, ain't it, you jellyfish, havin' me do your job? You eel, you--." Dan poured out a stream of abusive oaths.

Still Larry did not answer.

"Dan's ravin' mad," a man on the port boilers said. "Will he soak the Mouse to-night, I wonder."

"Sure," the stoker beside him answered. "An' it's a dirty shame for a big devil like him to smash the little un."

"You're new on this ship; you don't know 'em. The Mouse is a regular mother to that booze-fighter, an' small thanks he gets. But wait, an' you'll see somethin' in a minute."

Dan's temper, however, was not yet at fighting heat. He glared a moment longer at Larry, then turned sullenly to his boiler. He was none too steady on his legs, and this, with the lurching of the ship, made his work ragged. After a few slipshod passes he struck the door-frame squarely with his scoop, spilling the coal to the floor.

"Damn your squint eyes!" he yelled. "You done that, Mouse! You shoved ag'in' me. Now scrape it all up, an' be quick about it!"

Without a word, while his tormentor jeered and cursed him, Larry did as he was told.

"Ain't you got no fight at all in your shriveled-up body?" Dan taunted as Larry finished. "You're a disgrace to Ireland, that's what you are."

Larry, still patient, turned away. Dan sprang to him and spun the little man about.

"Where's the tongue in your ugly mouth?" Dan was shaking with rage. "I'll not be havin' the likes of you followin' me from ship to ship, an' sniffin' at my heels ashore. I won't stand for it no longer, do you hear? Do you think I need a nurse? Now say you'll leave this ship when we makes port, or I'll break every bone in you."

Dan towered above Larry, his arm drawn back ready to strike. Every man in the room stopped work to watch the outcome of the row.

At the beginning of the tirade Larry's thin shoulders had straightened; he raised his head; his lower jaw, undershot, was set hard. The light from the boiler showed his near-sighted eyes steady on Sullivan, unafraid.

"Get on with your work, an' don't be a fool, Dan," he said quietly.

"A fool, am I!"

Dan's knotted fist flashed to within an inch of Larry's jaw. The Bunker Mouse did not flinch. For a moment the big stoker's arm quivered to strike, then slowly fell.

"You ain't worth smashin'," Sullivan snarled, and turned away.

"Well, what d'yer know about that!" the new stoker cried.

"It's that way all the time," he was answered; "there ain't a trip Dan don't ball the Mouse out to a fare-you-well; but he never lays hand to 'im. None of us knows why."

"You don't? Well, I do. The big slob's yeller, an' I'll show 'im up." The stoker crossed to Sullivan. "See here, Bo, why don't you take on a man your size?" He thrust his face close to Dan's and shouted the answer to his question: "I'll tell you why. You ain't got sand enough."

Dan's teeth snapped closed, then parted to grin at his challenger.

"Do you think you're big enough?" The joy of battle was in his growl.

"Yes, I do." The man put up his hands.

Instantly Dan's left broke down the guard; his right fist landed squarely on the stoker's jaw, sending him reeling to the bunker wall, where he fell. It was a clean knock-out.

"Go douse your friend with a pail of water, Mouse." Dan, still grinning, picked up his shovel and went to work.

* * *

When Neville's watch went off duty, Larry found the sea no rougher than on countless other runs he had made along the Atlantic coast. The wind had freshened to a strong gale, but he reached the forecastle with no great difficulty.

Without marked change the San Gardo carried the same heavy weather from Barnegat Light to the Virginia capes. Beyond Cape Henry the blow began to stiffen and increased every hour as the freighter plowed steadily southward. Bucking head seas every mile of the way, she picked up Diamond Shoals four hours behind schedule. As she plunged past the tossing light-ship, Larry, squinting through a forecastle port, wondered how long its anchor chains would hold. The San Gardo was off Jupiter by noon the third day out, running down the Florida coast; the wind-bent palms showed faintly through the driving spray.

Neville's watch went on duty that night at eight. As his men left the forecastle a driving rain beat against their backs, and seas broke over the port bow at every downward plunge of the ship. To gain the fire-room door, they clung to rail or stanchion to save themselves from being swept overboard. They held on desperately as each wave flooded the deck, watched their chance, then sprang for the next support. On freighters no cargo space is wasted below decks in passageways for the crew.

When Larry reached the fire-room there was not a dry inch of cloth covering his wiry body. He and his fellow-stokers took up immediately the work of the men they had relieved, and during the first hours of their watch fired the boilers with no more difficulty than is usual in heavy weather.

At eleven o'clock the speaking-tube whistled, and a moment later Neville came to the end of the passage.

"What are you carrying?" he shouted to the water-tender. "We've got to keep a full head of steam on her to-night."

"We've got it, Mr. Neville--one hundred and sixty, an' we've held between that and sixty-five ever since I've been on."

"The captain says we've made Tortugas. We lost three hours on the run from Jupiter," Neville answered, and went back to his engine.

During the next hour no one on deck had to tell these men, toiling far below the water-line, that wind and sea had risen. They had warnings enough. Within their steel-incased quarters every bolt and rivet sounded the overstrain forced upon it. In the engine-room the oiler could no longer move from the throttle. Every few minutes now, despite his watchfulness, a jarring shiver spread through the hull as the propeller, thrown high, raced wildly in mid-air before he could shut off steam.

At eleven-thirty the indicator clanged, and its arrow jumped to half-speed ahead. A moment later the men below decks "felt the rudder" as the San Gardo, abandoning further attempts to hold her course, swung about to meet the seas head on.

Eight bells--midnight--struck, marking the end of the shift; but no one came down the ladders to relieve Neville's watch. The growls of the tired men rose above the noise in the fire-room. Again Neville came through the passage.

"The tube to the bridge is out of commission," he called, "but I can raise the chief. He says no man can live on deck; one's gone overboard already. The second watch can't get out of the forecastle. It's up to us, men, to keep this ship afloat, and steam's the only thing that'll do it."

For the next hour and the next the fire-room force and the two men in the engine-room stuck doggedly to their work. They knew that the San Gardo was making a desperate struggle, that it was touch and go whether the ship would live out the hurricane or sink to the bottom. They knew also, to the last man of them, that if for a moment the ship fell off broadside to the seas, the giant waves would roll her over and over like an empty barrel in a mill-race. The groaning of every rib and plate in the hull, the crash of seas against the sides, the thunder of waves breaking on deck, drowned the usual noises below.

The color of the men's courage began to show. Some kept grimly at their work, dumb from fear. Others covered fright with profanity, cursing the storm, the ship, their mates, cursing themselves. Larry, as he threw coal steadily through his fire-doors, hummed a broken tune. He gave no heed to Dan, who grew more savage as the slow hours of overtoil dragged by.

About four in the morning Neville called Larry to the engine-room. On his return Dan blazed out at him:

"Boot-lickin' Neville ag'in, was you? I'd lay you out, you shrimp, only I want you to do your work."

Larry took up his shovel; as usual his silence enraged Sullivan.

"You chicken-livered wharf-rat, ain't you got no spunk to answer wid?" Dan jerked a slice-bar from the fire and hurled it to the floor at Larry's feet. The little man leaped in the air; the white-hot end of the bar, bounding from the floor, missed his legs by an inch.

Larry's jaw shot out; he turned on Sullivan, all meekness gone.

"Dan," he cried shrilly, "if you try that again--"

"Great God! what's that!"

Dan's eyes were staring; panic showed on every face in the room. The sound of an explosion had come from the forward hold. Another followed, and another, a broadside of deafening reports. The terrifying sounds came racing aft. They reached the bulkhead nearest them, and tore through the fire-room, bringing unmasked fear to every man of the watch. The crew stood for a moment awed, then broke, and, rushing for the ladder, fought for a chance to escape this new, unknown madness of the storm.

Only Larry kept his head.

"Stop! Come back!" His shrill voice carried above the terrifying noise. "It's the plates bucklin' between the ribs."

"Plates! Hell! she's breakin' up!"

Neville rushed in from the engine-room.

"Back to your fires, men, or we'll all drown! Steam, keep up--" He was shouting at full-lung power, but his cries were cut short. Again the deafening reports started at the bows. Again, crash after crash, the sounds came tearing aft as if a machine-gun were raking the vessel from bow to stern. At any time these noises would bring terror to men locked below decks; but now, in the half-filled cargo spaces, each crashing report was like the bursting of a ten-inch shell.

Neville went among the watch, urging, commanding, assuring them that these sounds meant no real danger to the ship. He finally ended the panic by beating the more frightened ones back to their boilers.

Then for hours, at every plunge of the ship, the deafening boom of buckling plates continued until the watch was crazed by the sound.

This new terror began between four and five in the morning, when the men had served double time under the grueling strain. At sunrise another misery was added to their torture: the rain increased suddenly, and fell a steady cataract to the decks. This deluge and the flying spray sent gallons of water down the stack; striking the breeching-plates, it was instantly turned to steam and boiling water. As the fagged stokers bent before the boilers, the hot water, dripping from the breeching, washed scalding channels through the coal-dust down their bare backs. They hailed this new torment with louder curses, but continued to endure it for hours, while outside the hurricane raged, no end, no limit, to its power.

Since the beginning of the watch the bilge-pumps had had all they could do to handle the leakage coming from the seams of the strained hull. Twice Neville had taken the throttle and sent his oiler to clear the suctions. The violent lurching of the ship had churned up every ounce of sediment that had lain undisturbed beneath the floor-plates since the vessel's launching. Sometime between seven and eight all the bilge-pumps clogged at the same moment, and the water began rising at a rate that threatened the fires. It became a question of minutes between life and death for all hands. Neville, working frantically to clear the pumps, yelled to the oiler to leave the throttle and come to him. The water, gaining fast, showed him that their combined efforts were hopeless. He ran to the boiler-room for more aid. Here the water had risen almost to the fires; as the ship rolled, it slushed up between the floor-plates and ran in oily streams about the men's feet. Again panic seized the crew.

"Come on, lads!" Sullivan shouted above the infernal din. "We'll be drowned in this hell-hole!"

In the next second he was half-way up the ladder, below him, clinging to the rungs like frightened apes, hung other stokers.

"Come back, you fool!" Neville shouted. "Open that deck-door, and you'll swamp the ship!"

Dan continued to climb.

"Come down or I'll fire!"

"Shoot an' be damned to you!" Dan called back.

The report of Neville's revolver was lost in the noise; but the bullet, purposely sent high, spattered against the steel plate above Dan's head. He looked down. Neville, swaying with the pitching floor, was aiming true for his second shot. Cursing at the top of his voice, Dan scrambled down the ladder, pushing the men below him to the floor.

"Back to your boilers!" Neville ordered; but the stokers, huddled in a frightened group, refused to leave the ladder.

It was only a matter of seconds now before the fires would be drenched. Bilge-water was splashing against the under boiler-plates, filling the room with dense steam. Neville left the men and raced for the engine-room. He found Larry and the oiler working desperately at the valve-wheel of the circulating pump. Neville grasped the wheel, and gave the best he had to open the valve. This manifold, connecting the pump with the bilges, was intended only for emergency use. It had not been opened for months, and was now rusted tight. The three men, straining every muscle, failed to budge the wheel. After the third hopeless attempt, Larry let go, and without a word bolted through the passage to the fire-room.

"You miserable quitter!" Neville screamed after him, and bent again to the wheel.

As he looked up, despairing of any chance to loosen the rusted valve, Larry came back on the run, carrying a coal-pick handle. He thrust it between the spokes of the wheel.

"Now, Mr. Neville, all together!" His Celtic jaw was set hard.

All three threw their weight against the handle. The wheel stirred.

As they straightened for another effort, a louder noise of hissing steam sounded from the boilers, and the fire-room force, mad with fright, came crowding through the passage to the higher floor of the engine-room.

"Quick! Together!" Neville gasped.

The wheel moved an inch.

"Once more! Now!"

The wheel turned and did not stop. The three men dropped the lever, seized the wheel, and threw the valve wide open.

"Good work, men!" Neville cried, and fell back exhausted.

The centrifugal pump was thrown in at the last desperate moment. When the rusted valve finally opened, water had risen to the lower grate-bars under every boiler in the fire-room. But once in action, the twelve-inch suction of the giant pump did its work with magic swiftness. In less than thirty seconds the last gallon of water in the bilges had been lifted and sent, rushing through the discharge, overboard.

Neville faced the boiler-room crew sternly.

"Now, you cowards, get to your fires!" he said.

As the men slunk back through the passage Dan growled:

"May that man some day burn in hell!"

"Don't be wishin' him no such luck," an angry voice answered; "wish him down here wid us."

* * *

The morning dragged past; noon came, marking the sixteenth hour that the men, imprisoned below the sea-swept decks, had struggled to save the ship. Sundown followed, and the second night of their unbroken toil began. They stuck to it, stood up somehow under the racking grind, their nerves quivering, their bodies craving food, their eyes gritty from the urge of sleep, while always the hideous noises of the gale screamed in their ears. The machine-gun roar of buckling plates, raking battered hull, never ceased.

With each crawling minute the men grew more silent, more desperate. Dan Sullivan let no chance pass to vent his spleen on Larry. Twice during the day his fellow-stokers, watching the familiar scene, saw the big man reach the point of crushing the small one; but the ever-expected blow did not fall.

Shortly after midnight the first hope came to the exhausted men that their fight might not be in vain. Though the buckling plates still thundered, though the floor under their feet still pitched at crazy angles, there was a "feel" in the fire-room that ribs and beams and rivets were not so near the breaking-point.

Neville came to the end of the passage.

"The hurricane's blowing itself to death," he shouted. "Stick to it, boys, for an hour longer; the second watch can reach us by then."

The hour passed, but no relief came. The wind had lost some force, but the seas still broke over the bows, pouring tons of water to the deck. The vessel pitched as high, rolled as deep, as before.

As the men fired their boilers they rested the filled scoops on the floor and waited for the ship to roll down. Then a quick jerk of the fire-door chain, a quick heave of the shovel, and the door was snapped shut before the floor rolled up again. Making one of these hurried passes, Larry swayed on tired legs. He managed the toss and was able to close the door before he fell hard against Dan. His sullen enemy instantly launched a new tirade, fiercer, more blasphemous, than any before. He ended a stream of oaths, and rested the scoop ready for his throw.

"I'll learn yuh, yuh snivelin'--" The ship rolled deep. Dan jerked the fire-door open--"yuh snivelin' shrimp!" He glared at Larry as he made the pass. He missed the opening. His shovel struck hard against the boiler front. The jar knocked Dan to the floor, pitched that moment at its steepest angle. He clutched desperately to gain a hold on the smooth-worn steel plates, his face distorted by fear as he slid down to the fire.

Larry, crying a shrill warning, sprang between Sullivan and the open furnace. He stooped, and with all the strength he could gather shoved the big stoker from danger. Then above the crashing sounds a shriek tore the steam-clouded air of the fire-room. Larry had fallen!

As his feet struck the ash-door, the ship rolled up. A cascade falling from Dan's fire had buried Larry's legs to the knees under a bed of white-hot coals. He shrieked again the cry of the mortally hurt as Dan dragged him too late from before the open door.

"Mouse! Mouse!" Horror throbbed in Sullivan's voice. "You're hurted bad!" He knelt, holding Larry in his arms, while others threw water on the blazing coals.

"Speak, lad!" Dan pleaded. "Speak to me!"

The fire-room force stood over them silenced. Accident, death even, they always expected; but to see Dan Sullivan show pity for any living thing, and above all, for the Bunker Mouse--

The lines of Larry's tortured face eased.

"It's the last hurt I'll be havin', Dan," he said before he fainted.

"Don't speak the word, Mouse, an' you just after savin' me life!" Then the men in the fire-room saw a miracle: tears filled the big stoker's eyes.

Neville had heard Larry's cry and rushed to the boiler-room.

"For God's sake! what's happened now?"

Dan pointed a shaking finger. Neville looked once at what only a moment before had been the legs and feet of a man. As he turned quickly from the sight the engineer's face was like chalk.

"Here, two of you," he called unsteadily, "carry him to the engine-room."

Dan threw the men roughly aside.

"Leave him be," he growled. "Don't a one of you put hand on him!" He lifted Larry gently and, careful of each step, crossed the swaying floor.

"Lay him there by the dynamo," Neville ordered when they had reached the engine-room.

Dan hesitated.

"'T ain't fittin', sir, an' him so bad' hurt. Let me be takin' him to the store-room."

Neville looked doubtfully up the narrow stairs.

"We can't get him there with this sea running."

Sullivan spread his legs wide, took both of Larry's wrists in one hand, and swung the unconscious man across his back. He strode to the iron stairs and began to climb. As he reached the first grating Larry groaned. Dan stopped dead; near him the great cross-heads were plunging steadily up and down.

"God, Mr. Neville, did he hit ag'in' somethin'?" The sweat of strain and fear covered his face.

The vessel leaped to the crest of a wave, and dropped sheer into the trough beyond.

"No; but for God's sake, man, go on! You'll pitch with him to the floor if she does that again!"

Dan, clinging to the rail with his free hand, began climbing the second flight.

At the top grating Neville sprang past him to the store-room door.

"Hold him a second longer," he called, and spread an armful of cotton waste on the vise bench.

Dan laid Larry on the bench. He straightened his own great body for a moment, then sat down on the floor and cried.

Neville, pretending not to see Dan's distress, brought more waste. As he placed it beneath his head Larry groaned. Dan, still on the floor, wrung his hands, calling on the saints and the Virgin to lighten the pain of this man it had been his joy to torture.

Neville turned to him.

"Get up from there!" he cried sharply. "Go see what you can find to help him."

Dan left the room, rubbing his red-flanneled arm across his eyes. He returned quickly with a can of cylinder oil, and poured it slowly over the horribly burned limbs.

"There ain't no bandages, sir; only this." He held out a shirt belonging to the engineer; his eyes pleaded his question. Neville nodded, and Dan tore the shirt in strips. When he finished the task, strange to his clumsy hands, Larry had regained consciousness and lay trying pitifully to stifle his moans.

"Does it make you feel aisier, Mouse?" Dan leaned close to the quivering lips to catch the answer.

"It helps fine," Larry answered, and fainted again.

"You'll be leavin' me stay wid him, sir?" Dan begged. "'T was for me he's come to this."

Neville gave consent and left the two men together.

* * *

Between four and five in the morning, when Neville's watch had lived through thirty-three unbroken hours of the fearful grind, a shout that ended in a screaming laugh ran through the fire-room. High above the toil-crazed men a door had opened and closed. A form, seen dimly through the smoke and steam, was moving backward down the ladder. Again the door opened; another man came through. Every shovel in the room fell to the steel floor; every man in the room shouted or laughed or cried.

The engine-room door, too, had opened, admitting the chief and his assistant. Not until he had examined each mechanical tragedy below did the chief give time to the human one above.

"Where's that man that's hurt?" he asked as he came, slowly, from an inspection of the burned-out bearings down the shaft alley.

Neville went with him to the store-room. Dan, sagging under fatigue, clung to the bench where Larry lay moaning.

"You can go now, Sullivan," Neville told him.

Dan raised his head, remorse, entreaty, stubbornness in his look.

"Let me be! I'll not leave him!"

The chief turned to Neville.

"What's come over that drunk?" he asked.

"Ever since the Mouse got hurt, Sullivan's acted queer, just like a woman."

"Get to your quarters, Sullivan," the chief ordered. "We'll take care of this man."

Dan's hands closed; for an instant he glared rebellion from blood-shot eyes. Then the iron law of sea discipline conquering, he turned to Larry.

"The Blessed Virgin aise you, poor Mouse!" he mumbled huskily and slouched out through the door.

* * *

At midday the San Gardo's captain got a shot at the sun. Though his vessel had been headed steadily northeast for more than thirty hours, the observation showed that she had made twenty-eight miles sternway to the southwest. By two in the afternoon the wind had dropped to half a gale, making a change of course possible. The captain signaled full speed ahead, and the ship, swinging about, began limping across the gulf, headed once more toward Galveston.

Neville, who had slept like a stone, came on deck just before sunset. The piled-up seas, racing along the side, had lost their breaking crests; the ship rose and fell with some degree of regularity. He called the boatswain and went to the store-room.

They found Larry in one of his conscious moments.

"Well, Mouse, we're going to fix you in a better place," the engineer called with what heart he could show.

"Thank you kindly, sir," Larry managed to answer; "but 't is my last voyage, Mr. Neville." And the grit that lay hidden in the man's soul showed in his pain-twisted smile.

They carried him up the last flight of iron stairs to the deck. Clear of the engine-room, the boatswain turned toward the bow.

"No. The other way, Boson," Neville ordered.

The chief, passing them, stopped.

"Where are you taking him, Mr. Neville?"

"The poor fellow's dying, sir," Neville answered in a low voice.

"Well, where are you taking him?" the chief persisted.

"I'd like to put him in my room, sir."

"A stoker in officers' quarters!" The chief frowned. "Sunday-school discipline!" He disappeared through the engine-room door, slamming it after him.

They did what they could, these seamen, for the injured man; on freighters one of the crew has no business to get hurt. They laid Larry in Neville's berth and went out, leaving a sailor to watch over him.

The sun rose the next day in a cloudless sky, and shone on a brilliant sea of tumbling, white-capped waves. Far off the starboard bow floated a thin line of smoke from a tug's funnel, the first sign to the crew since the hurricane that the world was not swept clean of ships. Two hours later the tug was standing by, her captain hailing the San Gardo through a megaphone.

"Run in to New Orleans!" he shouted.

"I cleared for Galveston, and I'm going there," the San Gardo's captain called back.

"No, you ain't neither."

"I'd like to know why, I won't."

"Because you can't,"--the answer carried distinctly across the waves,--"there ain't no such place. It's been washed clean off the earth."

The San Gardo swung farther to the west and with her engine pounding at every stroke, limped on toward the Mississippi.

At five o'clock a Port Eads pilot climbed over the side, and taking the vessel through South Pass, straightened her in the smooth, yellow waters of the great river for the hundred-mile run to New Orleans.

When the sun hung low over the sugar plantations that stretch in flat miles to the east and west beyond the levees, when all was quiet on land and water and ship, Neville walked slowly to the forecastle.

"Sullivan," he called, "come with me."

Dan climbed down from his bunk and came to the door; the big stoker searched Neville's face with a changed, sobered look.

"I've been wantin' all this time to go to 'im. How's he now, sir?"

"He's dying, Sullivan, and has asked for you."

Outside Neville's quarters Dan took off his cap and went quietly into the room.

Larry lay with closed eyes, his face ominously white.

Dan crept clumsily to the berth and put his big hand on Larry's shoulder.

"It's me, Mouse. They wouldn't leave me come no sooner."

Larry's head moved slightly; his faded eyes opened.

Dan stooped in awkward embarrassment until his face was close to Larry.

"I come to ask you--" Dan stopped. The muscles of his thick neck moved jerkily--"to ask you, Mouse, before--to forgit the damn mean things--I done to you, Mouse."

Larry made no answer; he kept his failing sight fixed on Dan.

After a long wait Sullivan spoke again.

"An' to think you done it, Mouse, for me!"

A light sprang to Larry's eyes, flooding his near-sighted gaze with sudden anger.

"For you!" The cry came from his narrow chest with jarring force. "You! You!" he repeated in rising voice. "It's always of yourself you're thinkin', Dan Sullivan!" He stopped, his face twitching in pain; then with both hands clenched he went on, his breast heaving at each word hurled at Dan:

"Do you think I followed you from ship to ship, dragged you out of every rum-hole in every port, for your own sake!"

He lay back exhausted, his chest rising and falling painfully, his eyelids fluttering over his burning eyes.

Dan stepped back, and, silenced, stared at the dying man.

Larry clung to his last moments of life, fighting for strength to finish. He struggled, and raised himself on one elbow.

"For you!" he screamed. "No, for Mary! For Mary, my own flesh and blood--Mary, the child of the woman I beat when I was drunk an' left to starve when I got ready!"

Through the stateroom door the sun's flat rays struck full on Larry's inspired face. He swayed on his elbow; his head fell forward. By a final effort he steadied himself. His last words came in ringing command.

"Go back! Go--" he faltered, gasping for breath--"go home sober to Mary an' the child that's comin'!"

The fire of anger drifted slowly from Larry's dying gaze. The little man fell back. The Bunker Mouse went out, all man, big at the end.

RAINBOW PETE[13]

[Note 13: Copyright, 1917, by The Pictorial Review Company. Copyright, 1918, by Richard Matthews Hallet.]

BY RICHARD MATTHEWS HALLET

From The Pictorial Review

In pursuance of a policy to detain us on the island at Sick Dog until the arrival of his daughter, Papa Isbister thought fit to tell us the fate of Rainbow Pete, of whose physical deformity and thirst for gold we knew something already. Rainbow Pete had come to Mushrat Portage, playing his flute, at a time when preparations were being made to blast a road-bed through the wilderness for the railroad.

Mushrat Portage had been but recently a willow clump, and a black rock ledge hanging over a precipitous valley: the hand of the Indian could be seen one day parting the leaves of the trail, and on the next, drills came and tins of black powder, and hordes of greedy men, blind with a burning zeal for "monkeying with powder" as our host of Sick Dog said. They were strange men, hoarse men, unreasonable men who cast sheep's-eyes at the dark woman from Regina, whose shack, rented of Scarecrow Charlie, crowned the high point of the ledge. She was the only woman on Mushrat, and at a time just before the blasting began, when Rainbow Pete sauntered over the trail with his pick and his flute and his dirty bag of rock specimens, she was hungrily watched and waited on by the new inhabitants of that ancient portage--Mushrat, whose destinies were soon to be so splendid, and whose skies were to be rocked and rent by the thunders of men struggling with reluctant nature, monkeying with powder.

When Pete laid down his tools and guns on the table at Scarecrow Charlie's, where the woman was employed, had he in his heart some foreshadowing presentiment of the peril he was in, of the sharp destroying fire of a resolute woman's eyes, which he was subjecting himself to, in including her in his universal caress? Who knows? Perhaps his flute had whispered tidings to him. He was, said Papa Isbister, immensely proud of his plaything, this huge gaunt sailor, who had been bent into the shape of a rainbow--the foot of a rainbow--by a chance shot, which shattered his hip and gave him an impressive forward cant, which appeared to women, it seemed--I quote my old friend--in the light of an endearing droop.

The romantic visitation of this musical sailorman made the efforts of all Mushrat as nothing. But Rainbow Pete seemed unaware of the fiery jealousies glowing in the night on all sides of him when he fixed his eyes on her for the first time--with that mellow assurance of a careless master of the hearts and whims of women.

"What's this he said to her?" said our old friend. "It was skilful; it was put like a notable question if she took it so."

"You don't want to go out to-night," he said to her, with his guns on the table.

"No, I do not," she said to the man.

"There you will be taking the words out of my mouth to suit your heart," he went on saying to her. "Mark this, I'm making this a command to you. You don't want to go out to-night. Do not do it."

This he told her was on account of stray bullets, because he was meaning to shoot up that place.

Heh! It was a trick of his, to trap her into denying him when he had made no offer.

Old Isbister laughed heartily at this picture of Pete in the days of his triumph.

He was a captivating man, it appeared. He was tattooed. On his arms were snakes and the like of that, daggers and the like of that, dragons and the like of that. This was a romantic skin to the man; and his blue eyes were like the diamond drills they were bringing to Mushrat.

"Oh my," said the woman, leaning at his table, "this is what will be keeping me from mass, I shouldn't wonder."

This was a prairie woman from Regina; now mark, it was whispered to be no credit to human nature that she had had to leave that town. No. She was a full woman, very deep, with burning eyes. It was hard talking with her, because of her lingering speech. Oh, she was a massive woman, for the small shoes she wore. She was tall, as high as Rainbow Pete's shoulder. She purchased scent for her hair. This I know, having seen it standing in the bottles. She was a prairie woman.

This was a wild night we spent on Mushrat, after Pete's reproving the woman there in Scarecrow Charlie's place. Smash McGregor, the little doctor, was sitting between us in his yellow skull-cap; and Willis Countryman was reading and drinking in one corner, listening to the laughing men there. They were laughing, thinking of the fortunes there would be here when blasting begun.

But Rainbow Pete was not one of the rockmen. No. He told them strange tales of gold. Heh! He was athirst for gold. Strange tales he told of gold. Once how in Australia he had hold of a lump of it as big as poor McGregor's skull, but isn't it a perishing pity, oh my, this was just a desert where he was, there was no water, he grew faint carrying the nugget. Our mouths were open when the man told us he had dropped it in the desert, with his name carved on it.

"There it is to this day, sinking in the sands," he said. Oh, the proud woman from Regina. There she turned her dark eyes over our heads, never looking at the plausible man at all; but she had heard him.

"Gold?" said Smash McGregor. "Why, there's gold enough in the world."

"Ay, there's comfort too, if you know where to take it," said Rainbow Pete, twirling here at his mustache and looking at the woman.

"There's gold," said McGregor, "for any man."

"Yes, my hearty," said Pete, "it's twinkling in the river-beds, it shines in the sands under your feet, but still it's hard to get in your two fisties."

"Why," said Smash McGregor, "did you never hear there's a pot of gold at the foot of every rainbow?"

Oh, my friend, as he went mentioning the rainbow, there was a thunder-cap on the brow of that great sailor.

"So they call me--Rainbow Pete," he said.

"Look then," said McGregor, "take the pick, and strike the ground at your feet."

Rainbow Pete was not hearing them.

"This is a man I have been following on many trails," he muttered, "This man who made a rainbow of me. Mark this, he shall thirst, if I meet him. Ay! He shall burn with these fingers at his throat. He shall have gold poured into him like liquid, however."

It was plain he had no love for this man who had fashioned him in the form of a rainbow.

"What is this man called?" said the little doctor.

"It's a dark man wearing a red cap, called Pal Yachy," said Rainbow Pete. "He spends his time escaping me. Look, where he shot me in the hip."

Now we shielded him, and he drew out his shirt showing the wound in the thigh which made a rainbow of him; but stop, didn't McGregor discover the strange business on his spine?

"What's this, however?" he said.

"This is a palm-tree," said the man. "Stand close about me."

Oh my, we stood close, watching the man twisting up his shirt, and here we saw the palm-tree going up his spine, and every joint of his spine was used for a joint of the tree, like; and the long blue leaves were waving on his shoulder-blade when he would be rippling the skin. This was a fine broad back like satin to be putting a palm-tree on. Look, as I am lifting my head, here I see the dark woman silent at the bar, burning up with curiosity at what we are hiding here. Listen, it's the man's voice, under his shirt.

"This was done in the South Seas, when I was young," he said to us, "and the bigger I grow, the bigger the tree is. And now what next?" Then he put his shirt back, and stood up to be fixing an eye on the woman from Regina.

He was first to be waited on at Scarecrow Charlie's. Yes, he was first. This was a mystery of a man to that dark woman from Regina.

Now in these days before blasting began, they were fond of talking marriage on Mushrat, thinking of this woman from Regina, who was at the disposal of no man there. They were full of doubts and wonderments, when they would be idling together in Scarecrow Charlie's. But now one morning when they were idling there, Shoepack Sam must be yawning and saying to them,

"Oh, my, this is the time now, before the sun is up, I'm glad I am not married. It's a pleasure to be a single man at this hour."

Heh! Heh! As a usual thing we are not gratified at all for this favor of heaven. A single man, Shoepack Sam was saying, would not have to be looking at the wreck of his wife in the morning; and this is when women were caught unawares in the gill-nets time is lowering for them.

"They are pale about the gills then," he said. "They are just drowned fish. They have stayed in the nets too long."

"No, it's not certain," said Rainbow Pete. "She might be pleasant-looking on the pillow with her hair adrift."

Then Shoepack told him that the salt water had leaked into his brains, what with his voyages.

"Still, this is a beautiful cheek," said Pete, speaking low, because she was moving about beyond the boards.

"These things are purchased," said Shoepack, scraping his feet together in yellow moosehides. "Listen to me, I have seen them in a long line, on her shelf, with many odors."

So they were talking together, and Rainbow Pete was putting his fingers to the flute and staring down the valley, where Throat River was twisting like a rag.

"I could have had a wife for speaking at Kicking Horse," he said.

"There is one for speaking now," said Shoepack.

"In a few days I go North," Rainbow Pete went muttering. "There is gold at Dungeon Creek. I have seen samples of this vein."

"She will be the less trouble to you then, if you are not satisfied on this question," said Shoepack Sam.

Then Rainbow Pete said he was not so certain of her, on questioning himself. He was a modest man.

"This palm-tree and the other designs you have not been speaking about will be enticing her," said Shoepack Sam. "But do not speak to her of going away at the time of asking her."

"This is wisdom," said Rainbow Pete, and he put his lips to the flute, to be giving us a touch of music.

This was a light reason for marriage, disn't it seem? This was what Willis Countryman called a marriage of convenience, in the fashion of frogs. Ay! It was convenient to them to be married. He was a great reader--Willis.

So they were married, I'm telling you, but it's impossible to know what he said to her in speaking about it. They were married by the man called Justice of the Peace on Mushrat. This was before the blasting, and it was the first marriage on Mushrat.

Then they lived together in the little house she had chosen, sitting on the black ledge above Scarecrow Charlie's eating-place. Now it was a wonderment to Mushrat, to hear the sound of Rainbow Pete's old flute dropping from the dark ledge, by night, when they were taking their opinion of matrimony up there together, with a candle at the window.

But now look here, when Shoepack Sam came plucking him at the elbow, saying, "Was I right or was I wrong?" then Rainbow Pete stared at him with his eyes like drills, and he said to him, "You were curious and nothing more." Oh my, isn't this the perversity of married men.

They bore him a grudge on Mushrat, for his silence, because, disn't it seem, this was like a general marriage satisfying all men's souls. It was treasonable. Oh my, it was sailor's mischief to be living on that ledge, and dropping nothing but notes from his greasy flute. These are sweet but they are hard to be turning into language.

Now one morning, when I saw him coming from the ledge with his bag of specimens over his shoulder, I saw without speaking to him that he was parching with his thirst for gold. He was going away into the bush, thinking no more of his new wife. Oh, he was a casual man.

"How is this?" I said. "Can she be left alone on the ledge?"

"Can she not?" said Rainbow Pete. "Old fellow, this is a substantial woman. She was alone before I came."

"This is not the same thing," I said.

"It is the same woman," said Rainbow Pete, "she will be missing nothing but the flute."

Oh my, wasn't the flute a little thing to reckon with. He went North, dreaming of gold, and here the matter they were thinking about was locked in his heart. They were angry with the man on Mushrat. This was not what they were looking for between friends. They were hoping to learn the result of the experiment; but this was vain.

When he was gone, I saw her looking down into the valley, where the first shots were being fired in the rock. Ay, the sun was dazzling her eyes, but she dis not move, sitting as if her arms have been chopped from the shoulders.

Now it was not many days after this that the blasting was begun on Mushrat. Men came with instruments stamped by the government; these they pointed down the trail and drove stakes into the ground. These were great days on Mushrat. Oh yes, numbers of Swedes and Italians were in a desperate way monkeying with powder. It's a fetching business. In a week, look here, Scarecrow Charlie left his eating-place to go monkeying with powder like the others, and disn't he get a bolt of iron through his brain one morning? Oh, it's very much as if some one had pushed a broom-handle through his skull.

That dark woman from Regina was not dismayed. She ran the eating-place herself. This was a famous place: they heard of this as far West as Regina and they came here to work and eat, attracted by her. She was valuable to the contractors, bringing labor here. Disn't it seem an achievement for a married woman? Still, Rainbow Pete was not remembered after a time; and she was a dark beauty, with a reputation for not saying much.

My, my, these were golden days for Smash McGregor. I ponder over them, thinking what a business he had. He was paid by the contractors to be sorting out arms and legs, putting the short ones together in one box, and the long ones in another, marked with charcoal to be shipped. Oh, they were just gathering up parts of mortals in packing cases, dispatching them to Throat River Landing; and blood was leaking on the decks every way in little lines. They were unlikely consignments.

Then, my friend, there came one night a dark man wearing a red cap and here under his arm he had the instrument with strings. This was the Chief Contractor under the Government in this region. He was rich; at Winnipeg he had stabled many blood horses. Then they were clustering about him at Scarecrow Charlie's, asking him his name. This, he said, was Pal Yachy.

Oh my, now we knew him. This was the man who had given Pete his shape of a rainbow. Disn't it seem an unfortunate thing for him to be coming here? Still he did not know at first that this dark woman standing there was the wife of Rainbow Pete.

He went flashing at her with his teeth, the dark musician. Ay, he was better with the music than Rainbow Pete's old flute. He sang, plucking this instrument, with a jolly face. Heh! Heh! She leaned over the bar, looking at him, and dreaming of the prairies.

Then they told him that this woman was the wife of Rainbow Pete.

"Aha," he said, "but, my friends, a rainbow is not for very long. It is beautiful, but look, it vanishes in air."

Was he afraid, without saying so? That I can not tell you. Still he stayed on Mushrat. He was the destroyer of his countrymen. They blew themselves to pieces in his service, coming in great numbers when he crooked his finger.

Then my friend, he made himself noticeable to that dark woman. He took his instrument to the ledge and sang to her.

This I know from Willis Countryman who lived near that place. He told me that the man sang in the night a soft song and that the woman listened. Ay, she listened in the window, looking down into the valley where Throat River went roaring and the great Falls were like rags waving in the dark. Ay, she sat watching the River come out of the North, where Rainbow Pete was cruising after gold.

This Willis Countryman I'm telling you about was a fine man in his old age for reading. Oh, it was not easy talking to the man, with his muttering and muttering and his chin down firm intil the book. When he had his shack on Mouse Island the fire jumped over from the wind-rows they were burning in a right of way. What next? Disn't he put his furs in a canoe to sink in the lee of the island, and there he went on reading in the night with his chin out of water, and the light from his house blazing and lighting up the book in his fist. Oh my, he was great for reading, Willis.

Well, here, one night he came telling me about some queer women on a beach, singing. "Ay! It was impossible to keep away from them while they were at it. What is their name again?"

He made a prolonged effort to remember, sighed painfully, fixed his gaze. I brought him back as if from a fit of epilepsy by the interjection of the word, "Siren."

"Ay," he said, slowly and sadly. "The men put wax in their ears--" Now mark this. The day after I was hearing this of Willis, the woman put her hand on my arm as I was passing the ledge.

"You are a friend of my husband's," she whispered to me.

"What now?" I said.

"Will he come back to me, I wonder?" she said, looking in the valley.

"This is a long business, searching for gold," I went muttering.

"No man can say I have been unfaithful to him," she said to me, the fierce woman, breathing through her teeth. "I have been speaking to no man."

"This is certain," I said to her.

"If he dis not come according to my dream I am a lost woman, by this way of going on," she said to me.

How is this? There were tears flowing on the face, while she was telling me she was bewitched by the singing of Pal Yachy.

Oh, at first she would just lie listening there, but now the man with his sweet voice was drawing her from her bed, to come putting aside the scented bottles and leaning in the window.

Now I said, "My good woman, I am an old man with knowledge of the world. This man is a--what's this again--siren. He has a fatal voice. You must simply put wax in your ears not to hear it when he comes."

What next? Disn't she confess to me that she has listened to him too many times to be deaf to him. No, she must watch the valley when he comes singing his rich song; her cheeks were wet then, and the wind went shaking her. No, this was not a moment for wax. I was an old man. She prevailed upon me to sit outside her window in a chair, watching for him.

"Oh, I am afraid," she whispered to me, "being alone so high out of the valley."

There I sat by night, hearing sounds of thunder below this crag. Pebbles came rattling on the window, the rapid was choked with flying rock. They were growing rich, these madmen monkeying with powder. The government sent them gold in sacks, to pay those who were left for the lives that had been lost.

They were mad; they tumbled champagne out of bottles into tubs, frisking about in it. They had heard that this was done with money.

But Pal Yachy was more foolish. He came singing; oh my, this was a powerful song, ringing against the ledges. This was a fantastic Italian, singing like an angel to the deserted woman. Her eyes were dark; the breast heaved. Oh, these sweet notes were never lost on her.

Now at this time, too, Pal Yachy offered a great prize for the first child to be born on Mushrat. He came grinning under his red cap, saying to us, "There are so many dying, should there not be a prize offered for new life?"

He had learned what manner the woman had of surprising Rainbow Pete. It was a great prize he offered. When the child was born, he stopped the monkeying with powder in the valley for that day, though this too was a great loss in money. The woman pleased him.

Then, my friend, on the night of the day when this child was born, Rainbow Pete came back into the valley. Oh my, it's plain to us, looking at the man under the stars, he has been toughing it. Ay! His beard was tangled, the great bones were rising on his bare chest, his fingers twitched as he was drooping over us. Now I'm telling you his eyes were dim, and the sun had bleached his mustache the color of a lemon. There he stood before us, holding the bag over his shoulder, while he went scratching his bold nose like the picture of a pirate. Still he was gentle in the eye; he was mild in misfortune. Oh, this sailorman was just used to toughing it.

Look here, there he stopped, in the shadow of this great rock I'm speaking of, and these men of Mushrat came asking him if he had made the grade. They were fresh from dipping their carcasses in champagne. They were sparkling men, not accountable to themselves.

"Have you made the grade?" they went bawling to him. This is to say, had he struck gold?

"Oh, there's gold enough," Pete went rumbling at them, "but it's too far to the North, mate. There's no taickle made for getting purchase on it."

"So I am thinking," said the little medicine-man, McGregor. "It lies still at the foot of the rainbow."

"Ay," said Rainbow Pete; but with this word we went thinking of Pal Yachy. Still we did not speak the name of that Italian. No, this would be stronger in the ear of that sailorman than gunpowder in the valley.

"Look you here," said Rainbow Pete. "I am starving. I have not eaten in two days. This is the curse falling on me for hunting gold."

Then they laughed, these mad rockmen, mocking him with their eyes. Their eyes were twitching; there was powder in the corners of them.

"Are you not master of the eating-place?" they howled at him. "Look, there it stands; is not your wife alone in it?"

"Oh my, oh my, he stood looking at them with a ghastly face. Disn't he seem the casual man? It's as if he had forgotten that woman. He had no memories at all.

"My wife," said the rainbow-man.

"Look," said Shoepack Sam--oh, he remembered treason well--"he is forgetful that he has a wife on Mushrat."

This was so appearedly. There he stood in the blue star-shine, fingering his flute to bring her back to mind. Now, I thought, he will be asking what description of wife is this answering to my name on Mushrat? Oh, man is careless in appointing himself among various women.

Now, my friend, Rainbow Pete, blew a note on his flute to settle the thing clear in his mind. Oh, he was not too brisk in looking up at the black ledge, with the candle in the window. Now he was taken by the knees. This is not the convenient part of a marriage of convenience. No. But Shoepack Sam was waving a hand to us to be telling the man nothing of destiny at that moment.

"Come," he said, "the flute is nothing now. There must be more song than this, by what is going on."

Here he took Rainbow by the elbow, telling him to come and eat at Scarecrow Charlie's, for he will need his strength.

"I am in charge here for the day," said Shoepack.

"How is this?" said Rainbow, whispering.

They went laughing on all sides of him. Oh the demons, they were cackling while he sat devouring a great moose joint, until he was close to braining them with the yellow ball of the joint. He went eating like a timber-wolf from Great Bear.

"This is the palm-tree man," they sang in his ear. "Oh, why is it he grew no cocoanuts stumbling on that lost trail? Isn't it convenient for the man he is married this night?"

Oh, they were full of mischief with him, remembering the secret face he had for them in the days of his experiment.

"Drink this," said Shoepack Sam. There he put champagne in a glass before him. Oh, they were careful of the man.

"Here, take my hand, and let me see if strength is coming back," said Shoepack. "What is a rainbow without colors?"

Then the little medicine-man took his pulse, kneeling on the floor beside him. Oh, the great sailor was puzzled. Still he drank what was in the glass before him and after this he put his mustache into his mouth, sipping it by chance.

"What is this you are preparing?" he said, pointing his bold nose to them. Oh, the eyes were like a dreamer's: he was a child to appearances.

Then they went speaking to him of the stringed instrument they had heard humming on the ledge, speaking another language than his own.

"This is a wife to be defended," said Shoepack Sam, padding there with his yellow shoepacks bringing another drink. But still there was no word of Pal Yachy. That black Italian was not popular at Throat River.

"Now I see you are speaking of another man," said Rainbow Pete. Then Shoepack Sam went roaring, it was time for honest men to speak, when an honest woman was being taken by a voice.

"Wait," said Rainbow Pete, with his thumb in the foam, "this is unlikely she will want me cruising in, with another man singing in her ear."

Oh my, he was a considerate man, he was a natural husband, thinking of his wife's feelings.

"Are you a man?" said Smash McGregor. "Here she has fed you when you were starving--this is her food you have been eating. Will you pass this ledge, leaving her to fortune?"

Rainbow Pete went putting the edge of the cruiser's ax to his twisted thumb.

"I come to her in my shoes only," he said. "This is not what she will be wanting. I have no gold."

They were shouting to him to have no thought of that, those mad rockmen. There would be gold in plenty. There would be gold. Only go up on the ledge.

"Heard you nothing of the prize?" they bawled to him, the mischief makers. "Oh, there will be no lack of money."

"How is this?" said Rainbow Pete. But they would not be answering him. No! No! They went tumbling him out of Scarecrow Charlie's place, and making for the ledge with him. Oh my, the mystified man. This was a great shameface he had behind his mustache.

"I am much altered for the worse," he went muttering to us. "She will think nothing of me now."

"There is still time for constancy," said Shoepack Sam. "Do not lose hope."

Then he told them to be quiet, looking up at the dark ledge where the woman lay.

"Old Greyback," said Rainbow Pete, whispering to me, "I am mistrustful of this moment."

"Hist!" said McGregor, "that was the sound of his string. He will be beginning now."

Ay, the voice began. We were wooden men, in rows, listening to this Italian singing here a golden dream between his teeth.

"Who is this man?" said Rainbow Pete. Heh! Heh! Had he not heard this voice before? We were dumb. Oh, this was wild, this was sweet, the long cry of the man over the deep valley. He sang in his throat, saying to the woman there would be no returning. The night was blue. I'm telling you. He was a cunning beggar, Pal Yachy, for making the stars burn in their sockets.

Now I saw him lift his arm to his head, the wicked sailor, listening to the tune of his enemy. Ay, this was the man who had fashioned him in the form of a rainbow. Still he did not know it, dreaming on his feet. He went swaying like a poplar.

Look, I am an old man, but I stood thinking of my airly days. Yes, yes. My brain was heavy. Oh, it was a sweet dagger here twisting in the soul of man. I went picturing the deep snow to me, and the dark spruces of the North; oh, the roses are speaking to me again from this cheek that has been gone from me so long.

Heh! Heh! I should not be speaking of this. It was a sorrowful harp, the voice of that fiend. It was like the wind following the eddy into Lookout Cavern. Now it went choking that great sailor at the throat; look, he was mild, he was a simple man for crying. The tears rolled in his cheek, they sparkled there like the champagne.

Oh my, the song was done.

He was dumb, the great sailor, twisting his mustache.

"Come now," said McGregor, "quick, he will be going into the house."

They were gulls for diving at the ledge; but Rainbow Pete held out his arm, stopping them.

"Stand away," he said, "I will be going into my house with old Greyback here and no other."

This arm was not yet withered he had. No! They stayed in their tracks, as we were going up the ledge.

The door was open of that house; the stringed instrument was laid against it. Ay, the strings were humming still, the song was spinning round like a leaf in the cavern of it; but the black Italian was inside.

Yes, he had gone before into the chamber where she was lying, with his beautiful smile.

The door here was open. Look, by candle-light I saw her lying in a red blanket, staring at the notable singer. Yes, I saw the bottles containing odors standing in a row. There was scent in the room. Now she closed her eyes, this prairie woman, lying under him like death. My friend, there is no doubt she was beautiful upon the pillow without the aid of scented bottles.

Heh! I felt him quiver, this great sailor, when he saw Pal Yachy standing there, but I put my arms about him whispering to him to wait. It was dark where we were, there was a light from the stove only.

Oh my, there the dark Italian was glittering and heaving; he went holding in his fist a canvas sack stamped by the Government, containing the proper weight of gold.

"This is his weight in gold," he said, and there he laid it at her knees. Still her eyes were closed against that demon of a singer, as he went saying, "But now my dear one, there must be no more talk of husbands. Ha! ha! they are like smoke, these husbands. When it has drifted, there must be new fire. So they say in my country."

She lay, not speaking to him, with the sack of gold heavy against her knees.

"Is this plain?" said that Italian. Look now, Rainbow Pete is in his very shadow. Ay, in the shadow of this man who had fashioned him like a rainbow.

"This is a great sum," said Pal Yachy, never looking behind him. "To this must be added the silence of one day in the valley."

"The silence," she went whispering, "the silence."

Ha! ha! this was not so dangerous as song. She was leaning on her elbow, clutching the red blanket to her throat, with her long fingers twisting at the bag. Now my heart stumbled. Oh now, I thought, the gold is heavy against her; this is a misfortunate time to be forsaking her husband, isn't it? Look, the shadow was deeper in the cheek of this sailor. He saw nothing, I fancied, but the gold lying on the blanket.

What next I knew? Here was McGregor in his yellow skull, whispering,

"Is this the gold then at the foot of the rainbow? This is fool's gold where the heart is concerned."

Then, my friend, she threw it clear of the bed. Ay! I heard it falling on the ledge there, but at this time she did not know that Rainbow Pete was in the room.

When she had thrown it, then she saw him, standing behind that demon of a singer. Her eyes were strange then. By the expression of her eyes Pal Yachy saw that he was doomed. He was like a frozen man.

"Wait now," said Rainbow Pete, "am I in my house here?"

"Am I not your wife?" cried the dark woman from Regina.

Oh, the pleasant sailor. The song had touched him.

"Look now," he said to Pal Yachy, "you made a rainbow of me in the beginning. Do you bring gold here now to plant at my feet, generous man?"

My, my, this fantastic Italian knew that words were wasted now. He was like a snake with his sting. But Rainbow Pete was not an easy man. He broke the arm with one twist, look, the knife went spinning on the ledge. And at this moment the blasting in the rock began again below the ledge. They were at it again, monkeying with powder. Oh, it was death they were speaking to down there. It was like a battle between giants going on, there were thunders and red gleams in the black valley; and the candle-flame went shivering with the great noises.

"Here," said Rainbow Pete, "I will scatter you like the rocks of the valley."

Oh, the righteous man. Isn't it a strange consideration, the voice of Pal Yachy moving this crooked sailor to good deeds? Ay! He was a noble man, hurling the Italian from the house by his ears. Oh, it's a circumstance to be puzzling over. He threw the gold after him. Ay, the gold after--like dirt; and here the clothes hung loose on his own body where he had been starving in the search for bags like that.

Now, as he went kneeling by his wife, he discovered his son, by the crowing under the blanket.

"Look here at the little nipper, old Greyback," he said, "come a little way into the room. Look now, at the fat back for putting a little palm-tree on, while he is young. This is truth, old fellow, here is true gold lying at the foot of the rainbow, according to the prophecy."

Our old friend stopped to breathe and blink.

"He had staked this claim but he had never worked it," he said solemnly. But isn't it strange, the same man who had been fashioning him like a rainbow, should be pointing out the gold to him. Oh, there's no doubt Pal Yachy was defeated in the end by his own voice--

He went away that night, leaving all to the sub-contractors. Heh! He was not seen on Mushrat again. Still he had a remarkable voice. Many times afterward I have heard Rainbow Pete playing on his flute--this is in the evening when the ledge is quiet--but this is not the same thing. No, no, he could never bewitch her with his music, she must love him for his intention only, to be charming her. Ay! This is safer.

GET READY THE WREATHS[14]

[Note 14: Copyright, 1917, by The International Magazine Company. Copyright 1918, by Fannie Hurst.]

BY FANNIE HURST

From The Cosmopolitan Magazine

WHERE St. Louis begins to peter out into brick-and limestone-kilns and great scars of unworked and overworked quarries, the first and more unpretentious of its suburbs take up--Benson, Maplehurst, and Ridgeway Heights intervening with one-story brick cottages and two-story packing-cases--between the smoke of the city and the carefully parked Queen Anne quietude of Glenwood and Croton Grove.

Over Benson hangs a white haze of limestone, gritty with train and foundry smoke. At night, the lime-kilns, spotted with white deposits, burn redly, showing through their open doors like great, inflamed diphtheretic throats, tongues of flame bursting and licking-out.

Winchester Road, which runs out from the heart of the city to string these towns together, is paved with brick, and its traffic, for the most part, is the great tin-tired dump-carts of the quarries and steel interurban electric cars, which hum so heavily that even the windows of outlying cottages titillate.

For blocks, from Benson to Maplehurst and from Maplehurst to Ridgeway Heights, Winchester Road repeats itself in terms of the butcher, the baker, the corner saloon. A feed store. A monument-and stone-cutter. A confectioner. A general-merchandise store, with a glass case of men's collars outside the entrance. The butcher, the baker, the corner saloon.

At Benson, where this highway cuts through, the city, wreathed in smoke, and a great oceanic stretch of roofs are in easy view, and at closer range, an outlying section of public asylums for the city's discard of its debility and its senility.

Jutting a story above the one-storied march of Winchester Road, The Convenience Merchandise Corner, Benson, overlooks, from the southeast up-stairs window, a remote view of the City Hospital, the Ferris wheel of an amusement-park, and on clear days, the oceanic waves of roof. Below, within the store, that view is entirely obliterated by a brace of shelves built across the corresponding window and brilliantly stacked with ribbons of a score of colors and as many widths. A considerable flow of daylight thus diverted, The Convenience Merchandise Corner, even of early afternoon, fades out into half-discernible corners; a rear-wall display of overalls and striped denim coats crowded back into indefinitude, the haberdashery counter, with a giant gilt shirt-stud suspended above, hardly more outstanding.

Even the notions and dry-goods, flanking the right wall in stacks and bolts, merge into blur, the outline of a white-sateen and corseted woman's torso surmounting the top-most of the shelves with bold curvature.

With spring sunshine even hot against the steel rails of Winchester Road, and awnings drawn against its inroads into the window display, Mrs. Shila Coblenz, routing gloom, reached up tiptoe across the haberdashery counter for the suspended chain of a cluster of bulbs, the red of exertion rising up the taut line of throat and lifted chin.

"A little light on the subject, Milt."

"Let me, Mrs. C."

Facing her from the outer side of the counter, Mr. Milton Bauer stretched also, his well-pressed, pin-checked coat crawling up.

All things swam out into the glow. The great suspended stud; the background of shelves and boxes; the scissors-like overalls against the wall; a clothes-line of children's factory-made print frocks; a center-bin of women's untrimmed hats; a headless dummy beside the door, enveloped in a long-sleeved gingham apron.

Beneath the dome of the wooden stud, Mrs. Shila Coblenz, of not too fulsome but the hour-glass proportions of two decades ago, smiled, her black eyes, ever so quick to dart, receding slightly as the cheeks lifted.

"Two twenty-five, Milt, for those ribbed assorted sizes and reenforced heels. Leave or take. Bergdorff & Sloan will quote me the whole mill at that price."

With his chest across the counter and legs out violently behind, Mr. Bauer flung up a glance from his order-pad.

"Have a heart, Mrs. C. I'm getting two forty for that stocking from every house in town. The factory can't turn out the orders fast enough at that price. An up-to-date woman like you mustn't make a noise like before the war."

"Leave or take."

"You could shave an egg," he said.

"And rush up those printed lawns. There was two in this morning, sniffing around for spring dimities."

"Any cotton goods? Next month this time, you'll be paying an advance of four cents on percales."

"Stocked."

"Can't tempt you with them wash silks, Mrs. C.? Neatest little article on the market to-day."

"No demand. They finger it up, and then buy the cotton stuffs. Every time I forget my trade hacks rock instead of clips bonds for its spending-money, I get stung."

"This here wash silk, Mrs. C., would--"

"Send me up a dress-pattern off this coral-pink sample for Selene."

"This here dark mulberry, Mrs. C., would suit you something immense."

"That'll be about all."

He flopped shut his book, snapping a rubber band about it and inserting it in an inner coat pocket.

"You ought to stick to them dark, winy shades, Mrs. C. With your coloring and black hair and eyes, they bring you out like a Gipsy. Never seen you look better than at the Y. M. H. A. entertainment."

Quick color flowed down her open throat and into her shirtwaist. It was as if the platitude merged with the very corpuscles of a blush that sank down into thirsty soil.

"You boys," she said, "come out here and throw in a jolly with every bill of goods. I'll take a good fat discount instead."

"Fact. Never seen you look better. When you got out on the floor in that stamp-your-foot kind of dance with old man Shulof, your hand on your hip and your head jerking it up, there wasn't a girl on the floor, your own daughter included, could touch you, and I'm giving it to you straight."

"That old thing! It's a Russian folk-dance my mother taught me the first year we were in this country. I was three years old then, and, when she got just crazy with homesickness, we used to dance it to each other evenings on the kitchen floor."

"Say, have you heard the news?"

"No."

"Guess."

"Can't."

"Hammerstein is bringing over the crowned heads of Europe for vaudeville."

Mrs. Coblenz moved back a step, her mouth falling open.

"Why--Milton Bauer--in the old country a man could be strung up for saying less than that!"

"That didn't get across. Try another. A Frenchman and his wife were traveling in Russia, and--"

"If--if you had an old mother like mine upstairs, Milton, eating out her heart and her days and her weeks and her months over a husband's grave somewhere in Siberia and a son's grave somewhere in Kishinef, you wouldn't see the joke, neither."

Mr. Bauer executed a self-administered pat sharply against the back of his hand.

"Keeper," he said, "put me in the brain-ward. I--I'm sorry, Mrs. C., so help me! Didn't mean to. How is your mother, Mrs. C.? Seems to me, at the dance the other night, Selene said she was fine and dandy."

"Selene ain't the best judge of her poor old grandmother. It's hard for a young girl to have patience for old age sitting and chewing all day over the past. It's right pitiful the way her grandmother knows it, too, and makes herself talk English all the time to please the child and tries to perk up for her. Selene, thank God, ain't suffered, and can't sympathize!"

"What's ailing her, Mrs. C.? I kinda miss seeing the old lady sitting down here in the store."

"It's the last year or so, Milt. Just like all of a sudden, a woman as active as mamma always was, her health and--her mind kind of went off with a pop."

"Thu! Thu!"

"Doctor says with care she can live for years, but--but it seems terrible the way her--poor mind keeps skipping back. Past all these thirty years in America to--even weeks before I was born. The night they--took my father off to Siberia, with his bare feet in the snow--for distributing papers they found on him--papers that used the word 'svoboda'--'freedom.' And the time, ten years later--they shot down my brother right in front of her for--the same reason. She keeps living it over--living it over till I--could die."

"Say, ain't that just a shame, though!"

"Living it, and living it, and living it! The night with me, a heavy three-year-old, in her arms that she got us to the border, dragging a pack of linens with her! The night my father's feet were bleeding in the snow, when they took him! How with me a kid in the crib, my--my brother's face was crushed in--with a heel and a spur--all night, sometimes, she cries in her sleep--begging to go back to find the graves. All day she sits making raffia wreaths to take back--making wreaths--making wreaths!"

"Say, ain't that tough!"

"It's a godsend she's got the eyes to do it. It's wonderful the way she reads--in English, too. There ain't a daily she misses. Without them and the wreaths--I dunno--I just dunno. Is--is it any wonder, Milt, I--I can't see the joke?"

"My God, no!"

"I'll get her back, though."

"Why, you--she can't get back there, Mrs. C."

"There's a way. Nobody can tell me there's not. Before the war--before she got like this, seven hundred dollars would have done it for both of us--and it will again, after the war. She's got the bank-book, and every week that I can squeeze out above expenses, she sees the entry for herself. I'll get her back. There's a way lying around somewhere. God knows why she should eat out her heart to go back--but she wants it. God, how she wants it!"

"Poor old dame!"

"You boys guy me with my close-fisted buying these last two years. It's up to me, Milt, to squeeze this old shebang dry. There's not much more than a living in it at best, and now with Selene grown up and naturally wanting to have it like other girls, it ain't always easy to see my way clear. But I'll do it, if I got to trust the store for a year to a child like Selene. I'll get her back."

"You can call on me, Mrs. C., to keep my eye on things while you're gone."

"You boys are one crowd of true blues, all right. There ain't a city salesman comes out here I wouldn't trust to the limit."

"You just try me out."

"Why, just to show you how a woman don't know many real friends she has got, why--even Mark Haas, of the Mound City Silk Company, a firm I don't do two hundred dollars' worth of business with a year, I wish you could have heard him the other night at the Y. M. H. A., a man you know for yourself just comes here to be sociable with the trade."

"Fine fellow, Mark Haas!"

"'When the time comes, Mrs. Coblenz,' he says, 'that you want to make that trip, just you let me know. Before the war there wasn't a year I didn't cross the water twice, maybe three times, for the firm. I don't know there's much I can do; it ain't so easy to arrange for Russia, but, just the same, you let me know when you're ready to make that trip.' Just like that he said it. That from Mark Haas!"

"And a man like Haas don't talk that way if he don't mean it."

"Mind you, not a hundred dollars a year business with him. I haven't got the demands for silks."

"That wash silk I'm telling you about though, Mrs. C., does up like a--"

"There's ma thumping with the poker on the upstairs floor. When it's closing-time, she begins to get restless. I--I wish Selene would come in. She went out with Lester Goldmark in his little flivver, and I get nervous about automobiles."

Mr. Bauer slid an open-face watch from his waistcoat.

"Good Lord, five-forty, and I've just got time to sell the Maplehurst Emporium a bill of goods!"

"Good-night, Milt; and mind you put up that order of assorted neckwear yourself. Greens in ready-tieds are good sellers for this time of the year, and put in some reds and purples for the teamsters."

"No sooner said than done."

"And come out for supper some Sunday night, Milt. It does mamma good to have young people around."

"I'm yours."

"Good-night, Milt."

He reached across the counter, placing his hand over hers.

"Good-night, Mrs. C.," he said, a note lower in his throat; "and remember, that call-on-me stuff wasn't just conversation."

"Good-night, Milt," said Mrs. Coblenz, a coating of husk over her own voice and sliding her hand out from beneath, to top his. "You--you're all right!"

* * *

Upstairs, in a too tufted and too crowded room directly over the frontal half of the store, the window overlooking the remote sea of city was turning taupe, the dusk of early spring, which is faintly tinged with violet, invading. Beside the stove, a base-burner with faint fire showing through its mica, the identity of her figure merged with the fat upholstery of the chair, except where the faint pink through the mica lighted up old flesh, Mrs. Miriam Horowitz, full of years and senile with them, wove with grasses, the ecru of her own skin, wreaths that had mounted to a great stack in a bedroom cupboard.

A clock, with a little wheeze and burring attached to each chime, rang six, and upon it, Mrs. Coblenz, breathing from a climb, opened the door.

"Ma, why didn't you rap for Katie to come up and light the gas? You'll ruin your eyes, dearie."

She found out a match, immediately lighting two jets of a center-chandelier, turning them down from singing, drawing the shades of the two front and the southeast windows, stooping over the upholstered chair to imprint a light kiss.

"A fine day, mamma. There'll be an entry this week. Fifty dollars and thirteen cents and another call for garden implements. I think I'll lay in a hardware line after we--we get back. I can use the lower shelf of the china-table, eh, ma?"

Mrs. Horowitz, whose face, the color of old linen in the yellowing, emerged rather startling from the still black hair strained back from it, lay back in her chair, turning her profile against the upholstered back, half a wreath and a trail of raffia sliding to the floor. It was as if age had sapped from beneath the skin, so that every curve had collapsed to bagginess, the cheeks and the underchin sagging with too much skin. Even the hands were crinkled like too large gloves, a wide, curiously etched marriage band hanging loosely from the third finger.

Mrs. Coblenz stooped, recovering the wreath.

"Say, mamma, this one is a beauty! That's a new weave, ain't it? Here, work some more, dearie--till Selene comes with your evening papers."

With her profile still to the chair-back, a tear oozed down the corrugated surface of Mrs. Horowitz's cheek. Another.

"Now, mamma! Now, mamma!"

"I got a heaviness--here--inside. I got a heaviness--"

Mrs. Coblenz slid down to her knees beside the chair.

"Now, mamma; shame on my little mamma! Is that the way to act when Shila comes up after a good day? Ain't we got just lots to be thankful for, the business growing and the bank-book growing, and our Selene on top? Shame on mamma!"

"I got a heaviness--here--inside--here."

Mrs. Coblenz reached up for the old hand, patting it.

"It's nothing, mamma--a little nervousness."

"I'm an old woman. I--"

"And just think, Shila's mamma, Mark Haas is going to get us letters and passports and--"

"My son--my boy--his father before him--"

"Mamma--mamma, please don't let a spell come on! It's all right. Shila's going to fix it. Any day now, maybe--"

"You'm a good girl. You'm a good girl, Shila." Tears were coursing down to a mouth that was constantly wry with the taste of them.

"And you're a good mother, mamma. Nobody knows better than me how good."

"You'm a good girl, Shila."

"I was thinking last night, mamma, waiting up for Selene--just thinking how all the good you've done ought to keep your mind off the spells, dearie."

"My son--"

"Why, a woman with as much good to remember as you've got oughtn't to have time for spells. I got to thinking about Coblenz to-day, mamma, how--you never did want him, and when I--I went and did it anyway, and made my mistake, you stood by me to--to the day he died. Never throwing anything up to me! Never nothing but my good little mother, working her hands to the bone after he got us out here to help meet the debts he left us. Ain't that a satisfaction for you to be able to sit and think, mamma, how you helped--"

"His feet--blood from my heart in the snow--blood from my heart!"

"The past is gone, darling. What's the use tearing yourself to pieces with it? Them years in New York, when it was a fight even for bread, and them years here trying to raise Selene and get the business on a footing, you didn't have time to brood then, mamma. That's why, dearie, if only you'll keep yourself busy with something--the wreaths--the--"

"His feet--blood from my--"

"But I'm going to take you back, mamma. To papa's grave. To Aylorff's. But don't eat your heart out until it comes, darling. I'm going to take you back, mamma, with every wreath in the stack; only, you mustn't eat out your heart in spells. You mustn't, mamma; you mustn't."

Sobs rumbled up through Mrs. Horowitz, which her hand to her mouth tried to constrict.

"For his people he died. The papers--I begged he should burn them--he couldn't--I begged he should keep in his hate--he couldn't--in the square he talked it--the soldiers--he died for his people--they got him--the soldiers--his feet in the snow when they took him--the blood in the snow--O my God--my--God!"

"Mamma, darling, please don't go over it all again. What's the use making yourself sick? Please!"

She was well forward in her chair now, winding her dry hands one over the other with a small rotary motion.

"I was rocking--Shila-baby in my lap--stirring on the fire black lentils for my boy--black lentils--he--"

"Mamma!"

"My boy. Like his father before him. My--"

"Mamma, please! Selene is coming any minute now. You know how she hates it. Don't let yourself think back, mamma. A little will-power, the doctor says, is all you need. Think of to-morrow, mamma; maybe, if you want, you can come down and sit in the store awhile and--"

"I was rocking. O my God, I was rocking, and--"

"Don't get to it--mamma, please! Don't rock yourself that way! You'll get yourself dizzy. Don't, ma; don't!"

"Outside--my boy--the holler--O God, in my ears all my life! My boy--the papers--the swords--Aylorff--Aylorff--"

"Shh-h-h--mamma--"

"It came through his heart out the back--a blade with two sides--out the back when I opened the door--the spur in his face when he fell--Shila--the spur in his face--the beautiful face of my boy--my Aylorff--my husband before him--that died to make free!" And fell back, bathed in the sweat of the terrific hiccoughing of sobs.

"Mamma, mamma--my God! What shall we do? These spells! You'll kill yourself, darling. I'm going to take you back, dearie--ain't that enough? I promise. I promise. You mustn't, mamma! These spells--- they ain't good for a young girl like Selene to hear. Mamma, ain't you got your own Shila--your own Selene? Ain't that something? Ain't it? Ain't it?"

Large drops of sweat had come out and a state of exhaustion that swept completely over, prostrating the huddled form in the chair.

With her arms twined about the immediately supporting form of her daughter, her entire weight relaxed, and footsteps that dragged without lift, one after the other, Mrs. Horowitz groped out, one hand feeling in advance, into the gloom of a room adjoining.

"Rest! O my God, rest!"

"Yes, yes, mamma; lean on me."

"My--bed."

"Yes, yes, darling."

"Bed."

Her voice had died now to a whimper that lay on the room after she had passed out of it.

* * *

When Selene Coblenz, with a gust that swept the room, sucking the lace curtains back against the panes, flung open the door upon that chromatic scene, the two jets of gas were singing softly into its silence, and, within the nickel-trimmed base-burner, the pink mica had cooled to gray. Sweeping open that door, she closed it softly, standing for the moment against it, her hand crossed in back and on the knob. It was as if standing there with her head cocked and beneath a shadowy blue sailor-hat, a smile coming out, something within her was playing, sweetly insistent to be heard. Philomela, at the first sound of her nightingale self, must have stood thus, trembling with melody. Opposite her, above the crowded mantelpiece and surmounted by a raffia wreath, the enlarged-crayon gaze of her deceased maternal grandparent, abetted by a horrible device of photography, followed her, his eyes focusing the entire room at a glance. Impervious to that scrutiny, Miss Coblenz moved a tiptoe step or two further into the room, lifting off her hat, staring and smiling through a three-shelved cabinet of knick-knacks at what she saw far beyond. Beneath the two jets, high lights in her hair came out, bronze showing through the brown waves and the patches of curls brought out over her cheeks.

In her dark-blue dress with the row of silver buttons down what was hip before the hipless age, the chest sufficiently concave and the silhouette a mere stroke of hard pencil, Miss Selene Coblenz measured up and down to America's Venus de Milo, whose chief curvature is of the spine. Slim-etched, and that slimness enhanced by a conscious kind of collapse beneath the blue-silk girdle that reached up halfway to her throat, hers were those proportions which strong women, eschewing the sweetmeat, would earn by the sweat of the Turkish bath.

When Miss Coblenz caught her eye in the square of mirror above the mantelpiece, her hands flew to her cheeks to feel of their redness. They were soft cheeks, smooth with the pollen of youth, and hands still casing them, she moved another step toward the portiered door.

"Mamma!"

Mrs. Coblenz emerged immediately, finger up for silence, kissing her daughter on the little spray of cheek-curls.

"Shh-h-h! Gramaw just had a terrible spell."

She dropped down into the upholstered chair beside the base-burner, the pink and moisture of exertion out in her face, took to fanning herself with the end of a face-towel flung across her arm.

"Poor gramaw!" she said. "Poor gramaw!"

Miss Coblenz sat down on the edge of a slim, home-gilded chair, and took to gathering the blue-silk dress into little plaits at her knee.

"Of course--if you don't want to know where I've been--or anything--"

Mrs. Coblenz jerked herself to the moment.

"Did mamma's girl have a good time? Look at your dress all dusty! You oughtn't to wear you best in that little flivver."

Suddenly Miss Coblenz raised her eyes, her red mouth bunched, her eyes all iris.

"Of course--if you don't want to know--anything."

At that large, brilliant gaze, Mrs. Coblenz leaned forward, quickened.

"Why, Selene!"

"Well, why--why don't you ask me something?"

"Why I--I dunno, honey, did--did you and Lester have a nice ride?"

There hung a slight pause, and then a swift moving and crumpling-up of Miss Coblenz on the floor beside her mother's knee.

"You know--only, you won't ask."

With her hand light upon her daughter's hair, Mrs. Coblenz leaned forward, her bosom rising to faster breathing.

"Why--Selene--I why--"

"We--we were speeding along and--all of a sudden--out of a clear sky--he--he popped. He wants it in June--so we can make it our honeymoon to his new territory out in Oklahoma. He knew he was going to pop, he said, ever since the first night he saw me at the Y. M. H. A. He says to his uncle Mark, the very next day in the store, he says to him, 'Uncle Mark,' he says, 'I've met the little girl.' He says he thinks more of my little finger than all of his regular crowd of girls in town put together. He wants to live in one of the built-in-bed flats on Wasserman Avenue, like all the swell young marrieds. He's making twenty-six hundred now, mamma, and if he makes good in the new Oklahoma territory, his uncle Mark is--is going to take care of him better. Ain't it like a dream, mamma--your little Selene all of a sudden in with--the somebodys?"

Immediately tears were already finding staggering procession down Mrs. Coblenz' face, her hovering arms completely encircling the slight figure at her feet.

"My little girl! My little Selene! My all!"

"I'll be marrying into one of the best families in town, ma. A girl who marries a nephew of Mark Haas can hold up her head with the best of them. There's not a boy in town with a better future than Lester. Like Lester says, everything his uncle Mark touches turns to gold, and he's already touched Lester. One of the best known men on Washington Avenue for his blood-uncle, and on his poor dead father's side related to the Katz & Harberger Harbergers. Was I right, mamma, when I said if you'd only let me stop school, I'd show you? Was I right, momsie?"

"My baby! It's like I can't realize it. So young!"

"He took the measure of my finger, mamma, with a piece of string. A diamond, he says, not too flashy, but neat."

"We have 'em, and we suffer for 'em, and we lose 'em."

"He's going to trade in the flivver for a chummy roadster, and--"

"Oh, darling, it's like I can't bear it!"

At that, Miss Coblenz sat back on her tall wooden heels, mauve spats crinkling.

"Well, you're a merry little future mother-in-law, momsie."

"It ain't that, baby. I'm happy that my girl has got herself up in the world with a fine upright boy like Lester; only--you can't understand, babe, till you've got something of your own flesh and blood that belongs to you, that I--I couldn't feel anything except that a piece of my heart was going if--if it was a king you was marrying."

"Now, momsie, it's not like I was moving a thousand miles away. You can be glad I don't have to go far, to New York or to Cleveland, like Alma Yawitz."

"I am! I am!"

"Uncle--Uncle Mark, I guess, will furnish us up like he did Leon and Irma--only, I don't want mahogany--I want Circassian walnut. He gave them their flat-silver, too, Puritan design, for an engagement present. Think of it, mamma, me having that stuck-up Irma Sinsheimer for a relation! It always made her sore when I got chums with Amy at school and got my nose in it with the Acme crowd, and--and she'll change her tune now, I guess, me marrying her husband's second cousin."

"Didn't Lester want to--to come in for a while, Selene, to--to see--me?"

Sitting there on her heels, Miss Coblenz looked away, answering with her face in profile.

"Yes; only--I--well if you want to know it, mamma, it's no fun for a girl to bring a boy like Lester up here in--in this crazy room all hung up with gramaw's wreaths and half the time her sitting out there in the dark looking in at us through the door and talking to herself."

"Gramaw's an old--"

"Is--it any wonder I'm down at Amy's half the time. How--do you think a girl feels to have gramaw keep hanging onto that old black wig of hers and not letting me take the crayons or wreaths down off the wall. In Lester's crowd, they don't know--nothing about Revolutionary stuff and--and persecutions. Amy's grandmother don't even talk with an accent, and Lester says his grandmother came from Alsace-Lorraine. That's French. They think only tailors and old-clothes men and--"

"Selene!"

"Well, they do. You--you're all right, mamma, as up to date as any of them, but how do you think a girl feels with gramaw always harping right in front of everybody the--the way granpa was a revolutionist and was--was hustled off barefooted to Siberia like--like a tramp. And the way she was cooking black beans when--my uncle--died. Other girls' grandmothers don't tell everything they know. Alma Yawitz's grandmother wears lorgnettes, and you told me yourself they came from nearly the same part of the Pale as gramaw. But you don't hear them remembering it. Alma Yawitz says she's Alsace-Lorraine on both sides. People don't--tell everything they know. Anyway--where a girl's got herself as far as I have."

Through sobs that rocked her, Mrs. Coblenz looked down upon her daughter.

"Your poor old grandmother don't deserve that from you! In her day, she worked her hands to the bone for you. With--the kind of father you had, we--we might have died in the gutter but--for how she helped to keep us out, you ungrateful girl--your poor old grandmother that's suffered so terrible!"

"I know it, mamma, but so have other people suffered."

"She's old, Selene--old."

"I tell you it's the way you indulge her, mamma. I've seen her sitting here as perk as you please, and the minute you come in the room, down goes her head like--like she was dying."

"It's her mind, Selene--that's going. That's why I feel if I could only get her back. She ain't old, gramaw ain't. If I could only get her back where she--could see for herself--the graves--is all she needs. All old people think of--the grave. It's eating her--eating her mind. Mark Haas is going to fix it for me after the war--maybe before--if he can. That's the only way poor gramaw can live--or die--happy, Selene. Now--now that my--my little girl ain't any longer my responsibility, I--I'm going to take her back--my little--girl"--her hand reached out, caressing the smooth head, her face projected forward and the eyes yearning down--"my all."

"It's you will be my responsibility now, ma."

"No! No!"

"The first thing Lester says was a flat on Wasserman and a spare room for mother Coblenz when she wants to come down. Wasn't it sweet for him to put it that way right off, ma. 'Mother Coblenz,' he says."

"He's a good boy, Selene. It'll be a proud day for me and gramaw. Gramaw mustn't miss none of it. He's a good boy and a fine family."

"That's why, mamma, we--got to--to do it up right."

"Lester knows, child, he's not marrying a rich girl."

"A girl don't have to--be rich to get married right."

"You'll have as good as mamma can afford to give it to her girl."

"It--it would be different if Lester's uncle and all wasn't in the Acme Club crowd, and if I hadn't got in with all that bunch. It's the last expense I'll ever be to you, mamma."

"Oh, baby, don't say that!"

"I--me and Lester--Lester and me were talking, mamma--when the engagement's announced next week--a reception--"

"We can clear out this room, move the bed out of gramaw's room into ours, and serve the ice-cream and cake in--"

"Oh, mamma, I don't mean--that!"

"What?"

"Who ever heard of having a reception here! People won't come from town way out to this old--cabbage patch. Even Gertie Wolf with their big house on West Pine Boulevard had her reception at the Walsingham Hotel. You--we--can't expect Mark Haas and all the relations--the Sinsheimers--and--all to come out here. I'd rather not have any."

"But, Selene, everybody knows we ain't millionaires, and that you got in with that crowd through being friends at school with Amy Rosen. All the city salesmen and the boys on Washington Avenue, even Mark Haas himself, that time he was in the store with Lester, knows the way we live. You don't need to be ashamed of your little home, Selene, even if it ain't on West Pine Boulevard."

"It'll be--your last expense, mamma. The Walsingham, that's where the girl that Lester Goldmark marries is expected to have her reception."

"But, Selene, mamma can't afford nothing like that."

Pink swam up into Miss Coblenz's face, and above the sheer-white collar there was a little beating movement at the throat, as if something were fluttering within.

"I--I'd just as soon not get married as--as not to have it like other girls."

"But, Selene--"

"If I--can't have a trousseau like other girls and the things that go with marrying into a--a family like Lester's--I--then--there's no use. I--I can't! I--wouldn't!"

She was fumbling now for a handkerchief against tears that were imminent.

"Why, baby, a girl couldn't have a finer trousseau than the old linens back yet from Russia that me and gramaw got saved up for our girl--linen that can't be bought these days. Bed-sheets that gramaw herself carried to the border, and--"

"Oh, I know. I knew you'd try to dump that stuff on me. That old worm-eaten stuff in gramaw's chest."

"It's hand-woven, Selene, with--"

"I wouldn't have that yellow old stuff--that old-fashioned junk--if I didn't have any trousseau. If I can't afford monogrammed up-to-date linens, like even Alma Yawitz, and a--a pussy-willow-taffeta reception dress, I wouldn't have any. I wouldn't." Her voice crowded with passion and tears rose to the crest of a sob. "I--I'd die first!"

"Selene, Selene, mamma ain't got the money. If she had it, wouldn't she be willing to take the very last penny to give her girl the kind of a wedding she wants? A trousseau like Alma's cost a thousand dollars if it cost a cent. Her table-napkins alone they say cost thirty-six dollars a dozen, unmonogrammed. A reception at the Walsingham costs two hundred dollars if it costs a cent. Selene, mamma will make for you every sacrifice she can afford, but she ain't got the money."

"You--have got the money!"

"So help me God, Selene! You know, with the quarries shut down, what business has been. You know how--sometimes even to make ends meet, it is a pinch. You're an ungrateful girl, Selene, to ask what I ain't able to do for you. A child like you that's been indulged, that I ain't even asked ever in her life to help a day down in the store. If I had the money, God knows you should be married in real lace, with the finest trousseau a girl ever had. But I ain't got the money--I ain't got the money."

"You have got the money! The book in gramaw's drawer is seven hundred and forty. I guess I ain't blind. I know a thing or two."

"Why Selene--that's gramaw's--to go back--"

"You mean the bank-book's hers?"

"That's gramaw's to go back--home on. That's the money for me to take gramaw and her wreaths back home on."

"There you go--talking loony."

"Selene!"

"Well, I'd like to know what else you'd call it, kidding yourself along like that."

"You--"

"All right. If you think gramaw, with her life all lived, comes first before me, with all my life to live--all right!"

"Your poor old--"

"It's always been gramaw first in this house, anyway. I couldn't even have company since I'm grown up because the way she's always allowed around. Nobody can say I ain't good to gramaw; Lester say it's beautiful the way I am with her, remembering always to bring the newspapers and all, but just the same I know when right's right and wrong's wrong. If my life ain't more important than gramaw's, with hers all lived, all right. Go ahead!"

"Selene, Selene, ain't it coming to gramaw, after all her years' hard work helping us that--she should be entitled to go back with her wreaths for the graves? Ain't she entitled to die with that off her poor old mind? You bad, ungrateful girl, you, it's coming to a poor old woman that's suffered as terrible as gramaw that I should find a way to take her back."

"Take her back. Where--to jail? To prison in Siberia herself--"

"There's a way--"

"You know gramaw's too old to take a trip like that. You know in your own heart she won't ever see that day. Even before the war, much less now, there wasn't a chance for her to get passports back there. I don't say it ain't all right to kid her along, but when it comes to--to keeping me out of the--the biggest thing that can happen to a girl--when gramaw wouldn't know the difference if you keep showing her the bank-book--it ain't right. That's what it ain't. It ain't right!"

In the smallest possible compass, Miss Coblenz crouched now upon the floor, head down somewhere in her knees, and her curving back racked with rising sobs.

"Selene--but some day--"

"Some day nothing! A woman like gramaw can't do much more than go down-town once a year, and then you talk about taking her to Russia! You can't get in there, I--tell you--no way you try to fix it after--the way gramaw--had--to leave. Even before the war, Ray Letsky's father couldn't get back on business. There's nothing for her there even after she gets there. In thirty years do you think you can find those graves? Do you know the size of Siberia? No! But I got to pay--I got to pay for gramaw's nonsense. But I won't. I won't go to Lester, if I can't go right. I--"

"Baby, don't cry so--for God's sake don't cry so!

"I wish I was dead."

"Sh-h-h--you'll wake gramaw."

"I do!"

"O God, help me to do the right thing!"

"If gramaw could understand, she'd be the first one to tell you the right thing. Anybody would."

"No! No! That little bank-book and its entries are her life--her life."

"She don't need to know, mamma. I'm not asking that. That's the way they always do with old people to keep them satisfied. Just humor 'em. Ain't I the one with life before me--ain't I, mamma?"

"O God, show me the way!"

"If there was a chance, you think I'd be spoiling things for gramaw? But there ain't, mamma--not one."

"I keep hoping if not before, then after the war. With the help of Mark Haas--"

"With the book in her drawer like always, and the entries changed once in a while, she'll never know the difference. I swear to God she'll never know the difference, mamma!"

"Poor gramaw!"

"Mamma, promise me--your little Selene. Promise me?"

"Selene, Selene, can we keep it from her?"

"I swear we can, mamma."

"Poor, poor gramaw!"

"Mamma? Mamma darling?"

"O God, show me the way!"

"Ain't it me that's got life before me? My whole life?"

"Yes--Selene."

"Then, mamma, please--you will--you will--darling?"

"Yes, Selene."

* * *

In a large, all-frescoed, seventy-five dollars an evening with lights and cloak-room service ballroom of the Hotel Walsingham, a family hostelry in that family circle of St. Louis known as its West End, the city holds not a few of its charity-whists and benefit musicales; on a dais which can be carried in for the purpose, morning readings of "Little Moments from Little Plays," and with the introduction of a throne-chair, the monthly lodge-meetings of the Lady Mahadharatas of America. For weddings and receptions, a lane of red carpet leads up to the slight dais; and, lined about the brocade and paneled walls, gilt-and-brocade chairs, with the crest of Walsingham in padded embroidery on the backs. Crystal chandeliers, icicles of dripping light, glow down upon a scene of parquet floor, draped velours, and mirrors wreathed in gilt.

At Miss Selene Coblenz's engagement reception, an event properly festooned with smilax and properly jostled with the elbowing figures of waiters tilting their plates of dark-meat chicken salad, two olives, and a finger-roll in among the crowd, a stringed three-piece orchestra, faintly seen and still more faintly heard, played into the babel.

Light, glitteringly filtered through the glass prisms, flowed down upon the dais; upon Miss Selene Coblenz, in a taffeta that wrapped her flat waist and chest like a calyx and suddenly bloomed into the full inverted petals of a skirt; upon Mr. Lester Goldmark, his long body barely knitted yet to man's estate, and his complexion almost clear, standing omnivorous, omnipotent, omnipresent, his hair so well brushed that it lay like black japanning, a white carnation at his silk lapel, and his smile slightly projected by a rush of very white teeth to the very front. Next in line, Mrs. Coblenz, the red of a fervent moment high in her face, beneath the maroon-net bodice the swell of her bosom fast, and her white-gloved hands constantly at the opening and shutting of a lace-and-spangled fan. Back, and well out of the picture, a potted hydrangea beside the Louis Quinze armchair, her hands in silk mitts laid out along the gold-chair sides, her head quavering in a kind of mild palsy, Mrs. Miriam Horowitz, smiling and quivering her state of bewilderment.

With an unfailing propensity to lay hold of to whomsoever he spake, Mr. Lester Goldmark placed his white-gloved hand upon the white-gloved arm of Mrs. Coblenz.

"Say, mother Coblenz, ain't it about time this little girl of mine was resting her pink-satin double A's? She's been on duty up here from four to seven. No wonder uncle Mark bucked."

Mrs. Coblenz threw her glance out over the crowded room, surging with a wave of plumes and clipped heads like a swaying bucket of water which crowds but does not lap over its sides.

"I guess the crowd is finished coming in by now. You tired, Selene?"

Miss Coblenz turned her glowing glance.

"Tired! This is the swellest engagement-party I ever had."

Mrs. Coblenz shifted her weight from one slipper to the other, her maroon-net skirts lying in a swirl around them.

"Just look at gramaw, too! She holds up her head with the best of them. I wouldn't have had her miss this, not for the world."

"Sure one fine old lady! Ought to have seen her shake my hand, mother Coblenz. I nearly had to holler, 'Ouch!'"

"Mamma, here comes Sara Suss and her mother. Take my arm, Lester honey. People mamma used to know." Miss Coblenz leaned forward beyond the dais with the frail curve of a reed.

"Howdado, Mrs. Suss.... Thank you. Thanks. Howdado, Sara. Meet my fiance, Lester Haas Goldmark; Mrs. Suss and Sara Suss, my fiance.... That's right; better late than never. There's plenty left.... We think he is, Mrs. Suss. Aw, Lester honey, quit! Mamma, here's Mrs. Suss and Sadie."

"Mrs. Suss! Say--if you hadn't come, I was going to lay it up against you. If my new ones can come on a day like this, it's a pity my old friends can't come, too.

"Well, Sadie, it's your turn next, eh?... I know better than that. With them pink cheeks and black eyes, I wish I had a dime for every chance." (Sotto.) "Do you like it, Mrs. Suss? Pussy-willow taffeta.... Say, it ought to be. An estimate dress from Madame Murphy--sixty-five with findings. I'm so mad, Sara, you and your mamma couldn't come to the house that night to see her things. If I say so myself, Mrs. Suss, everybody who seen it says Jacob Sinsheimer's daughter herself didn't have a finer. Maybe not so much, but every stitch, Mrs. Suss, made by the same sisters in the same convent that made hers.... Towels! I tell her it's a shame to expose them to the light, much less wipe on them. Ain't it?... The goodness looks out from his face. And such a love-pair! Lunatics, I call them. He can't keep his hands off. It ain't nice, I tell him.... Me? Come close. I dyed the net myself. Ten cents' worth of maroon color. Don't it warm your heart, Mrs. Suss? This morning, after we got her in Lester's uncle Mark's big automobile, I says to her, I says, 'Mamma, you sure it ain't too much.' Like her old self for a minute, Mrs. Suss, she hit me on the arm. 'Go 'way,' she said, 'on my grandchild's engagement-day anything should be too much? Here, waiter, get these two ladies some salad. Good measure, too. Over there by the window, Mrs. Suss. Help yourselves."

"Mamma, sh-h-h, the waiters know what to do."

Mrs. Coblenz turned back, the flush warm to her face.

"Say, for an old friend, I can be my own self."

"Can we break the receiving-line now, Lester honey, and go down with everybody? The Sinsheimers and their crowd over there by themselves, we ought to show we appreciate their coming."

Mr. Goldmark twisted high in his collar, cupping her small bare elbow in his hand.

"That's what I say, lovey; let's break. Come, mother Coblenz, let's step down on high society's corns."

"Lester!"

"You and Selene go down with the crowd, Lester. I want to take gramaw to rest for a while before we go home. The manager says we can have room fifty-six by the elevator for her to rest in."

"Get her some newspapers, ma, and I brought her a wreath down to keep her quiet. It's wrapped in her shawl."

Her skirts delicately lifted, Miss Coblenz stepped down off the dais. With her cloud of gauze scarf enveloping her, she was like a tulle-clouded "Springtime," done in the key of Botticelli.

"Oop-si-lah, lovey-dovey!" said Mr. Goldmark, tilting her elbow for the downward step.

"Oop-si-lay, dovey-lovey!" said Miss Coblenz, relaxing to the support.

Gathering up her plentiful skirts, Mrs. Coblenz stepped off, too, but back toward the secluded chair beside the potted hydrangea. A fine line of pain, like a cord tightening, was binding her head, and she put up two fingers to each temple, pressing down the throb.

"Mrs. Coblenz, see what I got for you!" She turned, smiling. "You don't look like you need salad and green ice-cream. You look like you needed what I wanted--a cup of coffee."

"Aw, Mr. Haas--now where in the world--aw, Mr. Haas!"

With a steaming cup outheld and carefully out of collision with the crowd, Mr. Haas unflapped a napkin with his free hand, inserting his foot in the rung of a chair and dragging it toward her.

"Now," he cried, "sit and watch me take care of you!"

There comes a tide in the affairs of men when the years lap softly, leaving no particular inundations on the celebrated sands of time. Between forty and fifty, that span of years which begin the first slight gradations from the apex of life, the gray hair, upstanding like a thick-bristled brush off Mr. Haas's brow, had not so much as whitened, or the slight paunchiness enhanced even the moving-over of a button. When Mr. Haas smiled, his mustache, which ended in a slight but not waxed flourish, lifted to reveal a white-and-gold smile of the artistry of careful dentistry, and when, upon occasion, he threw back his head to laugh, the roof of his mouth was his own.

He smiled now, peering through gold-rimmed spectacles attached by a chain to a wire-encircled left ear.

"Sit," he cried, "and let me serve you!"

Standing there with a diffidence which she could not crowd down, Mrs. Coblenz smiled through closed lips that would pull at the corners.

"The idea, Mr. Haas--going to all that trouble!"

"'Trouble,' she says! After two hours hand-shaking in a swallowtail, a man knows what real trouble is!"

She stirred around and around the cup, supping up spoonfuls gratefully.

"I'm sure much obliged. It touches the right spot."

He pressed her down to the chair, seating himself on the low edge of the dais.

"Now you sit right here and rest your bones."

"But my mother, Mr. Haas. Before it's time for the ride home, she must rest in a quiet place."

"My car'll be here and waiting five minutes after I telephone."

"You--sure have been grand, Mr. Haas!"

"I shouldn't be grand yet to my--let's see what relation is it I am to you?"

"Honest, you're a case, Mr. Haas--always making fun!"

"My poor dead sister's son marries your daughter. That makes you my--nothing-in-law."

"Honest, Mr. Haas, if I was around you, I'd get fat laughing."

"I wish you was."

"Selene would have fits. 'Never get fat, mamma,' she says, 'if you don't want----'"

"I don't mean that."

"What?"

"I mean I wish you was around me."

She struck him then with her fan, but the color rose up into the mound of her carefully piled hair.

"I always say I can see where Lester gets his comical ways. Like his uncle, that boy keeps us all laughing."

"Gad, look at her blush! I know women your age would give fifty dollars a blush to do it that way."

She was looking away again, shoulders heaving to silent laughter, the blush still stinging.

"It's been so--so long, Mr. Haas, since I had compliments made to me--you make me feel so--silly."

"I know it, you nice, fine woman, you, and it's a darn shame!"

"Mr.--Haas!"

"I mean it. I hate to see a fine woman not get her dues. Anyways, when she's the finest woman of them all!"

"I--the woman that lives to see a day like this--her daughter the happiest girl in the world with the finest boy in the world--is getting her dues all right, Mr. Haas."

"She's a fine girl, but she ain't worth her mother's little finger nail."

"Mr.--Haas!"

"No, sir-ee!"

"I must be going now, Mr. Haas--my mother--"

"That's right. The minute a man tries to break the ice with this little lady, it's a freeze-out. Now, what did I say so bad? In business, too. Never seen the like. It's like trying to swat a fly to come down on you at the right minute. But now, with you for a nothing-in-law, I got rights."

"If--you ain't the limit, Mr. Haas!"

"Don't mind saying it, Mrs. C., and, for a bachelor, they tell me I'm not the worst judge in the world, but there's not a woman on the floor stacks up like you do."

"Well--of all things!"

"Mean it."

"My mother, Mr. Haas, she--"

"And if anybody should ask you if I've got you on my mind or not, well I've already got the letters out on that little matter of the passports you spoke to me about. If there's a way to fix that up for you, and leave it to me to find it, I--"

She sprang now, trembling, to her feet, all the red of the moment receding.

"Mr. Haas, I--I must go now. My--mother--"

He took her arm, winding her in and out among crowded-out chairs behind the dais.

"I wish it to every mother to have a daughter like you, Mrs. C."

"No! No!" she said, stumbling rather wildly through the chairs. "No! No! No!"

He forged ahead, clearing her path of them.

Beside the potted hydrangea, well back and yet within an easy view, Mrs. Horowitz, her gilt armchair well cushioned for the occasion, and her black grenadine spread decently about her, looked out upon the scene, her slightly palsied head well forward.

"Mamma, you got enough? You wouldn't have missed it, eh? A crowd of people we can be proud to entertain, not? Come; sit quiet in another room for a while, and then Mr. Haas, with his nice big car, will drive us all home again. You know Mr. Haas, dearie--Lester's uncle that had us drove so careful in his fine big car. You remember, dearie--Lester's uncle?"

Mrs. Horowitz looked up, her old face cracking to smile.

"My grandchild! My grandchild! She'm a fine one. Not? My grandchild! My grandchild!"

"You--mustn't mind, Mr. Haas. That's--the way she's done since--since she's--sick. Keeps repeating--"

"My grandchild! From a good mother and a bad father comes a good grandchild. My grandchild! She'm a good one. My--"

"Mamma, dearie, Mr. Haas is in a hurry. He's come to help me walk you into a little room to rest before we go home in Mr. Haas's big fine auto. Where you can go and rest, mamma, and read the newspapers. Come."

"My back--ach--my back!"

"Yes, yes, mamma; we'll fix it. Up! So--la!"

They raised her by the crook of each arm, gently.

"So! Please, Mr. Haas, the pillows. Shawl. There!"

Around a rear hallway, they were almost immediately into a blank, staring hotel bedroom, fresh towels on the furniture-tops only enhancing its staleness.

"Here we are. Sit her here, Mr. Haas, in this rocker."

They lowered her almost inch by inch, sliding down pillows against the chair-back.

"Now, Shila's little mamma, want to sleep?"

"I got--no rest--no rest."

"You're too excited, honey, that's all."

"No rest."

"Here--here's a brand-new hotel Bible on the table, dearie. Shall Shila read it to you?"

"Aylorff--"

"Now, now, mamma. Now, now; you mustn't! Didn't you promise Shila? Look! See, here's a wreath wrapped in your shawl for Shila's little mamma to work on. Plenty of wreaths for us to take back. Work awhile, dearie, and then we'll get Selene and Lester, and, after all the nice company goes away, we'll go home in the auto."

"I begged he should keep in his hate--his feet in the----"

"I know! The papers. That's what little mamma wants. Mr. Haas, that's what she likes better than anything--the evening papers."

"I'll go down and send 'em right up with a boy, and telephone for the car. The crowd's beginning to pour out now. Just hold your horses there, Mrs. C., and I'll have those papers up here in a jiffy."

He was already closing the door after him, letting in and shutting out a flare of music.

"See, mamma, nice Mr. Haas is getting us the papers. Nice evening papers for Shila's mamma." She leaned down into the recesses of the black grenadine, withdrawing from one of the pockets a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles, adjusting them with some difficulty to the nodding head. "Shila's--little mamma! Shila's mamma!"

"Aylorff, the littlest wreath for--Aylorff--Meine Kraentze--"

"Yes, yes."

"Mein Mann. Mein Suehn."

"Ssh-h-h, dearie!"

"Aylorff--der klenste Kranz far ihm!"

"Ssh-h-h, dearie--talk English, like Selene wants. Wait till we get on the ship--the beautiful ship to take us back. Mamma, see out the window! Look! That's the beautiful Forest Park, and this is the fine Hotel Walsingham just across--see out--Selene is going to have a flat on--"

"Sey hoben gestorben far Freiheit. Sey hoben--"

"There, that's the papers!"

To a succession of quick knocks, she flew to the door, returning with the folded evening editions under her arm.

"Now," she cried, unfolding and inserting the first of them into the quivering hands, "now, a shawl over my little mamma's knees and we're fixed!"

With a series of rapid movements, she flung open one of the black-cashmere shawls across the bed, folding it back into a triangle. Beside the table, bare except for the formal, unthumbed Bible, Mrs. Horowitz rattled out her paper, her near-sighted eyes traveling back and forth across the page.

Music from the ferned-in orchestra came in drifts, faint, not so faint. From somewhere, then immediately from everywhere, beyond, below, without, the fast shouts of newsboys mingling.

Suddenly and of her own volition, and with a cry that shot up through the room, rending it like a gash, Mrs. Horowitz, who moved by inches, sprang to her supreme height, her arms, the crooks forced out, flung up.

"My darlings--what died--for it! My darlings what died for it--my darlings--Aylorff--my husband!" There was a wail rose up off her words, like the smoke of incense curling, circling around her. "My darlings what died to make free!"

"Mamma--darling--mamma--Mr. Haas! Help! Mamma! My God!"

"Aylorff--my husband--I paid with my blood to make free--my blood--my son--my--own--" Immovable there, her arms flung up and tears so heavy that they rolled whole from her face down to the black grenadine, she was as sonorous as the tragic meter of an Alexandrian line; she was like Ruth, ancestress of heroes and progenitor of kings. "My boy--my own--they died for it! Mein Mann! Mein Suehn!"

On her knees, frantic to press her down once more into the chair, terrified at the rigid immobility of the upright figure, Mrs. Coblenz paused then, too, her clasp falling away, and leaned forward to the open sheet of the newspaper, its black headlines facing her:

RUSSIA FREE

BANS DOWN 100,000 SIBERIAN PRISONERS LIBERATED

In her ears a ringing silence, as if a great steel disk had clattered down into the depths of her consciousness. There on her knees, trembling seized her, and she hugged herself against it, leaning forward to corroborate her gaze.

MOST RIGID AUTOCRACY IN THE WORLD OVERTHROWN

RUSSIA REJOICES

"Mamma! Mamma! My God, Mamma!"

"Home, Shila; home! My husband who died for it--Aylorff! Home now, quick! My wreaths! My wreaths!"

"O my God, Mamma!"

"Home!"

"Yes--darling--yes--"

"My wreaths!"

"Yes, yes, darling; your wreaths. Let--let me think. Freedom!--O my God, help me to find a way! O my God!"

"My wreaths!"

"Here--darling--here!"

From the floor beside her, the raffia wreath half in the making, Mrs. Coblenz reached up, pressing it flat to the heaving old bosom.

"There, darling, there!"

"I paid with my blood--"

"Yes, yes, mamma; you--paid with your blood. Mamma--sit, please. Sit and--let's try to think. Take it slow, darling--it's like we can't take it in all at once. I--we--sit down, darling. You'll make yourself terrible sick. Sit down, darling, you--you're slipping."

"My wreaths--"

Heavily, the arm at the waist gently sustaining, Mrs. Horowitz sank rather softly down, her eyelids fluttering for the moment. A smile had come out on her face, and, as her head sank back against the rest, the eyes resting at the downward flutter, she gave out a long breath, not taking it in again.

"Mamma! You're fainting!" She leaned to her, shaking the relaxed figure by the elbows, her face almost touching the tallowlike one with the smile lying so deeply into it. "Mamma! My God, darling, wake up! I'll take you back. I'll find a way to take you. I'm a bad girl, darling, but I'll find a way to take you. I'll take you if--if I kill for it. I promise before God I'll take you. To-morrow--now--nobody can keep me from taking you. The wreaths, mamma! Get ready the wreaths! Mamma, darling, wake up. Get ready the wreaths! The wreaths!" Shaking at that quiet form, sobs that were full of voice, tearing raw from her throat, she fell to kissing the sunken face, enclosing it, stroking it, holding her streaming gaze closely and burningly against the closed lids. "Mamma, I swear to God I'll take you! Answer me, mamma! The bank-book--you've got it! Why don't you wake up--mamma? Help!"

Upon that scene, the quiet of the room so raucously lacerated, burst Mr. Haas, too breathless for voice.

"Mr. Haas my mother--help--my mother! It's a faint, ain't it? A faint?"

He was beside her at two bounds, feeling of the limp wrists, laying his ear to the grenadine bosom, lifting the reluctant lids, touching the flesh that yielded so to touch.

"It's a faint, ain't it, Mr. Haas? Tell her I'll take her back. Wake her up, Mr. Haas! Tell her I'm a bad girl, but I--I'm going to take her back. Now! Tell her! Tell her, Mr. Haas, I've got the bank-book. Please! Please! O my God!"

He turned to her, his face working to keep down compassion.

"We must get a doctor, little lady."

She threw out an arm.

"No! No! I see! My old mother--my old mother--all her life a nobody--she helped--she gave it to them--my mother--a poor little widow nobody--she bought with her blood that freedom--she--"

"God, I just heard it downstairs--it's the tenth wonder of the world. It's too big to take in. I was afraid--"

"Mamma darling, I tell you, wake up! I'm a bad girl, but I'll take you back. Tell her, Mr. Haas, I'll take her back. Wake up, darling! I swear to God--I'll take you!"

"Mrs. Coblenz, my--poor little lady--your mother don't need you to take her back. She's gone back where--where she wants to be. Look at her face, little lady; can't you see she's gone back?"

"No! No! Let me go. Let me touch her. No! No! Mamma darling!"

"Why, there wasn't a way, little lady, you could have fixed it for that poor--old body. She's beyond any of the poor fixings we could do for her. You never saw her face like that before. Look!"

"The wreaths--- the wreaths!"

He picked up the raffia circle, placing it back again against the quiet bosom.

"Poor little lady!" he said. "Shila--that's left for us to do. You and me, Shila--we'll take the wreaths back for her."

"My darling--my darling mother! I'll take them back for you! I'll take them back for you!"

"We'll take them back for her--Shila."

"I'll--"

"We'll take them back for her--Shila."

"We'll take them back for you, mamma. We'll take them back for you, darling!"

THE STRANGE-LOOKING MAN[15]

[Note 15: Copyright, 1917, by The Pagan Publishing Company. Copyright, 1918, by Fanny Kemble Johnson.]

BY FANNY KEMBLE JOHNSON

From The Pagan

A TINY village lay among the mountains of a country from which for four years the men had gone forth to fight. First the best men had gone, then the older men, then the youths, and lastly the school boys. It will be seen that no men could have been left in the village except the very aged, and the bodily incapacitated, who soon died, owing to the war policy of the Government which was to let the useless perish that there might be more food for the useful.

Now it chanced that while all the men went away, save those left to die of slow starvation, only a few returned, and these few were crippled and disfigured in various ways. One young man had only part of a face, and had to wear a painted tin mask, like a holiday-maker. Another had two legs but no arms, and another two arms but no legs. One man could scarcely be looked at by his own mother, having had his eyes burned out of his head until he stared like Death. One had neither arms nor legs, and was mad of his misery besides, and lay all day in a cradle like a baby. And there was a quite old man who strangled night and day from having sucked in poison-gas; and another, a mere boy, who shook, like a leaf in a high wind, from shell-shock, and screamed at a sound. And he too had lost a hand, and part of his face, though not enough to warrant the expense of a mask for him.

All these men, except he who had been crazed by horror of himself, had been furnished with ingenious appliances to enable them to be partly self-supporting, and to earn enough to pay their share of the taxes which burdened their defeated nation.

To go through that village after the war was something like going through a life-sized toy-village with all the mechanical figures wound up and clicking. Only instead of the figures being new, and gay, and pretty, they were battered and grotesque and inhuman.

There would be the windmill, and the smithy, and the public house. There would be the row of cottages, the village church, the sparkling waterfall, the parti-colored fields spread out like bright kerchiefs on the hillsides, the parading fowl, the goats and cows,--though not many of these last. There would be the women, and with them some children; very few, however, for the women had been getting reasonable, and were now refusing to have sons who might one day be sent back to them limbless and mad, to be rocked in cradles--for many years, perhaps.

Still the younger women, softer creatures of impulse, had borne a child or two. One of these, born the second year of the war, was a very blonde and bullet-headed rascal of three, with a bullying air, and of a roving disposition. But such traits appear engaging in children of sufficiently tender years, and he was a sort of village plaything, here, there, and everywhere, on the most familiar terms with the wrecks of the war which the Government of that country had made.

He tried on the tin mask and played with the baker's mechanical leg, so indulgent were they of his caprices; and it amused him excessively to rock the cradle of the man who had no limbs, and who was his father.

In and out he ran, and was humored to his bent. To one he seemed the son he had lost, to another the son he might have had, had the world gone differently. To others he served as a brief escape from the shadow of a future without hope; to others yet, the diversion of an hour. This last was especially true of the blind man who sat at the door of his old mother's cottage binding brooms. The presence of the child seemed to him like a warm ray of sunshine falling across his hand, and he would lure him to linger by letting him try on the great blue goggles which he found it best to wear in public. But no disfigurement or deformity appeared to frighten the little fellow. These had been his playthings from earliest infancy.

One morning, his mother, being busy washing clothes, had left him alone, confident that he would soon seek out some friendly fragment of soldier, and entertain himself till noon and hunger-time. But occasionally children have odd notions, and do the exact opposite of what one supposes.

On this brilliant summer morning the child fancied a solitary ramble along the bank of the mountain-stream. Vaguely he meant to seek a pool higher up, and to cast stones in it. He wandered slowly straying now and then into small valleys, or chasing wayside ducks. It was past ten before he gained the green-gleaming and foam-whitened pool, sunk in the shadow of a tall gray rock over whose flat top three pine-trees swayed in the fresh breeze. Under them, looking to the child like a white cloud in a green sky, stood a beautiful young man, poised on the sheer brink for a dive. A single instant he stood there, clad only in shadow and sunshine, the next he had dived so expertly that he scarcely splashed up the water around him. Then his dark, dripping head rose in sight, his glittering arm thrust up, and he swam vigorously to shore. He climbed the rock for another dive. These actions he repeated in pure sport and joy in life so often that his little spectator became dizzy with watching.

At length he had enough of it and stooped for his discarded garments. These he carried to a more sheltered spot and rapidly put on, the child still wide-eyed and wondering, for indeed he had much to occupy his attention.

He had two arms, two legs, a whole face with eyes, nose, mouth, chin, and ears, complete. He could see, for he had glanced about him as he dressed. He could speak, for he sang loudly. He could hear, for he had turned quickly at the whir of pigeon-wings behind him. His skin was smooth all over, and nowhere on it were the dark scarlet maps which the child found so interesting on the arms, face, and breast of the burned man. He did not strangle every little while, or shiver madly, and scream at a sound. It was truly inexplicable, and therefore terrifying.

The child was beginning to whimper, to tremble, to look wildly about for his mother, when the young man observed him.

"Hullo!" he cried eagerly, "if it isn't a child!"

He came forward across the foot-bridge with a most ingratiating smile, for this was the first time that day he had seen a child and he had been thinking it remarkable that there should be so few children in a valley, where, when he had travelled that way five years before, there had been so many he had scarcely been able to find pennies for them. So he cried "Hullo," quite joyously, and searched in his pockets.

But, to his amazement, the bullet-headed little blond boy screamed out in terror, and fled for protection into the arms of a hurriedly approaching young woman. She embraced him with evident relief, and was lavishing on him terms of scolding and endearment in the same breath, when the traveler came up, looking as if his feelings were hurt.

"I assure you, Madam," said he, "that I only meant to give your little boy these pennies." He examined himself with an air of wonder. "What on earth is there about me to frighten a child?" he queried plaintively.

The young peasant-woman smiled indulgently on them both, on the child now sobbing, his face buried in her skirt, and on the boyish, perplexed, and beautiful young man.

"It is because he finds the Herr Traveler so strange-looking," she said, curtsying. "He is quite small," she showed his smallness with a gesture, "and it is the first time he has even seen a whole man."

THE CALLER IN THE NIGHT[16]

[Note 16: Copyright, 1917, by The Stratford Journal. Copyright, 1918, by Burton Kline.]

BY BURTON KLINE

From The Stratford Journal

BY the side of a road which wanders in company of a stream across a region of Pennsylvania farmland that is called "Paradise" because of its beauty, you may still mark the ruins of a small brick cabin in the depths of a grove. In summertime ivy drapes its jagged fragments and the pile might be lost to notice but that at dusk the trembling leaves of the vine have a way of whispering to the nerves of your horse and setting them too in a tremble. And the people in the village beyond have a belief that three troubled human beings lie buried under those ruins, and that at night, or in a storm, they sometimes cry aloud in their unrest.

The village is Bustlebury, and its people have a legend that on a memorable night there was once disclosed to a former inhabitant the secret of that ivied sepulchre.

* * *

All the afternoon the two young women had chattered in the parlor, cooled by the shade of the portico, and lost to the heat of the day, to the few sounds of the village, to the passing hours themselves. Then of a sudden Mrs. Pollard was recalled to herself at the necessity of closing her front windows against a gust of wind that blew the curtains, like flapping flags, into the room.

"Sallie, we're going to get it again," she said, pausing for a glance at the horizon before she lowered the sash.

"Get what?" Her visitor walked to the other front window and stooped to peer out.

Early evening clouds were drawing a black cap over the fair face of the land.

"I think we're going to have some more of Old Screamer Moll this evening. I knew we should, after this hot--"

"There! Margie, that was the expression I've been trying to remember all afternoon. You used it this morning. Where did you get such a poetic nickname for a thunder--O-oh!"

For a second, noon had returned to the two women. From their feet two long streaks of black shadow darted back into the room, and vanished. Overhead an octopus of lightning snatched the whole heavens in its grasp, shook them, and disappeared.

The two women screamed, and threw themselves on the sofa. Yet in a minute it was clear that the world still rolled on, and each looked at the other and laughed at her fright--till the prospect of an evening of storm sobered them both.

"Mercy!" Mrs. Pollard breathed in discouragement. "We're in for another night of it. We've had this sort of thing for a week. And to-night of all nights, when I wanted you to see this wonderful country under the moon!"

Mrs. Pollard, followed by her guest, Mrs. Reeves, ventured to the window timidly again, to challenge what part of the sky they could see from under the great portico outside, and learn its portent for the night.

An evil visage it wore--a swift change from a noon-day of beaming calm. Now it was curtained completely with blue-black cloud, which sent out mutterings, and then long brooding silences more ominous still in their very concealment of the night's intentions.

There was no defence against it but to draw down the blinds and shut out this angry gloom in the glow of the lamps within. And, with a half hour of such glow to cozen them, the two women were soon merry again over their reminiscences, Mrs. Pollard at her embroidery, Mrs. Reeves at the piano, strumming something from Chopin in the intervals of their chatter.

"The girl" fetched them their tea. "Five already!" Mrs. Pollard verified the punctuality of her servant with a glance at the clock. "Then John will be away for another night. I do hope he won't try to get back this time. Night before last he left his assistant with a case, and raced his horse ten miles in the dead of the night to get home," Mrs. Pollard proudly reported, "for fear I'd be afraid in the storm."

"And married four years!" Mrs. Reeves smilingly shook her head in indulgence of such long-lived romance.

In the midst of their cakes and tea the bell announced an impatient hand at the door.

"Well, 'speak of angels!'" Mrs. Pollard quoted, and flew to greet her husband. But she opened the door upon smiling old Mr. Barber, instead, from the precincts across the village street.

Mr. Barber seemed to be embarrassed. "I--I rather thought you mought be wanting something," he said in words. By intention he was making apology for the night. "I saw the doctor drive away, but I haven't seen him come back. So I--I thought I'd just run over and see--see if there wasn't something you wanted." He laughed uneasily.

Mr. Barber's transparent diplomacy having been rewarded with tea, they all came at once to direct speech. "It ain't going to amount to much," Mr. Barber insisted. "Better come out, you ladies, and have a look around. It may rain a bit, but you'll feel easier if you come and get acquainted with things, so to say." And gathering their resolution the two women followed him out on the portico.

They shuddered at what they saw.

Night was at hand, two hours before its time. Nothing stirred, not a vocal chord of hungry, puzzled, frightened chicken or cow. The whole region seemed to have caught its breath, to be smothered under a pall of stillness, unbroken except for some occasional distant earthquake of thunder from the inverted Switzerland of cloud that hung pendant from the sky.

Mr. Barber's emotions finally ordered themselves into speech as he watched. "Ain't it grand!" he said.

The two women made no reply. They sat on the steps to the portico, their arms entwined. The scene beat their more sophisticated intelligences back into silence. Some minutes they all sat there together, and then again Mr. Barber broke the spell.

"It do look fearful, like. But you needn't be afraid. It's better to be friends with it, you might say. And then go to bed and fergit it."

They thanked him for his goodness, bade him good-by, and he clinked down the flags of the walk and started across the street.

He had got midway across when they all heard a startling sound, an unearthly cry.

It came out of the distance, and struck the stillness like a blow.

"What is it? What is it, Margie?" Mrs. Reeves whispered excitedly.

Faint and quavering at its beginning, the cry grew louder and more shrill, and then died away, as the breath that made it ebbed and was spent. It seemed as if this unusual night had found at last a voice suited to its mood. Twice the cry was given, and then all was still as before.

At its first notes the muscles in Mrs. Pollard's arm had tightened. But Mr. Barber had hastened back at once with reassurance.

"I guess Mrs. Pollard knows what that is," he called to them from the gate. "It's only our old friend Moll, that lives down there in the notch. She gets lonesome, every thunderstorm, and let's it off like that. It's only her rheumatiz, I reckon. We wouldn't feel easy ourselves without them few kind words from old Moll!"

The two women applauded as they could his effort toward humor. Then, "Come on, Sallie, quick!" Mrs. Pollard cried to her guest, and the two women bolted up the steps of the portico and flew like girls through the door, which they quickly locked between themselves and the disquieting night.

Once safe within, relief from their nerves came at the simple effort of laughter, and an hour later, when it was clear that the stars still held to their courses, the two ladies were at their ease again, beneath the lamp on the table, with speech and conversation to provide an escape from thought. The night seemed to cool its high temper as the hours wore on, and gradually the storm allowed itself to be forgotten.

Together, at bed time, the two made their tour of the house, locking the windows and doors, and visiting the pantry on the way for an apple. Outside all was truly calm and still, as, with mock and exaggerated caution, they peered through one last open window. A periodic, lazy flash from the far distance was all that the sky could muster of its earlier wrath. And they tripped upstairs and to bed, with that hilarity which always attends the feminine pursuit of repose.

* * *

But in the night they were awakened.

Not for nothing, after all, had the skies marshalled that afternoon array of their forces. Now they were as terribly vociferous as they had been terrifyingly still before. Leaves, that had drooped melancholy and motionless in the afternoon, were whipped from their branches at the snatch of the wind. The rain came down in a solid cataract. The thunder was a steady bombardment, and the frolic powers above, that had toyed and practised with soundless flashes in the afternoon, had grown wanton at their sport, and hurled their electric shots at earth in appallingly accurate marksmanship. Between the flashes from the sky, the steady glare of a burning barn here and there reddened the blackness. The village dead, under the pelted sod, must have shuddered at the din. Even the moments of lull were saturate with terrors. In them rose audible the roar of waters, the clatter of frightened animals, the rattle of gates, the shouts of voices, the click of heels on the flags of the streets, as the villagers hurried to the succor of neighbors fighting fires out on the hills. For long afterward the tempest of that night was remembered. For hours while it lasted, trees were toppled over, and houses rocked to the blast.

And for as long as it would, the rain beat in through an open window and wetted the two women where they lay in their bed, afraid to stir, even to help themselves, gripped in a paralysis of terror.

Their nerves were not the more disposed to peace, either, by another token of the storm. All through the night, since their waking, in moments of stillness sufficient for it to be heard, they had caught that cry of the late afternoon. Doggedly it asserted itself against the uproar. It insisted upon being heard. It too wished to shriek relievingly, like the inanimate night, and publish its sickness abroad. They heard it far off, at first. But it moved, and came nearer. Once the two women quaked when it came to them, shrill and clear, from a point close at hand. But they bore its invasion along with the wind and the rain, and lay shameless and numb in the rude arms of the night.

They lay so till deliverance from the hideous spell came at last, in a vigorous pounding at the front door.

"It's John!" Mrs. Pollard cried in her joy. "And through such a storm!"

She slipped from the bed, threw a damp blanket about her, and groped her way out of the room and down the stair, her guest stumbling after. They scarcely could fly fast enough down the dark steps. At the bottom Mrs. Pollard turned brighter the dimly burning entry lamp, shot back the bolt with fingers barely able to grasp it in their eagerness, and threw open the door.

"John!" she cried.

But there moved into the house the tall and thin but heavily framed figure of an old woman, who peered about in confusion.

In a flash of recognition Mrs. Pollard hurled herself against the intruder to thrust her out.

"No!" the woman said. "No, you will not, on such a night!" And the apparition herself, looking with feverish curiosity at her unwilling hostesses, slowly closed the door and leaned against it.

Mrs. Pollard and her friend turned to fly, in a mad instinct to be anywhere behind a locked door. Yet before the instinct could reach their muscles, the unbidden visitor stopped them again.

"No!" she said. "I am dying. Help me!"

The two women turned, as if hypnotically obedient to her command. Their tongues lay thick and dead in their mouths. They fell into each other's arms, and their caller stood looking them over, with the same fevered curiosity. Then she turned her deliberate scrutiny to the house itself.

In a moment she almost reassured them with a first token of being human and feminine. On the table by the stairs lay a book, and she went and picked it up. "Fine!" she mused. Then her eye travelled over the pictures on the walls. "Fine!" she said. "So this is the inside of a fine house!" But suddenly, as her peering gaze returned to the two women, she was recalled to herself. "But you wanted to put me out--on a night like this! Hear it!"

For a moment she looked at them in frank hatred. And on an impulse she revenged herself upon them by sounding, in their very ears, the shrill cry they had heard in the afternoon, and through the night, that had mystified the villagers for years from the grove. The house rang with it, and with the hard peal of laughter that finished it.

All three of them stood there, for an instant, viewing each other. But at the end of it the weakest of them was the partly sibylline, partly mountebank intruder. She swayed back against the wall. Her head rolled limply to one side, and she moaned, "O God, how tired I am to-night!"

Frightened as they still were, their runaway hearts beating a tattoo that was almost audible, the two other women made a move to support her. But she waved them back with a suddenly returning air of command. "No!" she said. "You wanted to put me out!"

The creature wore some sort of thin skirt whose color had vanished in the blue-black of its wetness. Over her head and shoulders was thrown a ragged piece of shawl. From under it dangled strands of grizzled gray hair. Her dark eyes were hidden in the shadows of her impromptu hood. The hollows of her cheeks looked deeper in its shadows.

She loosed the shawl from her head, and it dropped to the floor, disclosing a face like one of the Fates. She folded her arms, and there was a rude majesty in the massive figure and its bearing as she tried to command herself and speak.

"I come here--in this storm. Hear it! Hear that! I want shelter. I want comfort. And what do you say to me!... Well, then I take comfort from you. You thought I was your husband. You called his name. Well, I saw him this afternoon. He drove out. I called to him from the roadside. 'Let me tell your fortune! Only fifty cent!' But he whipped up his horse and drove away. You are all alike. But I see him now--in Woodman's Narrows. It rains there, same as here. Thunder and lightning, same as here. Trees fall. The wind blows. The wind blows!"

The woman had tilted her head and fixed her eyes, shining and eager, as if on some invisible scene, and she half intoned her words as if in a trance.

"I see your husband now. His wagon is smashed by a tree. The horse is dead. Your husband lies very still. He does not move. There!"--she turned to them alert again to their presence--"there is the husband that you want. If you don't believe me, all I say is, wait! He is there. You will see!"

She ended in a peal of laughter, which itself ended in a weary moan. "Oh, why can't you help me!" She came toward them, her arms outstretched. "Don't be afraid of me. I want a woman to know me--to comfort me. I die to-night. It's calling me, outside. Don't you hear?...

"Listen to me, you women!" she went on, and tried to smile, to gain their favor. "I lied to you, to get even with you. You want your husband. Well, I lied. He isn't dead. For all you tried to shut me out. Do you never pity? Do you never help? O-oh--"

Her hand traveled over her brow, and her eyes wandered.

"No one knows what I need now! I got to tell it, I got to tell it! Hear that?" There had been a louder and nearer crash outside. "That's my warning. That says I got to tell it, before it's too late. No storm like this for forty years--not since one night forty years ago. My God, that night!" Another heavy rumble interrupted her. "Yes, yes!" she turned and called. "I'll tell it! I promise!"

She came toward her audience and said pleadingly, "Listen--even if it frightens you. You've got to listen. That night, forty years ago"--she peered about her cautiously--"I think--I think I hurt two people--hurt them very bad. And ever since that night--"

The two women had once again tried to fly away, but again she halted them. "Listen! You have no right to run away. You got to comfort me! You hear? Please, please, don't go."

She smiled, and so seemed less ugly. What could her two auditors do but cling to each other and hear her through, dumb and helpless beneath her spell?

"Only wait. I'll tell you quickly. Oh, I was not always like this. Once I could talk--elegant too. I've almost forgotten now. But I never looked like this then. I was not always ugly--no teeth--gray hair. Once I was beautiful too. You laugh? But yes! Ah, I was young, and tall, and had long black hair. I was Mollie, then. Mollie Morgan. That's the first time I've said my name for years. But that's who I was. Ask Bruce--he knows."

She had fallen back against the wall again, her eyes roaming as she remembered. Here she laughed. "But Bruce is dead these many years. He was my dog." A long pause. "We played together. Among the flowers--in the pretty cottage--under the vines. Not far from here. But all gone now, all gone. Even the woods are gone--the woods where Bruce and I hunted berries. And my mother!"

Again the restless hands sought the face and covered it.

"My mother! Almost as young as I. And how she could talk! A fine lady. As fine as you. And oh, we had good times together. Nearly always. Sometimes mother got angry--in a rage. She'd strike me, and say I was an idiot like my father. The next minute she'd hug me, and cry, and beg me to forgive her. It all comes back to me. Those were the days when she'd bake a cake for supper--the days when she cried, and put on a black dress. But mostly she wore the fine dresses--all bright, and soft, and full of flowers. Oh, how she would dance about in those, sometimes. And always laughed when I stared at her. And say I was Ned's girl to my finger-tips. I never understood what she meant--then."

The shrill speaker of a moment before had softened suddenly. The creature of the woods sniffed eagerly this atmosphere of the house, and faint vestiges of a former personage returned to her, summoned along with the scene she had set herself to recall.

"But oh, how good she was to me! And read to me. And taught me to read. And careful of me? Ha! Never let me go alone to the village. Said I was too good for such a place. Some day we would go back to the world--whatever she meant by that. Said people there would clap the hands when they saw me--more than they had clapped the hands for her. Once she saw a young man walk along the road with me. Oh, how she beat my head when I came home! Nearly killed me, she was so angry. Said I mustn't waste myself on such trash. My mother--I never understood her then.

"She used to tell me stories--about New York, and Phil'delph. Many big cities. There they applaud, and clap the hands, when my mother was a queen, or a beggar girl, in the theatre, and make love and kill and fight. Have grand supper in hotel afterward. And I'd ask my mother how soon I too may be a queen. And she'd give me to learn the words they say, and I'd say them. Then she'd clap me on the head again and tell me, 'Oh, you're Ned's girl. You're a blockhead, just like your father!' And I'd say, 'Where is my father? Why does he never come?' And after that my mother would always sit quiet, and never answer when I talked.

"And then she'd be kind again, and make me proud, and tell me I'm a very fine lady, and have fine blood. And she'd talk about the day when we'd go back to the world, and she'd buy me pretty things to wear. But I thought it was fine where we were--there in the cottage, I with the flowers, and Bruce. In those days, yes," the woman sighed, and left them to silence for a space,--for silent seemed the wind and rain, on the breaking of her speech.

A rumble from without started her on again.

"Yes, yes! I'm telling! I'll hurry. Then I grow big. Seventeen. My mother call me her little giantess, her handsome darling, her conceited fool, all at the same time. I never understood my mother--then.

"But then, one day, it came!"

The woman pressed her fingers against her eyes, as if to shut out the vision her mind was preparing.

"Everything changed then. Everything was different. No more nights with stories and books. No more about New York and Phil'delph. Never again.

"I was out in the yard one day, on my knees, with the flowers. It was Springtime, and I was digging and fixing. And I heard a horse's hoofs on the road. A runaway, I thought at first. I stood up to look, and--" She faltered, and then choked out, "I stood up to look, and the man came!" And with the words came a crash that rocked the house.

"Hear that!" the woman almost shrieked. "That's him--that's the man. I hear him in every storm!...

"He came," she went, more rapidly. "A tall man--fine--dressed in fine clothes--brown hair--brown eyes! Oh, I often see those brown eyes. I know what they are like. He came riding along the bye-road. When he caught sight of my mother he almost fell from his horse. The horse nearly fell, the man pulled him in so sharp. 'Good God!' the man said. 'Fanny! Is this where you are! Curse you, old girl, is this where you are!' Funny, how I remember his words. And then he came in.

"And he talked to my mother a long time. Then he looked round and said, 'So this is where you've crawled to!' And he petted Bruce. And then he came to me, and looked into my face a long time, and said, 'So this is his girl, eh? Fanny junior, down to the last eyelash! Come here, puss!' he said. And I made a face at him. And he put his hands to his sides and laughed and laughed at me. And he turned to my mother and said, 'Fanny, Fanny, what a queen!' I thought he meant be a queen in the theatre. But he meant something else. He came to me again, and squeezed me and pressed his face against mine. And my mother ran and snatched him away. And I ran behind the house.

"And by-and-by my mother came to find me, and said, 'Oho, my little giantess! So here you are! What are you trembling for!' And she kicked me. 'Take that!' she said.

"And I didn't understand--not then. But I understand now.

"Next day the man came again, and talked to my mother. But I saw him look and look at me. And by-and-by he reached for my hand. And my mother said, 'Stop that! None of that, my little George! One at a time, if you please!' And he laughed and let me go. And they went out and sat on a bench in the yard. And the man stroked my mother's hair. And I watched and listened. They talked a long time till it was night. And I heard George say, 'Well, Fanny, old girl, we did for him, all right, didn't we?' I've always remembered it. And they laughed and they laughed. Then the man said, 'God, how it does scare me, sometimes!' And my mother laughed at him for that. And George said, 'Look what I've had to give up. And you penned up here! But never mind. It will blow over. Then we'll crawl back to the old world, eh, Fanny?'"

All this the woman had rattled off like a child with a recitation, as something learned long ago and long rehearsed against just this last contingency of confession.

"Oh, I remember it!" she said, as if her volubility needed an explanation. "It took me a long time to understand. But one day I understood.

"He came often, then--George did. And I was not afraid of him any more. He was fine, like my mother. Every time I saw him come my stomach would give a jump. And I liked to have him put his face against mine, the way I'd seen him do to mother. And every time he went away I'd watch him from the hilltop till I couldn't see him any more. And at night I couldn't sleep. And George came very often--to see me, he told me, and not my mother.

"And my mother was changed then. She never hit me again, because George said he'd kill her if she did. But she acted very strange when he told her that, and looked and looked at me. And didn't speak to me for days and days. But I didn't mind--I could talk to George. And we'd go for long walks, and he'd tell me more about New York and Phil'delph--more than my mother could tell. Oh, I loved to hear him talk. And he said such nice things to me--such nice things to me! Bruce--I forgot all about Bruce. Oh, I was happy!... But that was because I knew nothing....

"Yes, I pleased George. But by-and-by he changed too. Then I couldn't say anything that he liked. 'Stupid child!' he called me. I tried, ever so hard, to please him. But it was like walking against a wind, that you can't push aside. You women, you just guess how I felt then! You just guess! You want your husband. It was the same with me. I want George. But he wouldn't listen to me no more."

The woman seemed to sink, to shrivel, under the weight of her recollection. Finding her not a monster but a woman after all, her two hearers were moved to another slight token of sympathy. They were "guessing," as she commanded. But still, with a kind of weary magnanimity, she waved them back, away from the things she had yet to make clear.

"But one day I saw it. One day I saw something. I came home with my berries, and George was there. His breath was funny, and he talked funny, and walked funny. I'd seen people in the village that way. But--my mother was that way, too. She looked funny--had very red cheeks, and talked very fast. Very foolish. And her breath was the same as George's. And she laughed and laughed at me, and made fun of me.

"I said nothing. But I didn't sleep that night. I wondered what would happen. Many days I thought of what was happening. Then I knew. My mother was trying to get George away from me. That was what had happened.

"Another day I came back with my berries, and my mother was not there. Neither was George there. So! She had taken George away. My George. Well! I set out to look. No rest for me till I find them. I knew pretty well where they might be. I started for George's little brick house down in the hollow. That's where he had taken to living--hunting and fishing. It was late--the brick house was far away--I was very tired. But I went. And--"

She had been speaking more rapidly. Here she stopped to breathe, to swallow, to collect herself for the final plunge.

"I heard a runaway horse. 'George's horse!' I said. 'George is coming back to me, after all! George is coming back to me! She can't keep him!' And, yes, it was George's horse. But nobody on him. I was so scared I could hardly stand. Something had happened to George. Only then did I know how much I wanted him--when something had happened to him. I almost fell down in the road, but I crawled on. And presently I came to him, to George. He was walking in the road, limping and stumbling and rolling--all muddy--singing to himself. He didn't know me at first. I ran to him--to my George. And he grabbed me, and stumbled, and fell. And he grabbed my ankle. 'Come to me, li'l' one!' he said. 'Damn the old hag!' he said. 'It's the girl I want--Ned's own!' he said. 'Come here to me, Ned's own. I want you!' And he pinched me. He bit my hand. And--and I--all of a sudden I was afraid.

"And I snatched myself loose. 'George!' I screamed. 'No!' I said--I don't know why. I was very scared. I was wild. I kicked away--and ran--ran, ran--away--I don't know where--to the woods. And oh, a long time I heard George laugh at me. 'Just like the very old Ned!' I heard him shout. But I ran, till I fell down tired. And there I sat and thought.

"And all of a sudden I understood. All at once I knew many things. I knew then what my mother had said about Ned sometimes. He was my father. He was dead. Somebody had killed him, I knew--I knew it from what they said. George knew my father, then, too. What did he know? That was it! He--he was the man that killed my father. He was after my mother then--he had been after her before, and made her breathe funny, made a fool of her. That was why my beautiful mother was so strange to me sometimes. That's why there was no more New York and Phil'delph. George did that--spoiled everything. Now he was back--making a fool of her again--my mother! And wanted to make a fool of me. Oh, then I knew! That man! And I had liked him. His brown hair, his brown eyes! But oh, I understood, I understood.

"I got up from the ground. Everything reeled and fell apart. There was nothing more for me. Everything spoiled. Our pretty cottage--the stories--all gone. Spoiled. So I ran back. Maybe I could bring my mother back. Maybe I could save something. Oh, I was sick. The trees, they bent and rolled the way George walked. The wind bent them double. They held their stomachs, as if they were George, laughing at me. They seemed to holler 'Ned's girl!' at me. I was dizzy, and the wind nearly blew me over. But I had to hurry home.

"I got near. No one there. Not even George. But I had to find my beautiful little mother. All round I ran. The brambles threw me down. I fell over a stump and struck my face. I could feel the blood running down over my cheeks. It was warmer than the rain. No matter, I had to find my mother. My poor little mother.

"Bruce growled at me when I got to the house. He didn't know me. That's how I looked! But there was a light in the house. Yes, my mother was there! But George was there, too. That man! They had bundles all ready to go away. They weren't glad to see me. I got there too soon. George said, 'Damn her soul! Always that girl of Ned's! I'll show her!' And he kicked me.

"George kicked me!...

"But my mother--she didn't laugh when she saw me. She was very scared. She shook George, and said, 'George! Come away, quick! Look at her face! Look at her eyes!' she said.

"Oh, my mother, my little mother. She thought I would hurt her. Even when she'd been such a fool. I was the one that had to take care of her, then. But she wanted to go away--with that man! That made me wild.

"'You, George!' I said, 'You've got to go! You've--you've done too much to us!' I said. 'You go!' And 'Mother!' I said. 'You've got to leave him! He's done too much to us!' I said.

"She only answered, 'George, come, quick!' And she dragged George toward the door. And George laughed at me. Laughed and laughed--till he saw my eyes. He didn't laugh then. Nor my mother. My mother screamed when she saw my eyes. 'Shut up, George!' she screamed. 'She's not Ned's girl now!' And George said, 'No, by God! She's your brat now, all right! She's the devil's own!'

"And they ran for the door. I tried to get there first, to catch my little mother. My mother only screamed, as if she were wild. And they got out--out in the dark. 'Mother!' I cried. 'Mother! Come back, come back!' No answer. My mother was gone.

"Oh, that made me feel, somehow, very strong. 'I'll bring you back!' I shouted. 'You, George! I'll send you away. Wait and see!' They never answered. Maybe they never heard. The wind was blowing, like to-night.

"But I knew where I could find them. I knew where to go to find George. And I ran to my loft, for my knife. But, O my God, when I saw poor Mollie in the glass! Teeth gone. I wasn't beautiful any more. And my eyes!--they came out of the glass at me, like two big dogs jumping a fence. I ran from them. I didn't know myself. I ran out of the door, in the night. I went after that man. He had done too much. That storm--the lightning that night! Awful! But no storm kept me back. Rain--hail--but I kept on. Trees fell--but I went on. I called out. I laughed then, myself. I'll get him! I say, 'Look out for Ned's girl! Look out for Ned's girl!' I say...."

Unconsciously the woman was re-enacting every gesture, repeating every phrase and accent of her journey through the night, that excursion out of the world, from which there had been no return for her. "Look out for Ned's girl!"--the house rang with the cry. But this second journey, of the memory, ended in a moan and a faint.

"I said I would tell it! Help me!" she said.

In some fashion they worked her heavy bulk out of its crazy wrappings and into a bed. John arrived, to help them. Morning peered timidly over the eastern hills, as if fearful of beholding what the night had wrought. In its smiling calm the noise of the storm was already done away. But the storm in the troubled mind raged on.

For days it raged, in fever and delirium. Then they buried the rude minister of justice in the place where she commanded--under the pile of broken stones and bricks among the trees in the hollow. And it is said that the inquisitive villagers who had a part in the simple ceremonies stirred about till they made the discovery of two skeletons under the ruins. And to this day there are persons in Bustlebury with a belief that at night, or in a storm, they sometimes hear a long-drawn cry issuing from that lonely little hollow.

THE INTERVAL [17]

[Note 17: Copyright 1917, by The Boston Transcript Co. Copyright, 1918, by Vincent O' Sullivan.]

BY VINCENT O'SULLIVAN

From The Boston Evening Transcript

Mrs. Wilton passed through a little alley leading from one of the gates which are around Regent's Park, and came out on the wide and quiet street. She walked along slowly, peering anxiously from side to side so as not to overlook the number. She pulled her furs closer round her; after her years in India this London damp seemed very harsh. Still, it was not a fog to-day. A dense haze, gray and tinged ruddy, lay between the houses, sometimes blowing with a little wet kiss against the face. Mrs. Wilton's hair and eyelashes and her furs were powdered with tiny drops. But there was nothing in the weather to blur the sight; she could see the faces of people some distance off and read the signs on the shops.

Before the door of a dealer in antiques and second-hand furniture she paused and looked through the shabby uncleaned window at an unassorted heap of things, many of them of great value. She read the Polish name fastened on the pane in white letters.

"Yes; this is the place."

She opened the door, which met her entrance with an ill-tempered jangle. From somewhere in the black depths of the shop the dealer came forward. He had a clammy white face, with a sparse black beard, and wore a skull cap and spectacles. Mrs. Wilton spoke to him in a low voice.

A look of complicity, of cunning, perhaps of irony, passed through the dealer's cynical and sad eyes. But he bowed gravely and respectfully.

"Yes, she is here, madam. Whether she will see you or not I do not know. She is not always well; she has her moods. And then, we have to be so careful. The police--Not that they would touch a lady like you. But the poor alien has not much chance these days."

Mrs. Wilton followed him to the back of the shop, where there was a winding staircase. She knocked over a few things in her passage and stooped to pick them up, but the dealer kept muttering, "It does not matter--surely it does not matter." He lit a candle.

"You must go up these stairs. They are very dark; be careful. When you come to a door, open it and go straight in."

He stood at the foot of the stairs holding the light high above his head as she ascended.

* * *

The room was not very large, and it seemed very ordinary. There were some flimsy, uncomfortable chairs in gilt and red. Two large palms were in corners. Under a glass cover on the table was a view of Rome. The room had not a business-like look, thought Mrs. Wilton; there was no suggestion of the office or waiting-room where people came and went all day; yet you would not say that it was a private room which was lived in. There were no books or papers about; every chair was in the place it had been placed when the room was last swept; there was no fire and it was very cold.

To the right of the window was a door covered with a plush curtain. Mrs. Wilton sat down near the table and watched this door. She thought it must be through it that the soothsayer would come forth. She laid her hands listlessly one on top of the other on the table. This must be the tenth seer she had consulted since Hugh had been killed. She thought them over. No, this must be the eleventh. She had forgotten that frightening man in Paris who said he had been a priest. Yet of them all it was only he who had told her anything definite. But even he could do no more than tell the past. He told of her marriage; he even had the duration of it right--twenty-one months. He told too of their time in India--at least, he knew that her husband had been a soldier, and said he had been on service in the "colonies." On the whole, though, he had been as unsatisfactory as the others. None of them had given her the consolation she sought. She did not want to be told of the past. If Hugh was gone forever, then with him had gone all her love of living, her courage, all her better self. She wanted to be lifted out of the despair, the dazed aimless drifting from day to day, longing at night for the morning, and in the morning for the fall of night, which had been her life since his death. If somebody could assure her that it was not all over, that he was somewhere, not too far away, unchanged from what he had been here, with his crisp hair and rather slow smile and lean brown face, that he saw her sometimes, that he had not forgotten her....

"Oh, Hugh, darling!"

When she looked up again the woman was sitting there before her. Mrs. Wilton had not heard her come in. With her experience, wide enough now, of seers and fortune-tellers of all kinds, she saw at once that this woman was different from the others. She was used to the quick appraising look, the attempts, sometimes clumsy, but often cleverly disguised, to collect some fragments of information whereupon to erect a plausible vision. But this woman looked as if she took it out of herself.

Not that her appearance suggested intercourse with the spiritual world more than the others had done; it suggested that, in fact, considerably less. Some of the others were frail, yearning, evaporated creatures, and the ex-priest in Paris had something terrible and condemned in his look. He might well sup with the devil, that man, and probably did in some way or other.

But this was a little fat, weary-faced woman about fifty, who only did not look like a cook because she looked more like a sempstress. Her black dress was all covered with white threads. Mrs. Wilton looked at her with some embarrassment. It seemed more reasonable to be asking a woman like this about altering a gown than about intercourse with the dead. That seemed even absurd in such a very commonplace presence. The woman seemed timid and oppressed; she breathed heavily and kept rubbing her dingy hands, which looked moist, one over the other; she was always wetting her lips, and coughed with a little dry cough. But in her these signs of nervous exhaustion suggested overwork in a close atmosphere, bending too close over the sewing-machine. Her uninteresting hair, like a rat's pelt, was eked out with a false addition of another color. Some threads had got into her hair too.

Her harried, uneasy look caused Mrs. Wilton to ask compassionately: "Are you much worried by the police?"

"Oh, the police! Why don't they leave us alone? You never know who comes to see you. Why don't they leave me alone? I'm a good woman. I only think. What I do is no harm to any one."...

She continued in an uneven querulous voice, always rubbing her hands together nervously. She seemed to the visitor to be talking at random, just gabbling, like children do sometimes before they fall asleep.

"I wanted to explain--" hesitated Mrs. Wilton.

But the woman, with her head pressed close against the back of the chair, was staring beyond her at the wall. Her face had lost whatever little expression it had; it was blank and stupid. When she spoke it was very slowly and her voice was guttural.

"Can't you see him? It seems strange to me that you can't see him. He is so near you. He is passing his arm round your shoulders."

This was a frequent gesture of Hugh's. And indeed at that moment she felt that somebody was very near her, bending over her. She was enveloped in tenderness. Only a very thin veil, she felt, prevented her from seeing. But the woman saw. She was describing Hugh minutely, even the little things like the burn on his right hand.

"Is he happy? Oh, ask him does he love me?"

The result was so far beyond anything she had hoped for that she was stunned. She could only stammer the first thing that came into her head. "Does he love me?"

"He loves you. He won't answer, but he loves you. He wants me to make you see him; he is disappointed, I think, because I can't. But I can't unless you do it yourself."

After a while she said:

"I think you will see him again. You think of nothing else. He is very close to us now."

Then she collapsed, and fell into a heavy sleep and lay there motionless, hardly breathing. Mrs. Wilton put some notes on the table and stole out on tip-toe.

* * *

She seemed to remember that downstairs in the dark shop the dealer with the waxen face detained her to shew some old silver and jewellery and such like. But she did not come to herself, she had no precise recollection of anything, till she found herself entering a church near Portland Place. It was an unlikely act in her normal moments. Why did she go in there? She acted like one walking in her sleep.

The church was old and dim, with high black pews. There was nobody there. Mrs. Wilton sat down in one of the pews and bent forward with her face in her hands.

After a few minutes she saw that a soldier had come in noiselessly and placed himself about half-a-dozen rows ahead of her. He never turned round; but presently she was struck by something familiar in the figure. First she thought vaguely that the soldier looked like her Hugh. Then, when he put up his hand, she saw who it was.

She hurried out of the pew and ran towards him. "Oh, Hugh, Hugh, have you come back?"

He looked round with a smile. He had not been killed. It was all a mistake. He was going to speak....

Footsteps sounded hollow in the empty church. She turned and glanced down the dim aisle.

It was an old sexton or verger who approached. "I thought I heard you call," he said.

"I was speaking to my husband." But Hugh was nowhere to be seen.

"He was here a moment ago." She looked about in anguish. "He must have gone to the door."

"There's nobody here," said the old man gently. "Only you and me. Ladies are often taken funny since the war. There was one in here yesterday afternoon said she was married in this church and her husband had promised to meet her here. Perhaps you were married here?"

"No," said Mrs. Wilton, desolately. "I was married in India."

* * *

It might have been two or three days after that, when she went into a small Italian restaurant in the Bayswater district. She often went out for her meals now: she had developed an exhausting cough, and she found that it somehow became less troublesome when she was in a public place looking at strange faces. In her flat there were all the things that Hugh had used; the trunks and bags still had his name on them with the labels of places where they had been together. They were like stabs. In the restaurant, people came and went, many soldiers too among them, just glancing at her in her corner.

This day, as it chanced, she was rather late and there was nobody there. She was very tired. She nibbled at the food they brought her. She could almost have cried from tiredness and loneliness and the ache in her heart.

Then suddenly he was before her, sitting there opposite at the table. It was as it was in the days of their engagement, when they used sometimes to lunch at restaurants. He was not in uniform. He smiled at her and urged her to eat, just as he used in those days....

* * *

I met her that afternoon as she was crossing Kensington Gardens, and she told me about it.

"I have been with Hugh." She seemed most happy.

"Did he say anything?"

"N-no. Yes. I think he did, but I could not quite hear. My head was so very tired. The next time----"

* * *

I did not see her for some time after that. She found, I think, that by going to places where she had once seen him--the old church, the little restaurant--she was more certain to see him again. She never saw him at home. But in the street or the park he would often walk along beside her. Once he saved her from being run over. She said she actually felt his hand grabbing her arm, suddenly, when the car was nearly upon her.

She had given me the address of the clairvoyant; and it is through that strange woman that I know--or seem to know--what followed.

Mrs. Wilton was not exactly ill last winter, not so ill, at least, as to keep to her bedroom. But she was very thin, and her great handsome eyes always seemed to be staring at some point beyond, searching. There was a look in them that seamen's eyes sometimes have when they are drawing on a coast of which they are not very certain. She lived almost in solitude: she hardly ever saw anybody except when they sought her out. To those who were anxious about her she laughed and said she was very well.

One sunny morning she was lying awake, waiting for the maid to bring her tea. The shy London sunlight peeped through the blinds. The room had a fresh and happy look.

When she heard the door open she thought that the maid had come in. Then she saw that Hugh was standing at the foot of the bed. He was in uniform this time, and looked as he had looked the day he went away.

"Oh, Hugh, speak to me! Will you not say just one word?"

He smiled and threw back his head, just as he used to in the old days at her mother's house when he wanted to call her out of the room without attracting the attention of the others. He moved towards the door, still signing to her to follow him. He picked up her slippers on his way and held them out to her as if he wanted her to put them on. She slipped out of bed hastily....

* * *

It is strange that when they came to look through her things after her death the slippers could never be found.

"A CERTAIN RICH MAN----"[18]

[Note 18: Copyright, 1917, by Charles Scribner's Sons. Copyright, 1918, by Lawrence Perry.]

BY LAWRENCE PERRY

From Scribner's Magazine.

Evelyn Colcord glanced up the table with the appraising eye of a young hostess who had already established a reputation for her dinners. The room had been decorated with a happy effect of national colors, merged with those of the allied nations, and neither in the table nor its appointments was a flaw revealed--while the low, contented murmur of conversation and light laughter attending completion of the first course afforded assurance that the company was well chosen and the atmosphere assertive in qualities that made for equanimity and good cheer.

She smiled slightly, nodding at the butler, who had been watching her anxiously, and then glanced out the corner of her eye at Professor Simec, seated at her right. She had entertained doubts concerning him, had, in fact, resented the business necessity which had brought him thither as guest of honor, not through any emotion approximating inhospitality but wholly because of her mistrust as to the effect of this alien note upon her dinner, which was quite impromptu, having been arranged at the eleventh hour in deference to the wishes of Jerry Dane, a partner of Colcord's, who was handling the firm's foreign war patents.

She had done the best she could as to guests, had done exceedingly well, as it chanced, fortune having favored her especially in the cases of several of those who sat about the table. And now Simec was fully involved in conversation with Bessie Dane, who seemed deeply interested. As for the man, weazened and attenuate, she could catch only his profile--the bulging, hairless brow, and beard curling outward from the tip, forming sort of a crescent, which she found hardly less sinister than the cynical twist where grizzled whiskers and mustaches conjoined and the cold, level white eyes that she had noted as dominant characteristics when he was presented.

Simec was a laboratory recluse who had found his metier in the war. Rumor credited to him at least one of the deadliest chemical combinations employed by the allied armies. But it was merely rumor; nothing definite was known. These are things of which little is hinted and less said. None the less, intangible as were his practical achievements--whatever they might be--his reputation was substantial, enhanced, small doubt, by the very vagueness of his endeavors. The element of mystery, which his physical appearance tended not to allay, invested him, as it were, with a thaumaturgic veil through which was dimly revealed the man. It was as though his personality was merely a nexus to the things he stood for and had done, so that he appeared to Evelyn less a human entity than a symbol. But at least Bessie Dane was interested and the fine atmosphere of the table was without a taint.

Shrugging almost imperceptibly, she withdrew her eyes and looked across the table with an expression which Nicholas Colcord could have interpreted had he not been engrossed with Sybil Latham. Evelyn studied him with admiring tenderness as he lounged in his chair, toying idly with a fork, smiling at something his partner was saying, while her mind ran lovingly over the dominant traits of a personality which was so strong, so keenly alive, so sensitive to decent, manly things, so perfectly balanced.

Failing to catch his eye, Evelyn turned to her plate filled with a subtle melancholy. When would there be another dinner like this? Not, at all events, until the war was over. Nick had spoken about this--very definitely; there would be no more entertaining. She had agreed with him, of course, not, however, escaping the conviction that her husband's viewpoint was more or less in keeping with a certain unusual sombreness which she had caught creeping into his mood in the past year or so.

Still, everybody who amounted to anything was pulling up on the bit and doing something or talking of doing something or other for the country. It was already assured that the season would be insufferably dull--from a social standpoint at least. Evelyn could not suppress a certain resentment. She was not one of those who had found an element of thrill in the suddenly altered perspectives. Her plans for the spring season had been laid; engagements had been accepted or declined, as functions promised to be worth while or uninteresting; all the delicate interlocking machinery of the life in which Evelyn Colcord moved, somewhat prominently, was in motion--then the sudden checking of the wheels: war.

Now there were memories of her husband's sober words; now there was young Jeffery Latham at her elbow--he had been almost shot to pieces in France--now there was Simec, the genius of diabolical achievement.... What were things coming to? Even the weather had gone wrong. Outside, an unseasonable cold rain, lashed by a northeast gale, was driving against the panes of the French windows, and the sizzling effulgence of an arc-lamp revealed pools of water lying on the asphalt of the avenue....

The dry, softly modulated voice of Captain Latham at her left lifted Evelyn from her trend of sombre revery.

"Nick is looking uncommonly fit--he'll go in for the cavalry, I suppose."

The young British officer spoke more with a half-humorous effort at conversation than any other motive, but she turned to him with a gesture of appeal.

"Jeffery," she said, "you make me shiver!"

The man stared at her curiously.

"Why, I--I'm sorry. I'm sure I didn't--"

"Oh, of course," she interrupted, "I know you didn't. Don't be silly. As for me, I'm perfectly foolish, don't you know. Only"--she paused--"I detest war talk. It's so fearfully upsetting. It seems only yesterday that it was a subject to drag in when conversation lagged. But now--"

Latham's quizzical reply was almost upon his lips, when, evidently changing his mind, he spoke dryly.

"No doubt you'll become used to it in time.... By the by, I was in fun about old Nick. His objection to grouse coverts and deer-stalking--I can't fancy him in war."

As she didn't reply he picked up his fork, adding: "Yet he's a tremendous athlete--polo and all that sort of thing. Do you know, I suspect that when the real pull comes he won't object to potting at Germans.... Did you do these menu cards, Evelyn? They're awfully well done."

She nodded, eying him eagerly.

"Yes, I painted them this afternoon. You see, it was a rush order.... As to Nick, I don't think it will come to his enlisting. I've never considered it, really. He's awfully mixed up in government finances, don't you know. We all tell him he's more valuable where he is."

Latham smiled faintly.

"What does Nick say to that?"

"Oh, I don't know." She shrugged. "Nothing very definite. War has been a taboo subject with him--I mean from the first when you all went in. I know he has strong feelings about it, terribly strong. But he never talks about them."

"He went in strong on the financial end, didn't he?" asked the Englishman. "Some one in London told me he'd made a lot of oof."

She nodded, coloring.

"Yes, oceans of money.... Not that we needed it," Evelyn added, a trifle defensively.

"I know; it just came," was Latham's comment. "Well, it all helped us out of a nasty mess."

Evelyn was thinking and did not reply immediately. When she did speak it was apparent that in changing the subject she had followed a natural impulse without intention or design.

"Jeffery," she said, "do you know I haven't been able to make you out since you arrived here--nor Sybil either," she added, nodding toward Latham's wife, whose classic, flaxen-haired profile was turned toward them.

The man was smiling curiously.

"I didn't realize we had changed so."

"Well, you have, both of you. You talk the same and act the same--except a--a sort of reserve; something; I don't know just what.... Somehow, you, and Sybil, too, seem as though you felt strange, aloof, out of place. You used to be so absolutely--well, natural and at home with us all--"

"My word!" Latham laughed but made no further comment.

"Of course," Evelyn went on, "you've been through a lot, I can appreciate that. When I got Sybil's letter I simply wept: twenty-four hours in a muddy shell-hole; invalided for good, with an arm you can't raise above your shoulder; a horrid scar down your face...."

"It does make rather a poor face to look at, doesn't it?" Latham flushed and hurried on. "Well, I've no complaint."

She glanced at the cross on his olive-drab coat.

"Of course not! How absurd, Jeffery! But how did Sybil ever stand it? How did she live through it? I mean the parting, the months of suspense, word that you were missing, then mortally wounded?... Her brother killed by gas?"

Latham glanced at his wife, a soft light in his eyes.

"Poor Sybil," he replied. "She was a brick, Evelyn--a perfect brick. I don't know how she got through it. But one does, you know."

"Yes, one does, I suppose." Evelyn sighed. "But how? I couldn't; I simply couldn't. Why, Jeffery, I can't bear even to think of it."

Latham shook his head negatively at the footman, who stood at his side, and then turned smiling to Evelyn. "Oh, come! Of course you could. You don't understand now, but you will. There's a sort of grace given, I fancy."

"Jeffery, I don't want to understand, and I don't want any grace, and I think you're horrid and unsympathetic." She tapped him admonishingly on the arm, laughing lightly. But the gloom was still in her dark-gray eyes. "But, after all, you are right. We are in for it, just as you have been.... God grant there are women more Spartan than I."

Latham grimaced and was raising a deprecating hand when she caught it impulsively.

"Please let's talk about something else."

"Very well." He smiled mockingly and lowered his voice. "Your friend at your right there--curious beggar, don't you think?"

Evelyn glanced at Simec, turning again to Latham.

"He gives me the creeps," she confessed. "It seems absurd, but he does."

"Really!" The Englishman stared at the man a moment. "Do you know," he resumed, "he does seem a bit uncanny. Where'd Nick pick him up?"

"It was Jerry Dane," she replied. "He's done some tremendous things on the other side. Jerry met him in Washington the other day and seems to regard him as a find. He has no business sense and has given away practically everything. Now we are going to capitalize him; I believe that's the word. I never saw him before tonight"--her voice sank to a whisper--"and, do you know, I hope I never shall again." She shrugged. "Listen to him."

Several of the guests were already doing that. His toneless voice rose and fell monotonously, and he appeared so detached from what he was saying that as Evelyn gazed at him she seemed to find difficulty in relating words that were said to the speaker; only the slight movement of the lips and an occasional formless gesture made the association definite.

"Doctor Allison," he was saying, "has missed the distinction between hostia honoraria and hostia piacularis. In the former case the deity accepts the gift of a life; in the latter he demands it."

"What in the world are you all talking about now?" asked Evelyn plaintively. "Not war--?"

"Sacrifice, Mrs. Colcord." Simec inclined his head slightly in her direction.

"I was saying," explained Doctor Allison, "that we do well if we send our young men to battle in the spirit of privileged sacrifice, as--as something that is our--our--yes--our proud privilege, as I say, to do."

Simec shook his head in thoughtful negation.

"That is sentiment, excellent sentiment; unfortunately, it doesn't stand assay. Reaction comes. We do better if we make our gift of blood as a matter of unalterable necessity. We make too much of it all, in any event. The vast evil of extended peace is the attachment of too great value to luxuries and to human life--trite, but true. We know, of course, that the world has progressed chiefly over the dead bodies of men and, yes, women and children."

Some new element had entered into the voice. Whether it was herself or whether it was Simec, Evelyn was in no mood to determine.... She was aware only of a certain metallic cadence which beat cruelly upon her nerves. Silence had followed, but not of the same sort as before. As though seeking complete withdrawal, Evelyn turned her eyes out of the window. A wayfarer, head down, was struggling through the nimbus of watery electric light; a horse-drawn vehicle was plodding by. Colcord's voice brought her back; it was strained.

"I don't feel as Allison does," he said. "And I certainly have no sympathy with Simec." He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "You see," he went on, "I--I--well, maybe, I'm a product of extended peace, as Simec puts it. No doubt I'm soft. But this war--I've never talked nor let myself think much about the war--but this whole thing of sacrifice got under me from the very first.... Young men, thousands, hundreds of thousands of them, yes, millions, torn from their homes, from their mothers, their fathers--their wives, for what? To be blown into shapeless, unrecognizable clay, to be maimed, made useless for life. My God! It has kept me awake nights!"

"Colcord"--Simec's white eyes rested professionally upon the host--"let us get to the root of your state of mind; your brief is for the individual as against the common good, is it not?"

Colcord frowned.

"Oh, I haven't any brief, Simec; I've never reasoned about the thing, that is, in a cold, scientific way. It's a matter of heart, I suppose--of instinct. I just can't seem to stand the calculating, sordid wastage of young life and all that it involves. Now, of course, it has come closer home. And it's terrible."

"You never would shoot anything for sport, would you, old fellow?" said Latham, sympathetically, "not even pheasants."

Colcord tossed his beautifully modelled head.

"Latham, I tell you, I'm soft; I'm the ultimate product of peace and civilization."

"Yes, you're soft, terribly so," smiled Dane. "I ought to know; I played opposite you at tackle for two years."

"Stuff! You understand what I mean, Jerry; I guess you all do. I've never talked this way before; as I say, I've always kept the war in the background, tried to gloss it over, forget it. But I couldn't; I've done a heap of thinking." He sat bolt upright, his clinched fist upon the table. "All these young chaps herded together and suddenly turned loose from all they've known and done and thought--I tell you I can't duck it any more."

"I know, old chap." Arnold Bates, who wrote light society novels, spoke soothingly. "It is--rotten. But what are you going to do about it?"

Colcord's fine brow was wrinkled painfully.

"Nothing, Arnold, nothing. That's the trouble; you have to sit still and watch this wrecking of civilization or else get out and take a hack at the thing yourself. I can't do that; not unless I have to." He paused. "I've had a good time in this life; things have always come easily--"

Sybil Latham was regarding him contemplatively.

"Yes," she murmured, "I don't know a man who has impressed me as so thoroughly enjoying life as you, Nick--"

Colcord stared at her a moment.

"Well, I do," he replied at length. "But I want to say this right here: if some person or presence, some supernatural being, say, should come here to-night, at this table, and tell me that by giving up my life right now I would, through that act, bring an end to--"

"Nick!" Evelyn Colcord's voice was poignantly sharp.

"If through that little sacrifice the blood glut in Europe would end, I'd do it cheerfully, joyfully, in a minute."

Simec was gazing at the speaker with half-closed eyes; the others, in thrall of his words, were staring at the table or at one another.

"What a thought!" Mrs. Allison glanced at him curiously. "Coming from you, of all men, Nick!"

"I wonder if I could say that?" Jerry Dane sank down in his chair, put his hands in his pockets, and gazed sombrely up at the ceiling. "By George! I wish I could--but I can't."

Bates shifted uneasily. He shrugged.

"It's too hypothetical. And yet--of course it's absurd--yet if the thing could happen, I think I'd stick with Colcord."

"In other words"--Simec's voice now had a sibilant hiss--"if you could end war through your death you'd be willing to die--now, or at any specified time?"

"If you're talking to me," said Colcord, "I'm on record. Those who know me well know I don't have to say a thing twice."

"I was talking to Mr. Bates," replied the inventor. "He seemed doubtful."

"Well, I'm not now," retorted the writer sharply. "I'm with Nick absolutely."

Doctor Allison was shaking his head.

"Theoretically, I would make the same assertion," he confessed, "but I wish to be honest; I don't know whether I could do it or not."

"Neither do I," said Dane. "A certainty like that and taking a chance on the battlefield are two different things. What do you say, Latham; you've been through the mill?"

"Well, you know," shrugged the soldier, "I fancy I'm a bit hardened. I'd like to see the thing through now. We've gone so far, don't you know."

There was a momentary silence broken only by the soft movements of the butler and footman. One of the windows rattled in a gust of wind and rain. Under the flickering candle-lights the company seemed to draw to-gether in a fellowship that was not the bond of gustatory cheer--which Evelyn could so infallibly establish at her table--but a communion of sympathetic feeling as of one drawing to another in the common thrall of subdued emotion. The prevailing mood impressed Evelyn Colcord strongly, and, glancing down the table, she started at her accuracy in divining the cause. Simec's place was vacant. She recalled now that but a moment before he had been summoned to the telephone. She had noted his temporary departure only as one notices the lifting of a saffron mist.

Unquestionably, the absorbing topic had gripped the imagination of all. It was sufficiently theoretical, so absolutely hypothetical, in fact, so utterly impossible, that Evelyn's alert intellect found pleasure in grappling with it.

"I wonder--!" Her elbows were on the table, her chin upon her hands. "Of course, it's awfully easy to say; but I wonder how it would be if we really faced such a question. Just consider, Arnold,"--she was smiling at Bates--"the superhuman firing squad is outside the door; the superhuman agent stands at your side ready to push the button and end the war as the shots ring out. You picture it, of course, with your imagination. Well, sir, what do you say?"

Bates grimaced, twisting the stem of his wine-glass in his fingers.

"Well, one can say only what he thinks he would do. It's so absurd that I can't visualize your picture--not even with my imagination. But it seems to me--it seems that I would gladly make the sacrifice."

Doctor Allison, who had been scowling at the ceiling, passing his fingers thoughtfully through his sparse gray hair, sighed deeply.

"That's just it; how could one possibly tell? The mind adapts itself to situations, I suppose; in fact, of course it does. It's altogether difficult, sitting at this table with its food and color and light and excellent company, to place yourself in the position Nicholas has devised. It's simply flying from the very comfortable and congenial and normal present into a dark limbo that is deucedly uncomfortable, uncongenial, and abnormal. I can't go beyond what I've already said; I don't know whether I'd do it or not."

"You'd like to, of course," suggested Mrs. Dane.

"Oh, of course I'd like to," was the reply. "The point I make is whether I could or not; I don't know."

"Well"--the young woman paused--"I'm not going to put the question to my husband because I wouldn't let Jerry do it, even if he were willing."

"Oh, come now, Bess!" grinned Dane.

"Well, I wouldn't, and I imagine I'd have some rights in the matter."

"Now we're getting back to Simec's hostia honoraria and hostia piacularis," laughed Bates.

"It is a new viewpoint," sighed Evelyn. "Curiously, I hadn't thought of that."

She smiled across the table at her husband, but he was slouched in his chair, his eyes staring vacantly over her head.

"Of course you'd all do it, every one," he said presently. "The trouble now is that you are attempting to visualize the tragic part of it and not considering the humanitarian side--the great good that would come of the sacrifice. When you look at it that way you would be willing to do it--and think it a mighty darn cheap exchange."

"Well, perhaps so," grumbled Allison. "But I can't help thinking I'm glad I don't have to face the alternative."

Evelyn turned swiftly toward Sybil Latham, under the impression that she had made some little exclamation or that she had checked one. But her face was hard and inscrutable.

"Let's change the subject." Evelyn laughed self-consciously. "It's so far-fetched; it's getting a bit on my nerves."

Even as she spoke she knew that Simec had resumed his seat, although he had made no sound and her eyes were upon her husband. She was thus not surprised to hear his voice.

"I gather, then," he said, as though picking up a conversational thread, "that there are two of you who would be willing to make the gift of sacrifice--Colcord and Bates."

His manner was such as to draw them all from their mood of idle, comfortable speculation to rigidity. Turning to him, searching him, they saw, as it seemed to them, a new being divested of vagueness--dominant, commanding, remorseless. Sitting rigid, his thin, hairy neck stretched outward, he suggested some sinister bird of prey. Thus poised for an instant he regarded the two men whom he had named.

"Suppose," he proceeded, "that I could make this absurd condition--as Bates terms it--exist. Would you gentlemen still hold your position? Believe me, I ask this in the utmost good faith--"

Evelyn Colcord spoke before either man could make reply.

"Nick, this is getting a bit unpleasant, really." She laughed nervously. "Don't you think we could turn to something more cheerful? I adore a joke--"

"But this is not a joke, Mrs. Colcord," rejoined Simec gravely.

"Well, in any event--" began Evelyn, but her husband interrupted.

"I told you I was on record, Simec," he said. "You show me a way to end this carnival of murder--and I'm your man."

"I, too." Bates chuckled. "Perhaps, after all, we've been dining closer to the supernatural than we realized. Well, I'm game. Life, after all, is only a few more summers and a few more winters, even if we live it out. Go to it, Simec." There was sort of a reckless ring in the writer's voice which was taken as a sign that he was seriously impressed. But Bates would be; he had imagination and was temperamental.

"I wish you all would stop." Bessie Dane's voice was childishly plaintive.

"Nick, please!" cried Evelyn. "This is not at all funny."

"I don't see the joke, I must confess," grumbled Allison.

Evelyn wished that Latham or his wife would add weight to the protest, but they remained silent, staring curiously at the inventor, as, indeed, they had throughout. Now she thought of it, she realized that the two had remained practically aloof from the discussion that had preceded Simec's denouement.

"I'm afraid, Simec," said Colcord crisply, "that we're getting a bit unpopular. We'd better drop the subject. It was rather a cheap play, I'll admit, stacking myself up as a martyr in a wholly impossible situation. You called me--and Bates there--rather cleverly.... The drinks are on us.... At the same time I meant what I said, even if it was far-fetched; I mean I was sincere."

Simec threw out his arm in a long, bony gesture.

"I am perfectly convinced of that. That is why I am going to ask you to make your offer good."

Had it come from any one else there would have been derisive laughter. But Simec, a man to whom had been credited so much of mystery and achievement, was speaking. In the soft crimson glow of the table he stood, reducing to practical application the very situation which they had found so attractive, only because of its utter grotesque impossibility. It was startling, grimly thrilling. There was the sense among some about the table of struggling mentally to break the spell which this coldly unemotional creature of science had cast. At length Dane spoke as though by sheer physical effort.

"Simec--we--we all know you're a genius. But just now you don't quite get over."

The inventor turned his head slowly toward the speaker.

"I don't think I quite understand."

"Rats," said Dane roughly. "Here Nick says he'd give up his life if the war could be stopped and you bob up and tell him to make good, throwing sort of a Faust effect over the whole dinner. All right for Nick and Arnold Bates--but how about you, Simec? How will you stop the war if they shuffle off? I'll bite once on anything; how will you do it?" There was a general movement of the diners. Dane's wife laughed a trifle hysterically.

Simec arose and stood leaning forward, his hands upon the table.

"The situation which Colcord devised, as it happens, is not so impossible as you think. In fact, it may prove to be quite feasible--" He paused, but no voice rose to break the silence. The candle-lights were flickering softly in an entering breath of wind. Evelyn looked appealingly at her husband, who grimaced and shrugged slightly.

"I imagine I have some sort of a reputation in the way of physical formula as applied to war," Simec went on presently. "Dane is about to handle a rather extraordinary gun of mine in the foreign market. But one gun differs from another only inasmuch as it is somewhat more deadly--its destructiveness is not total." He raised a thin forefinger and levelled it along the table.

"Let us assume," he said, "that there has been devised and perfected an apparatus which will release a destructive energy through the medium of ether waves. If you understand anything about the wireless telegraph you will grasp what I mean; in itself the wireless, of course, involves transmitted power. Let us transform and amplify that power and we encompass--destruction. The air is filled with energy. A sun-ray is energy; you will recall that Archimedes concentrated it through immense burning-glasses which set fire to Roman ships."

His voice had grown clear and strong, as though he was lecturing to a class of students.

"Now, then, assume an instrument such as I have roughly described be placed in the hands of our allied nations, an instrument which releases and propels against the enemy energy so incomprehensibly enormous that it destroys matter instantaneously, whether organic or inorganic; assume that in a few hours it could lay the greatest host the world ever saw in death, whether they were concealed in the earth or were in the air, or wherever they were; assume it could level a great city. Assuming all this, can you conceive that the nations holding this mighty force in their hands could bring about peace which would not only be instant but would be permanent?"

There was silence for a moment. The footman, obeying a significant glance from the butler, withdrew; the butler himself went softly out of the room. Latham looked up with the expression of a man emerging from a trance.

"I don't fancy any one could doubt that," he said.

"No, indeed. Certainly not." Allison gestured in playful salute. "Let me congratulate you upon a fine flight of imagination, Professor Simec."

"Thank you--but it isn't imagination, Doctor Allison." The man's voice had again become flat and unemotional, with the effect of withdrawal of personality. "I have reason to think I have perfected some such device.... At least I believe I now possess the means of destroying human life on a wholesale scale. There is yet more to do before we may successfully assail inorganic matter. The waves penetrate but do not as yet destroy, so that while we should easily bring dissolution to human beings we cannot yet disintegrate the walls behind which they lurk. That, however, is a detail--"

"Just like that, eh?" No one smiled at Jerry Dane's comment. Bates leaned forward.

"Where do Colcord and I come in?"

Simec, who had resumed his seat, turned to him.

"Of course--I beg your pardon. I should have explained at the outset that the discovery has never had adequate practical test. One of my assistants lost his life a month or so ago, to be sure; an extremely promising man. The incident was of value in demonstrating practically a theoretical deadliness; unfortunately, it proved also that the power energized ether waves in all directions, whereas obviously it should be within the power of the operator to send it only in a given direction."

"Otherwise," remarked Latham, "it would be as fatal to the side using it as to the army against whom it was directed."

"Precisely." Simec lifted his wine-glass and sipped slowly. "For a time," he went on, "this drawback seemed insuperable, just as it has been in wireless telegraphy. Within the past week, however, I am convinced that a solution of that difficulty has been reached. In theory and in tests on a minor scale it certainly has. My assistants, however, refuse to serve in the demonstrations at full power--which, of course, are vitally necessary--even though I engage to share a part, but not, of course, the major part, of the risk. I have been equally unfortunate in enlisting others, to whom, naturally, I was in duty bound to designate possible--in fact, extremely probable--dangers."

"In more precise words," snapped Bates, "if your invention is what you think it is your assistants are bound to die."

Simec hesitated a moment, his gleaming brow wrinkled thoughtfully.

"Well, not precisely," he said at length. "That is, not necessarily. There is, of course, as I have said, that possi--that probability. I cannot be certain. Assuming the more serious outcome materializes, there will be no further danger for those who operate; I shall have learned all that it is necessary to know." He paused. "Then war will cease; either before or immediately after the initial field application."

"But this is absurd." Allison smote the table in agitation. "Why don't you secure condemned convicts?"

"Even were that possible, I should not care to proceed in that way. Again, I must have one or more men of keen intelligence."

"But neither Colcord nor Bates is a scientist!"

"That is not at all necessary," was the composed reply. "I am the scientist."

"And Nick the victim," flashed Evelyn Colcord. "Well, I most decidedly and unalterably object, Professor Simec."

"Your husband and Mr. Bates, inspired by humanitarian motives, named a condition under which they would give--not risk--their lives. I meet their condition, at least so far as it lies within human agency to do.... Of course they can withdraw their offer--"

Bates, who had left his seat and was walking up and down the room, turned suddenly, standing over the scientist with upraised hand.

"Simec, I withdraw right here. I'm no fool. The whole spirit of this--this situation is not in keeping with the original idea. Not at all. Whether you are joking, serious, or simply insane, I'm out. Try it on yourself."

"I have already assumed great risks. In furtherance of my device--which, as you may imagine, will have far-reaching effects--I must survive, if I can."

Evelyn, who had suppressed an exclamation of approval of Arnold Bates's stanch words, turned to her husband. His jaws were bulging at the corners, his eyes alight. In a species of panic she tried to speak but could not.

"And you, Colcord?" Simec's colorless delivered question came as from afar.

Colcord had arisen and was staring at the inventor with the face of one exalted.

"If you have what you say you have, Simec, you meet my condition to the letter. At the very least, it will be a most important asset to the cause of my country. In either case the least I can give to help it along is my life--if that proves necessary.... When do you want me?"

In the silence that followed Evelyn Colcord, sitting like a statue, unable to move nor to speak, passed through a limbo of nameless emotion. Through her mind swept a flashing filament of despair, hope, craven fear, and sturdy resolution. Tortured in the human alembic, she was at length resolved, seeing with a vision that pierced all her horizons. And then, trembling, tense, there came--a thought? A vision? She knew not what it was, nor was she conscious of attempting to ascertain. She knew only that for a fleeting instant the veil had been lifted and that she had gazed upon serenity and that all was well. Further, she had no inclination to know. Not that she feared complete revelation; for that matter, some subconscious conviction that all would be well illumined her senses. This she spurned, or rather ignored, in a greater if nameless exaltation. Stern with the real fibre of her womanhood, she lifted her head in pride.

Then, moved by initiative not her own, her face turned, not to her husband, but to her guests, each in turn. Arnold Bates was crushing a napkin in his sensitive fingers, flushed, angry, rebellious, perhaps a trifle discomfited. Dane was smiling foolishly; Bessie was leaning forward on the table, dead white, inert. Doctor Allison's head was shaking; he was clicking his tongue and his wife was twisting her stout fingers one around another. So her gaze wandered, and then, as though emerging from a dream, revivified, calm, she studied each intently. She knew not why, but something akin to contempt crept into her mind.

It was as though seeking relief that her eyes rested upon Sybil Latham. The Englishwoman's face was turned to Colcord; her color was heightened only slightly, but in her blue eyes was the light of serene stars, and about her lips those new lines of self-sacrifice, anxiety, sorrow, which Evelyn had resented as marring the woman's delicate beauty, now imparted to her face vast strength, ineffable dignity, nobility.

Evelyn Colcord's throat clicked; for a moment she did not breathe, while a vivid flash of jealous emotion departed, leaving in its place a great peace, an exaltation born of sudden knowing. Instinctively seeking further confirmation, her eyes, now wide and big and flaming, swept to Latham. His face, too, was turned toward her husband. It was the grimly triumphant visage of the fighter who knows his own kind, of the friend and believer whose faith, suddenly justified, has made him proud.

Evelyn rose and stood erect, staring into vacancy. Here were two who knew, who understood--who had been through hell and found it worth while.

Voices, expostulatory voices, roused her. Allison was at her side and Dane, whose wife, weeping, was pulling at her bare arm. Colcord and Simec stood to one side, aloof, as though already detached from the world.

"Evelyn!" Allison's voice was peremptory. "I command you! You're the only one who has the right to check this damn foolishness. I command you to speak."

"Evelyn--" Dane's voice trailed into nothingness.

Again her eyes turned to Sybil Latham, and then, rigidly as an automaton, she walked swiftly to her husband's side. For a moment the two stood facing each other, eye riveted to eye. Her beautiful bare arms flew out swiftly, resting upon his shoulders, not encircling his neck.

"Nick--" Her voice was low, guttural. "I--I didn't help you much, did I, dear heart? I didn't understand. They've been saying it would all come home to us. But I didn't think so quickly--nor to us. I--I wasn't ready. I am now. I want to help; I--I--" Her fingers clutched his shoulders convulsively. "When--when do you go?"

Colcord stood a moment, his eyes smouldering upon her.

"To-morrow morning at seven," he replied. "That was the hour, Professor Simec?" he added with a side-wise inclination of his head.

"Yes." The scientist looked away, hesitated, and then joined in the little procession to the dimly lighted hall. Evelyn started as she felt her fingers locked together in a firm hand.

"You know, dear girl, don't you?" There was a mist in Latham's eyes.

But Evelyn's face was light.

"Yes, Jeffery," she said proudly, "I know now."

THE PATH OF GLORY[19]

[Note 19: Copyright 1917, by The Curtis Publishing Company. Copyright 1918, by Mary Brecht Pulver.]

BY MARY BRECHT PULVER

From The Saturday Evening Post.

It was so poor a place--a bitten-off morsel "at the beyond end of nowhere"--that when a February gale came driving down out of a steel sky and shut up the little lane road and covered the house with snow a passer-by might have mistaken it all, peeping through its icy fleece, for just a huddle of the brown bowlders so common to the country thereabouts.

And even when there was no snow it was as bad--worse, almost, Luke thought. When everything else went brave and young with new greenery; when the alders were laced with the yellow haze of leaf bud, and the brooks got out of prison again, and arbutus and violet and buttercup went through their rotation of bloom up in the rock pastures and maple bush--the farm buildings seemed only the bleaker and barer.

That forlorn unpainted little house, with its sagging blinds! It squatted there through the year like a one-eyed beggar without a friend--lost in its venerable white-beard winters, or contemplating an untidy welter of rusty farm machinery through the summers.

When Luke brought his one scraggy little cow up the lane he always turned away his head. The place made him think of the old man who let the birds build nests in his whiskers. He preferred, instead, to look at the glories of Bald Mountain or one of the other hills. There was nothing wrong with the back drop in the home stage-set; it was only home itself that hurt one's feelings.

There was no cheer inside, either. The sagging old floors, though scrubbed and spotless, were uncarpeted; the furniture meager. A pine table, a few old chairs, a shabby scratched settle covered by a thin horse blanket as innocent of nap as a Mexican hairless--these for essentials; and for embellishment a shadeless glass lamp on the table, about six-candle power, where you might make shift to read the Biweekly--times when there was enough money to have a Biweekly--if you were so minded; and window shelves full of corn and tomato cans, still wearing their horticultural labels, where scrawny one-legged geraniums and yellowing coleus and begonia contrived an existence of sorts.

And then, of course, the mantelpiece with the black-edged funeral notice and shiny coffin plate, relics of Grampaw Peel's taking-off; and the pink mug with the purple pansy and "Woodstock, N.Y.," on it; the photograph of a forgotten cousin in Iowa, with long antennae-shaped mustaches; the Bible with the little china knobs on the corners; and the pile of medicine testimonials and seed catalogues--all these contributed something.

If it was not a beautiful place within, it was, also, not even a pleasant place spiritually. What with the open door into his father's room, whence you could hear the thin frettings made by the man who had lain these ten years with chronic rheumatism, and the untuneful whistlings of whittling Tom, the big brother, the shapely supple giant whose mind had never grown since the fall from the barn room when he was eight years old, and the acrid complaints of the tall gaunt mother, stepping about getting their inadequate supper, in her gray wrapper, with the ugly little blue shawl pinned round her shoulders, it was as bad a place as you might find in a year's journeying for anyone to keep bright and "chirk up" in.

Not that anyone in particular expected "them poor Hayneses" to keep bright or "chirk up." As far back as he could remember, Luke had realized that the hand of God was laid on his family. Dragging his bad leg up the hill pastures after the cow, day in and day out, he had evolved a sort of patient philosophy about it. It was just inevitable, like a lot of things known in that rock-ribbed and fatalistic region--as immutably decreed by heaven as foreordination and the damnation of unbaptized babes. The Hayneses had just "got it hard."

Yet there were times, now he was come to a gangling fourteen, when Luke's philosophy threatened to fail him. It wasn't fair--so it wasn't! They weren't bad folks; they'd done nothing wicked. His mother worked like a dog--"no fair for her," any way you looked at it. There were times when the boy drank in bitterly every detail of the miserable place he called home and knew the depths of an utter despair.

If there was only some way to better it all! But there was no chance. His father had been a failure at everything he touched in early life, and now he was a hopeless invalid. Tom was an idiot--or almost--and himself a cripple. And Nat! Well, Nat "wa'n't willin'"--not that one should blame him. Times like these, a lump like a roc's egg would rise in the boy's throat. He had to spit--and spit hard--to conquer it.

"If we hain't the gosh-awfulest lot!" he would gulp.

To-day, as he came up the lane, June was in the land. She'd done her best to be kind to the farm. All the old heterogeneous rosebushes in the wood-yard and front "lawn" were pied with fragrant bloom. Usually Luke would have lingered to sniff it all, but he saw only one thing now with a sudden skipping at his heart--an automobile standing beside the front porch.

It was not the type of car to cause cardiac disturbance in a connoisseur. It was, in fact, of an early vintage, high-set, chunky, brassily aesthetic, and given to asthmatic choking on occasion; but Luke did not know this. He knew only that it spelled luxury beyond all dreams. It belonged, in short, to his Uncle Clem Cheesman, the rich butcher who lived in the village twelve miles away; and its presence here signaled the fact that Uncle Clem and Aunt Mollie had come to pay one of their detestable quarterly visits to their poor relations. They had come while he was out, and Maw was in there now, bearing it all alone.

Luke limped into the house hastily. He was not mistaken. There was a company air in the room, a stiff hostile-polite taint in the atmosphere. Three visitors sat in the kitchen, and a large hamper, its contents partly disgorged, stood on the table. Luke knew that it contained gifts--the hateful, merciful, nauseating charity of the better-off.

Aunt Mollie was speaking as he entered--a large, high-colored, pouter-pigeon-chested woman, with a great many rings with bright stones, and a nodding pink plume in her hat. She was holding up a bifurcated crimson garment, and greeted Luke absently.

"Three pair o' them underdrawers, Delia--an' not a break in one of 'em! I sez, as soon as I see Clem layin' 'em aside this spring, 'Them things'll be jest right fur Delia's Jere, layin' there with the rheumatiz.' They may come a little loose; but, of course, you can't be choicey. I've b'en at Clem fur five years to buy him union suits; but he's always b'en so stuck on red flannen. But now he's got two aut'mobiles, countin' the new delivery, I guess he's gotta be more tony; so he made out to spare 'em. And now that hat, Delia--it ain't a mite wore out, an' fur all you'll need one it's plenty good enough. I only had it two years and I guess folks won't remember; an' what if they do--they all know you get my things. Same way with that collarette. It's a little moth-eaten, but it won't matter fur you.... The gray suit you can easy cut down fur Luke, there--"

She droned on, the other woman making dry automatic sounds of assent. She looked cool--Maw--Luke thought; but she wasn't. Not by a darn sight! There was a spot of pink in each cheek and she stared hard every little bit at Grampaw Peel's funeral plate on the mantel. Luke knew what she was thinking of--poor Maw! She was burning in a fire of her own lighting. She had brought it all on herself--on the whole of them.

Years ago she had been just like Aunt Mollie. The daughters of a prosperous village carpenter, they had shared beads, beaux and bangles until Maw, in a moment's madness, had chucked it all away to marry poor Paw. Now she had made her bed, she must lie in it. Must sit and say "Thank you!" for Aunt Mollie's leavings, precious scraps she dared not refuse--Maw, who had a pride as fierce and keen as any! It was devilish! Oh, it was kind of Aunt Mollie to give; it was the taking that came so bitter hard. And then they weren't genteel about their giving. There was always that air of superiority, that conscious patronage, as now, when Uncle Clem, breaking off his conversation with the invalid in the next room about the price of mutton on the hoof and the chances of the Democrats' getting in again, stopped fiddling with his thick plated watch chain and grinned across at big Tom to fling his undeviating flower of wit:

"Runnin' all to beef, hain't ye, Tom, boy? Come on down to the market an' we'll git some A-1 sirloins outen ye, anyway. Do your folks that much good."

It was things like this that made Luke want to burn, poison, or shoot Uncle Clem. He was not a bad man, Uncle Clem--a thick sandy chunk of a fellow, given to bright neckties and a jocosity that took no account of feelings. Shaped a little like a log, he was--back of his head and back of his neck--all of a width. Little lively green eyes and bristling red mustaches. A complexion a society bud might have envied. Why was it a butcher got so pink and white and sleek? Pork, that's what Uncle Clem resembled, Luke thought--a nice, smooth, pale-fleshed pig, ready to be skinned.

His turn next! When crops and politics failed and the joke at poor Tom--Tom always giggled inordinately at it, too--had come off, there was sure to be the one about himself and the lame duck next. To divert himself of bored expectation, Luke turned to stare at his cousin, S'norta.

S'norta, sitting quietly in a chair across the room, was seldom known to be emotional. Indeed, there were times when Luke wondered whether she had not died in her chair. One had that feeling about S'norta, so motionless was she, so uncompromising of glance. She was very prosperous-looking, as became the heiress to the Cheesman meat business--a fat little girl of twelve, dressed with a profusion of ruffles, glass pearls, gilt buckles, and thick tawny curls that might have come straight from the sausage hook in her papa's shop.

S'norta had been consecrated early in life to the unusual. Even her name was not ordinary. Her romantic mother, immersed in the prenatal period in the hair-lifting adventures of one Senorita Carmena, could think of no lovelier appellation when her darling came than the first portion of that sloe-eyed and restless lady's title, which she conceived to be baptismal; and in due course she had conferred it, together with her own pronunciation, on her child. A bold man stopping in at Uncle Clem's market, as Luke knew, had once tried to pronounce and expound the cognomen in a very different fashion; but he had been hustled unceremoniously from the place, and S'norta remained in undisturbed possession of her honors.

Now Luke was recalled from his contemplation by his uncle's voice again. A lull had fallen and out of it broke the question Luke always dreaded.

"Nat, now!" said Uncle Clem, leaning forward, his thick fingers clutching his fat knees. "You ain't had any news of him since quite a while ago, have you?" The wit that was so preponderate a feature of Uncle Clem's nature bubbled to the surface. "Dunno but he's landed in jail a spell back and can't git out again!" The lively little eyes twinkled appreciatively.

Nobody answered. It set Maw's mouth in a thin, hard line. You wouldn't get a rise out of old Maw with such tactics--Maw, who believed in Nat, soul and body. Into Luke's mind flashed suddenly a formless half prayer: "Don't let 'em nag her now--make 'em talk other things!"

The Lord, in the guise of Aunt Mollie, answered him. For once, Nat and Nat's character and failings did not hold her. She drew a deep breath and voiced something that claimed her interest:

"Well, Delia, I see you wasn't out at the Bisbee's funeral. Though I don't s'pose anyone really expected you, knowin' how things goes with you. Time was, when you was a girl, you counted in as big as any and traveled with the best; but now"--she paused delicately, and coughed politely with an appreciative glance round the poor room--"they ain't anyone hereabouts but's talkin' about it. My land, it was swell! I couldn't ask no better for my own. Fourteen cabs, and the hearse sent over from Rockville--all pale gray, with mottled gray horses. It was what I call tasty.

"Matty wasn't what you'd call well-off--not as lucky as some I could mention; but she certainly went off grand! The whole Methodist choir was out, with three numbers in broken time; and her cousin's brother-in-law from out West--some kind of bishop--to preach. Honest, it was one of the grandest sermons I ever heard! Wasn't it, Clem?"

Uncle Clem cleared his throat thoughtfully.

"Humiliatin'!--that's what I'd call it. A strong maur'l sermon all round. A man couldn't hear it 'thout bein' humiliated more ways'n one." He was back at the watch-chain again.

"It's a pity you couldn't of gone, Delia--you an' Matty always was so intimate too. You certainly missed a grand treat, I can tell you; though, if you hadn't the right clothes--"

"Well, I haven't," Maw spoke dryly. "I don't go nowheres, as you know--not even church."

"I s'pose not. Time was it was different, though, Delia. Ain't nobody but talks how bad off you are. Ann Chester said she seen you in town a while back and wouldn't of knowed it was you if it hadn't of b'en you was wearin' my old brown cape, an' she reconnized it. Her an' me got 'em both alike to the same store in Rockville. You was so changed, she said she couldn't hardly believe it was you at all."

"Sometimes I wonder myself if it is," said Maw grimly.

"Well, 's I was sayin', it was a grand funeral. None better! They even had engraved invites, over a hundred printed--and they had folks from all over the state. They give Clem, here, the contract fur the supper meat--"

"The best of everything!" Uncle Clem broke in. "None o' your cheap graft. Gimme a free hand. Jim Bisbee tole me himself. 'I want the best ye got,' he sez; an' I give it. Spring lamb and prime ribs, fancy hotel style--"

"An' Em Carson baked the cakes fur 'em, sixteen of 'em; an' Dickison the undertaker's tellin' all over they got the best quality shroud he carries. Well, you'll find it all in the Biweekly, under Death's Busy Sickle. Jim Bisbee shore set a store by Matty oncet she was dead. It was a grand affair, Delia. Not but what we've had some good ones in our time too."

It was Aunt Mollie's turn to stare pridefully at the Peel plate on the chimney shelf.

"A thing like that sets a family up, sorta."

Uncle Clem had taken out a fat black cigar with a red-white-and-blue band. He bit off the end and alternately thrust it between his lips or felt of its thickness with a fondling thumb and finger. Luke, watching, felt a sudden compassion for the cigar. It looked so harried.

"I always say," Aunt Mollie droned on, "a person shows up what he really is at the last--what him and his family stands fur. It's what kind of a funeral you've got that counts--who comes out an' all. An' that was true with Matty. There wa'n't a soul worth namin' that wasn't out to hers."

How Aunt Molly could gouge--even amicably! And funerals! What a subject, even in a countryside where a funeral is a social event and the manner of its furniture marks a definite social status! Would they never go? But it seemed at last they would. Incredibly, somehow, they were taking their leave, Aunt Mollie kissing Maw good-by, with the usual remark about "hopin' the things would help some," and about being "glad to spare somethin' from my great plenty."

She and Senorita were presently packed into the car and Tom had gone out to goggle at Uncle Clem cranking up, the cold cigar still between his lips. Now they were off--choking and snorting their way out of the wood-yard and down the lane. Aunt Mollie's pink feather streamed into the breeze like a pennon of triumph.

* * *

Maw was standing by the stove, a queer look in her eyes; so queer that Luke didn't speak at once. He limped over to finger the spilled treasures on the table.

"Gee! Lookit, Maw! More o' them prunes we liked so; an' a bag o' early peaches; an' fresh soup meat fur a week--"

A queer trembling had seized his mother. She was so white he was frightened.

"Did you sense what it meant, Luke--what Aunt Molly told us about Matty Bisbee? We was left out deliberate--that's what it meant. Her an' me that was raised together an' went to school and picnics all our girlhood together! Never could see one 'thout the other when we was growin' up--Jim Bisbee knew that too! But"--her voice wavered miserably--"I didn't get no invite to her funeral. I don't count no more, Lukey. None of us, anywheres.... We're jest them poor Gawd-forsaken Hayneses."

She slipped down suddenly into a chair and covered her face, her thin shoulders shaking. Luke went and touched her awkwardly. Times he would have liked to put his arms round Maw--now more than ever; but he didn't dare.

"Don't take on, Maw! Don't!"

"Who's takin' on?" She lifted a fierce, sallow, tear-wet face. "Hain't no use makin' a fuss. All's left's to work--to work, an' die after a while."

"I hate 'em! Uncle Clem an' her, I mean."

"They mean kindness--their way." But her tears started afresh.

"I hate 'em!" Luke's voice grew shriller. "I'd like--I'd like--Oh, damn 'em!"

"Don't swear, boy!"

It was Tom who broke in on them. "It's a letter from Rural Free Delivery. He jest dropped it."

He came up, grinning, with the missive. The mother's fingers closed on it nervously.

"From Nat, mebbe--he ain't wrote in months."

But it wasn't from Nat. It was a bill for a last payment on the "new harrow," bought three years before.

II

One of the earliest memories Luke could recall was the big blurred impression of Nat's face bending over his crib of an evening. At first flat, indefinite, remote as the moon, it grew with time to more human, intimate proportions. It became the face of "brother," the black-haired, blue-eyed big boy who rollicked on the floor with or danced him on his knee to--

This is the way the lady rides! Tritty-trot-trot; tritty-trot-trot!

Or who, returning from school and meeting his faltering feet in the lane, would toss him up on his shoulder and canter him home with mad, merry scamperings.

Not that school and Nat ever had much in common. Even as a little shaver Luke had realized that. Nat was the family wilding, the migratory bird that yearned for other climes. There were the times when he sulked long days by the fire, and the springs and autumns when he played an unending round of hookey. There were the days when he was sent home from school in disgrace; when protesting notes, and sometimes even teacher, arrived.

"It's not that Nat's a bad boy, Mrs. Haynes," he remembered one teacher saying; "but he's so active, so full of restless animal spirits. How are we ever going to tame him?"

Maw didn't know the answer--that was sure. She loved Nat best--Luke had guessed it long ago, by the tone of her voice when she spoke to him, by the touch of her hand on his head, or the size of his apple turnover, so much bigger than the others'. Maw must have built heavily on her hopes of Nat those days--her one perfect child. She was so proud of him! In the face of all ominous prediction she would fling her head high.

"My Nat's a Peel!" she would say. "Can't never tell how he'll turn out."

The farmers thereabouts thought they could tell her. Nat was into one scrape after another--nothing especially wicked; but a compound of the bubbling mischief in a too ardent life--robbed orchards, broken windows, practical jokes, Halloween jinks, vagrant whimsies of an active imagination.

It was just that Nat's quarters were too small for him, chiefly. Even he realized this presently. Luke would never forget the sloppy March morning when Nat went away. He was wakened by a flare of candle in the room he shared with his brothers. Tom, the twelve-year-old, lay sound asleep; but Nat, the big man of fifteen, was up, dressed, bending over something he was writing on a paper at the bureau. There was a fat little bundle beside him, done up in a blue-and-white bandanna.

Day was still far off. The window showed black; there was the sound of a thaw running off the eaves; the white-washed wall was painted with grotesque leaping shadows by the candle flame. At the first murmur, Nat had come and put his arms about him.

"Don't ye holler, little un; don't ye do it! 'Tain't nothin'--on'y Natty's goin' away a spell; quite a spell, little un. Now kiss Natty.... That's right!... An' you lay still there an' don't holler. An' listen here, too: Natty's goin' to bring ye somethin'--a grand red ball, mebbe--if you're good. You wait an' see!"

But Natty hadn't brought the ball. Two years had passed without a scrap of news of him; and then--he was back. Slipped into the village on a freighter at dusk one evening. A forlorn scarecrow Nat was; so tattered of garment, so smeared of coal dust, you scarcely knew him. So full of strange sophistications, too, and new trails of thought--so oddly rich of experience. He gave them his story. The tale of an exigent life in a great city; a piecework life made of such flotsam labors as he could pick up, of spells of loafing, of odd incredible associates, of months tagging a circus, picking up a task here and there, of long journeyings through the country, "riding the bumpers"--even of alms asked at back doors!

"Oh, not a tramp, Nat!"

The hurt had quivered all through Maw.

But Nat only laughed.

"Jiminy Christmas, it was great!"

He had thrown back his head, laughing. That was Nat all through--sipping of life generously, no matter in what form.

He had stayed just three weeks. He had spent them chiefly defeating Maw's plans to keep him. Wanderlust kept him longer the next time. That was eight years ago. Since then he had been back home three times. Never so poor and shabby as at first--indeed, Nat's wanderings had prospered more or less--but still remote, somewhat mysterious, touched by new habits of life, new ways of speech.

The countryside, remembering the manner of his first return, shook its head darkly. A tramp--a burglar, even. God knew what! When, on his third visit home, he brought an air of extreme opulence, plenty of money, and a sartorial perfection undreamed of locally, the heads wagged even harder. A gambler probably; a ne'er-do-well certainly; and one to break his mother's heart in the end.

But none of this was true, as Luke knew. It was just that Nat hated farming; that he liked to rove and take a floater's fortune. He had a taste for the mechanical and followed incomprehensible quests. San Francisco had known him; the big races at Cincinnati; the hangars of Mineola. He was restless--Nat; but he was respectable. No one could look into his merry blue eyes and not know it. If his labors were uncertain and sporadic, and his address that of a nomad, it all sufficed, at least for himself.

If at times Luke felt a stirring doubt that Nat was not acquitting himself of his family duty, he quenched it fiercely. Nat was different. He was born free; you could tell it in his talk, in his way of thinking. He was like an eagle and hated to be bound by earthly ties. He cared for them all in his own way. Times when he was back he helped Maw all he could. If he brought money he gave of it freely; if he had none, just the look of his eye or the ready jest on his lip helped.

Upstairs in a drawer of the old pine bureau lay some of Nat's discarded clothing--incredible garments to Luke. The lame boy, going to them sometimes, fingered them, pondering, reconstructing for himself the fabric of Nat's adventures, his life. The ice-cream pants of a bygone day; the pointed, shriveled yellow Oxfords! the silk-front shirt; the odd cuff link or stud--they were like a genie-in-a-bottle, these poor clothes! You rubbed them and a whole Arabian Night's dream unfurled from them.

And Nat lived it all! But people--dull stodgy people like Uncle Clem and Aunt Mollie, and old Beckonridge down at the store, and a dozen others--these criticized him for not "workin' reg'lar" and giving a full account of himself.

Luke, thinking of all this, would flush with impotent anger.

"Oh, let 'em talk, though! He'll show 'em some day! They dunno Nat. He'll do somethin' big fur us all some day."

III

Midsummer came to trim the old farm with her wreaths. It was the time Luke loved best of all--the long, sweet, loam-scented evenings with Maw and Tom on the old porch; and sometimes--when there was no fog--Paw's cot, wheeled out in the stillness. But Maw was not herself this summer. Something had fretted and eaten into her heart like an acid ever since Aunt Mollie's visit and the news of Matty Bisbee's funeral.

When, one by one, the early summer festivities of the neighborhood had slipped by, with no inclusion of the Hayneses, she had fallen to brooding deeply,--to feeling more bitterly than ever the ignominy and wretchedness of their position.

Luke tried to comfort her; to point out that this summer was like any other; that they "never had mattered much to folks." But Maw continued to brood; to allude vaguely and insistently to "the straw that broke the camel's back." It was bitter hard to have Maw like that--home was bad enough, anyway. Sometimes on clear, soft nights, when the moon came out all splendid and the "peepers" sang so plaintively in the Hollow, the boy's heart would fill and grow enormous in his chest with the intolerable sadness he felt.

Then Maw's mood lifted--pierced by a ray of heavenly sunlight--for Nat came home!

Luke saw him first--heard him, rather; for Nat came up the lane--oh, miraculous!--driving a motor car. It was not a car like Uncle Clem's--not even a stepbrother to it. It was low and almost noiseless, and shaped like one of those queer torpedoes they were fighting with across the water. It was colored a soft dust-gray and trimmed with nickel; and, huge and powerful though it was, it swung to a mere touch of Nat's hand.

Nat stood before them, clad in black leather Norfolk and visored cap and leggings.

"Look like a fancy brand of chauffeur, don't I?" he laughed, with the easy resumption of a long-broken relation that was so characteristically Nat.

But Nat was not a chauffeur. Something much bigger and grander. The news he brought them on top of it all took their breaths away. Nat was a special demonstrator, out on a brand-new high-class job for a house handling a special line of high-priced goods. And he was to go to Europe in another week--did they get it straight? Europe! Jiminy! He and another fellow were taking cars over to France and England.

No; they didn't quite get it. They could not grasp its significance, but clung humbly, instead, to the mere glorious fact of his presence.

He stayed two days and a night; and summer was never lovelier. Maw was like a girl, and there was such a killing of pullets and extravagance with new-laid eggs as they had never known before. At the last he gave them all presents.

"Tell the truth," he laughed, "I'm stony broke. 'Tisn't mine, all this stuff you see. I got some kale in advance--not much, but enough to swing me; but of course, the outfit's the company's. But I'll tell you one thing: I'm going to bring some long green home with me, you can bet! And when I do"--Nat had given Maw a prodigious nudge in the ribs--"when I do--I ain't goin' to stay an old bachelor forever! Do you get that?"

Maw's smile had faded for a moment. But the presents were fine--a new knife for Tom, a book for Luke, and twenty whole round dollars for Maw, enough to pay that old grocery bill down at Beckonridge's and Paw's new invoice of patent medicine.

They all stood on the porch and watched him as far they could see; and Maw's black mood didn't return for a whole week.

Evenings now they had something different to talk about--journeys in seagoing craft; foreign countries and the progress of the "Ee-ropean" war, and Nat's likelihood--he had laughed at this--of touching even its fringe. They worked it all up from the boiler-plate war news in the Bi-weekly and Luke's school geography. Yes; for a little space the blackness was lifted.

Then came the August morning when Paw died. This was an unexpected and unsettling contingency. One doesn't look for a "chronic's" doing anything so unscheduled and foreign to routine; but Paw spoiled all precedent. They found him that morning with his heart quite still, and Luke knew they stood in the presence of imminent tragedy.

It's all very well to peck along, hand-to-mouth fashion. You can manage a living of sorts; and farm produce, even scanty, unskillfully contrived, and the charity of relatives, and the patience of tradesmen, will see you through. But a funeral--that's different! Undertaker--that means money. Was it possible that the sordid epic of their lives must be capped by the crowning insult, the Poormaster and the Pauper's Field? If only poor Paw could have waited a little before he claimed the spotlight--until prices fell a little or Nat got back with that "long green"!

Maw swallowed her bitter pill.

She went to see Uncle Clem and ask! And Uncle Clem was kind.

"He'll buy a casket--he's willin' fur that--an' send a wreath and pay fur notices, an' even half on a buryin' lot; but he said he couldn't do no more. The high cost has hit him too.... An' where are we to git the rest? He said--at the last--it might be better all round fur us to take what Ellick Flick would gimme outen the Poor Fund--" Maw hadn't been able to go on for a spell.

A pauper's burial for Paw! Surely Maw would manage better than that! She tried to find a better way that very night.

"This farm's mortgaged to the neck; but I calculate Ben Travis won't care if I'm a mind to put Paw in the south field. It hain't no mortal good fur anything else, anyhow; an' he can lay there if we want. It's a real pleasant place. An' I can git the preacher myself--I'll give him the rest o' the broilers; an' they's seasoned hickory plankin' in the lean-to. Tom, you come along with me."

All night Luke had lain and listened to the sound of big Tom's saw and hammer. Tom was real handy if you told him how--and Maw would be showing him just how to shape it all out. Each hammer blow struck deep on the boy's heart.

Maw lined the home-made box herself with soft old quilts, and washed and dressed her dead herself in his faded outlawed wedding clothes. And on a morning soft and sweet, with a hint of rain in the air, they rode down in the farm wagon to the south field together--Paw and Maw and Luke--with big Tom walking beside the aged knobby horse's head.

Abel Gazzam, a neighbor, had seen to the grave; and in due course the little cavalcade reached the appointed spot inside the snake fence--a quiet place in a corner, under a graybeard elm. As Maw had said, it was "a pleasant place for Paw to lay in."

There were some old neighbors out in their own rigs, and Uncle Clem had brought his family up in his car, with a proper wreath; and Reverend Kearns came up and--declining all lien on the broilers--read the burial service, and spoke a little about poor Paw. But it wasn't a funeral, no how. No supper; no condolence; no viewing "the remains"--not even a handshake! Maw didn't even look at her old friends, riding back home between Tom and Luke, with her head fiercely high in the air.

A dull depression settled on Luke's heart. It was all up with the Hayneses now. They had saved Paw from charity with their home-made burial; but what had it availed? They might as well have gone the whole figure. Everybody knew! There wasn't any comeback for a thing like this. They were just nobodies--the social pariahs of the district.

IV

Somehow, after the fashion of other years, they got their meager crops in--turnips, potatoes and Hubbard squashes put up in the vegetable cellar; oats cradled; corn husked; the buckwheat ready for the mill; even Tom's crooked furrows for the spring sowings made. Somehow, Maw helping like a man and Tom obeying like a docile child, they took toll of their summer. And suddenly September was at their heels--and then the equinox.

It seemed to Luke that it had never rained so much before. Brown vapor rose eternally from the valley flats; the hilltops lay lost entirely in clotted murk. By periods hard rains, like showers of steel darts, beat on the soaking earth. Gypsy gales of wind went ricocheting among the farm buildings, setting the shingles to snapping and singing; the windows moaned and rattled. The sourest weather the boy could remember!

And on the worst day of all they got the news. Out of the mail box in the lane Luke got it--going down under an old rubber cape in a steady blinding pour. It got all damp--the letter, foreign postmark, stamp and all--by the time he put it into Maw's hand.

It was a double letter--or so one judged, first opening it. There was another inside, complete, sealed, and addressed in Nat's hand; but one must read the paper inclosed with it first--that was obvious. It was just a strip, queer, official looking, with a few lines typed upon it and a black heading that sprang out at one strangely. They read it together--or tried to. At first they got no sense from it. Paris--from clear off in France--and then the words below--and Maw's name at the top, just like the address on the newspaper:

MRS. JERE HAYNES, Stony Brook, New York.

It was for Maw all right. Then quite suddenly the words came clear through the blur:

MRS. JERE HAYNES, Stony Brook, New York.

Dear Madam: We regret to inform you that the official communique for September sixth contains the tidings that the writer of the enclosed letter, Nathaniel Haynes, of Stony Brook, New York, U. S. A., was killed while on duty as an ambulance driver in the Sector of Verdun, and has been buried in that region. Further details will follow.

The American Ambulance, Paris.

Even when she realized, Maw never cried out. She sat wetting her lips oddly, looking at the words that had come like evil birds across the wide spaces of earth. It was Luke who remembered the other letter:

"My dear kind folks--Father, Mother and Brothers: I guess I dare call you that when I get far enough away from you. Perhaps you won't mind when I tell you my news.

"Well we came over from England last Thursday and struck into our contract here. Things was going pretty good; but you might guess yours truly couldn't stand the dead end of things. I bet Maw's guessed already. Well sir it's that roving streak in me I guess. Never could stick to nothing steady. It got me bad when I got here any how.

"To cut it short I throwed up my job with the firm yesterday and have volunteered as an Ambulance driver. Nothing but glory; but I'm going to like it fine! They're short-handed anyhow and a fellow likes to help what he can. Wish I could send a little money; but it took all I had to outfit me. Had to cough up eight bucks for a suit of underclothes. What do you know about that?

"You can write me in care of the Ambulance, Paris.

"Now Maw don't worry! I'm not going to fight. I did try to get into the Foreign Legion but had no chance. I'm all right. Think of me as a nice little Red Cross boy and the Wise Willie on the gas wagon. And won't I have the hot stuff to make old Luke's eyes pop out! Hope Paw's legs are better. And Maw have a kiss on me. Mebbe you folks think I don't appreciate you. If I was any good at writing I'd tell you different.

"Your Son and Brother, "NAT HAYNES."

The worst of it all was about Maw's not crying--just sitting there staring at the fire, or where the fire had been when the wood had died out of neglect. It's not in reason that a woman shouldn't cry, Luke felt. He tried some words of comfort:

"He's safe, anyhow, Maw--'member that! That's a whole lot too. Didn't always know that, times he was rollin' round so over here. You worried a whole lot about him, you know."

But Maw didn't answer. She seldom spoke at all--moved about as little as possible. When she had put out food for him and Tom she always went back to her corner and stared into the fire. Luke had to bring a plate to her and coax her to eat. Even the day Uncle Clem and Aunt Mollie came up she did not notice them. Only once she spoke of Nat to Luke.

"You loved him the most, didn't ye, Maw?" he asked timidly one dreary evening.

She answered in a sort of dull surprise.

"Why, lad, he was my first!" she said; and after a bit as though to herself: "His head was that round and shiny when he was a little fellow it was like to a little round apple. I mind, before he ever come, I bought me a cap fur him over to Rockville, with a blue bow onto it. He looked awful smart an' pretty in it."

Sometimes in the night Luke, sleeping ill and thinking long, lay and listened for possible sounds from Maw's room. Perhaps she cried in the nights. If she only would--it would help break the tension for them all. But he never heard anything but the rain--steadily, miserably beating on the sodden shingles overhead.

* * *

It was only Luke who watched the mail box now. One morning his journey to it bore fruit. No sting any longer; no fear in the thick foreign letter he carried.

"It'll tell ye all's to it, I bet!" he said eagerly.

Maw seemed scarcely interested. It was Luke who broke the seal and read it aloud.

It was written from the Ambulance Headquarters, in Paris--written by a man of rare insight, of fine and delicate perception. All that Nat's family might have wished to learn he sought to tell them. He had himself investigated Nat's story and he gave it all fully and freely. He spoke in praise of Nat; of his friendly associations with the Ambulance men; of his good nature and cheerful spirits; his popularity and ready willingness to serve. People, one felt, had loved Nat over there.

He wrote of the preliminary duties in Paris, the preparations--of Nat's final going to join one of the three sections working round Verdun. It wasn't easy work that waited for Nat there. It was a stiff contract guiding the little ambulance over the shell-rutted roads, with deftness and precision, to those distant dressing stations where the hurt soldiers waited for him. It was a picture that thrilled Luke and made his pulses tingle--the blackness of the nights; the rumble of moving artillery and troops; the flash of starlights; the distant crackling of rifle fire; the steady thunder of heavy guns.

And the shells! It was mighty close they swept to a fellow, whistling, shrieking, low overhead; falling to tear out great gouges in the earth. It was enough to wreck one's nerve utterly; but the fellows that drove were all nerve. Just part of the day's work to them! And that was Nat too. Nat hadn't known what fear was--he'd eaten it alive. The adventurer in him had gone out to meet it joyously.

Nat was only on his third trip when tragedy had come to him. He and a companion were seeking a dressing station in the cellar of a little ruined house in an obscure French village, when a shell had burst right at their feet, so to speak. That was all. Simple as that. Nat was dead instantly and his companion--oh, Nat was really the lucky one....

Luke had to stop for a little time. One couldn't go on at once before a thing like that.... When he did, it was to leave behind the darkness, the shell-torn houses, the bruised earth, the racked and mutilated humans.... Reading on, it was like emerging from Hades into a great Peace.

* * *

"I wish it were possible to convey to you, my dear Mrs. Haynes, some impression of the moving and beautiful ceremony with which your son was laid to rest on the morning of September ninth, in the little village of Aucourt. Imagine a warm, sunny, late-summer day, and a village street sloping up a hillside, filled with soldiers in faded, dusty blue, and American Ambulance drivers in khaki.

"In the open door of one of the houses, the front of which was covered with the tri-color of France, the coffin was placed, wrapped in a great French flag, and covered with flowers and wreaths sent by the various American sections. At the head a small American flag was placed, on which was pinned the Croix de Guerre--a gold star on a red-and-green ribbon--a tribute from the army general to the boy who gave his life for France.

"A priest, with six soldier attendants, led the procession from the courtyard. Six more soldiers bore the coffin, the Americans and representatives of the army branches following, bearing wreaths. After these came the General of the Army Corps, with a group of officers, and a detachment of soldiers with arms reversed. At the foot of the hill a second detachment fell in and joined them....

"The scene was unforgettable, beautiful and impressive. In the little church a choir of soldiers sang and a soldier-priest played the organ, while the Chaplain of the Army Division held the burial service. The chaplain's sermon I have asked to have reproduced and sent to you, together with other effects of your son's....

"The chaplain spoke most beautifully and at length, telling very tenderly what it meant to the French people that an American should give his life while trying to help them in the hour of their extremity. The name of this chaplain is Henri Deligny, Aumonier Militaire, Ambulance 16-27, Sector 112; and he was assisted by the permanent cure of the little church, Abbe Blondelle, who wishes me to assure you that he will guard most reverently your son's grave, and be there to receive you when the day may come that you shall wish to visit it.

"After leaving the church the procession marched to the military cemetery, where your son's body was laid beside the hundreds of others who have died for France. Both the lieutenant and general here paid tributes of appreciation, which I will have sent to you. The general, various officers of the army, and ambulance assisted in the last rites....

"I have brought back and will send you the Croix de Guerre...."

* * *

Oh, but you couldn't read any further--for the great lump of pride in your throat, the thick mist of tears in your eyes. A sob escaped the boy. He looked over at Maw and saw the miraculous. Maw was awake at last and crying--a new-fledged pulsating Maw emerged from the brown chrysalis of her sorrows.

"Oh, Maw!... Our Nat!... All that--that--funeral!... Some funeral, Maw!" The boy choked.

"My Nat!" Maw was saying. "Buried like a king!... Like a King o' France!" She clasped her hands tightly.

It was like some beautiful fantasy. A Haynes--the despised and rejected of earth--borne to his last home with such pomp and ceremony!

"There never was nothin' like it heard of round here, Maw.... If folks could only know--"

She lifted her head as at a challenge.

"Why, they're goin' to know, Luke--for I'm goin' to tell 'em. Folks that have talked behind Nat's back--folks that have pitied us--when they see this--like a King o' France!" she repeated softly. "I'm goin' down to town to-day, Luke."

V

It was dusk when Maw came back; dusk of a clear day, with a rosy sunset off behind the hills. Luke opened the door for her and he saw that she had brought some of the sun along in with her--its colors in her worn face; its peace in her eyes. She was the same, yet somehow new. Even the tilt of her crazy old bonnet could not detract from a strange new dignity that clothed her.

She did not speak at once, going over to warm her gloveless hands at the stove, and staring up at the Grampaw Peel plate; then:

"When it comes--my Nat's medal--it's goin' to set right up here, 'stead o' this old thing--an' the letters and the sermons in my shell box I got on my weddin' trip.... Lawyer Ritchie told me to-day what it means, the name o' that medal--Cross o' War! It's a decoration fur soldiers and earned by bravery."

She paused; then broke out suddenly:

"I b'en a fool, settin' here grievin'. My Nat was a hero, an' I never knew it!... A hero's folks hadn't ought to cry. It's a thing too big for that. Come here, you little Luke! Maw hain't b'en real good to you an' Tommy lately. You're gittin' all white an' peaked. Too much frettin' 'bout Nat. You an' me's got to stop it, I tell you. Folks round here ain't goin' to let us fret--"

"Folks! Maw!" The words burst from the boy's heart. "Did they find out?... You showed it to 'em? Uncle Clem--"

Maw sniffed.

"Clem! Oh, he was real took aback; but he don't count in on this--not big enough." Then triumph hastened her story. "It's the big ones that's mixin' into this, Lukey. Seems like they'd heard somethin' a spell back in one o' the county papers, an' we didn't know.... Anyhow, when I first got into town I met Judge Geer. He had me right into his office in Masonic Hall 'fore I could git my breath almost--had me settin' in his private room, an' sent his stenugifer out fur a cup o' cawfee fur me. He had me give him the letter to read, an' asked dare he make some copies. The stenugifer took 'em like lightnin', right there.

"The judge had a hard time of it, coughin' an' blowin' over that letter. He's goin' to send some copies to the New York papers right off. He took me acrost the hall and interduced me to Lawyer Ritchie. Lawyer Ritchie, he read the letter too. 'A hero!' they called Nat; an' me 'A hero's mother!'

"'We ain't goin' to forgit this, Mis' Haynes,' Lawyer Ritchie said. 'This here whole town's proud o' your Nat.'... My land! I couldn't sense it all!... Me, Delia Haynes, gettin' her hand wrung, 'count o' anything Nat'd b'en doin', by the big bugs round town! Judge Geer, he fetched 'em all out o' their offices--Slade, the supervisor, and Fuller Brothers, and old Sumner Pratt--an' all! An' Ben Watson asked could he have a copy to put in the Bi-weekly. It's goin' to take the whole front page, with an editor'al inside. He said the Rockville Center News'd most likely copy it too.

"I was like in a dream!... All I'd aimed to do was to let some o' them folks know that those people acrost the ocean had thought well of our Nat, an' here they was breakin' their necks to git in on it too!... Goin' down the street they was more of it. Lu Shiffer run right out o' the hardware store an' left the nails he was weighin' to shake hands with me; and Jem Brand came; and Lan'lord Peters come out o' the Valley House an' spoke to me.... I felt awful public. An' Jim Beckonridge come out of the Emporium to shake too.

"'I ain't seen you down in town fur quite a spell,' he sez. 'How are you all up there to the farm?... Want to say I'm real proud o' Nat--a boy from round here!' he sez.... Old Beckonridge, that was always wantin' to arrest Nat fur takin' his chestnuts or foolin' down in the store!

"I just let 'em drift--seein' they had it all fixed fur me. All along the street they come an' spoke to me. Mame Parmlee, that ain't b'en able to see me fur three years, left off sweepin' her porch an' come down an' shook my hand, an' cried about it; an' that stylish Mis' Willowby, that's president o' the Civil Club, followed me all over the Square and asked dare she read a copy o' the letter an' tell about Nat to the schoolhouse next Wednesday.

"It seems Judge Geer had gone out an' spread it broadcast that I was in town, for they followed me everywhere. Next thing I run into Reverend Kearns and Reverend Higby, huntin' me hard. They both had one idee.

"'We wanted to have a memor'al service to the churches 'bout Nat,' they sez; 'then it come over us that it was the town's affair really. So, Mis' Haynes,' they sez, 'we want you should share this thing with us. You mustn't be selfish. You gotta give us a little part in it too. Are you willin'?'"

"It knocked me dumb--me givin' anybody anything! Well, to finish, they's to be a big public service in the Town Hall on Friday. They'll have it all flags--French ones, an' our'n too. An' the ministers'll preach; an' Judge Geer'll tell Nat's story an' speak about him; an' the Ladies' Guild'll serve a big hot supper, because they'll probably be hundreds out; an' they'll read the letters an' have prayers for our Nat!" She faltered a moment. "An' we'll be there too--you an' me an' Tom--settin' in the seat o' honor, right up front!... It'll be the greatest funeral service this town's ever seen, Luke."

Maw's face was crimson with emotion.

"An' Uncle Clem an' Aunt Mollie--"

"Oh--them!" Maw came back to earth and smiled tolerantly. "They was real sharp to be in it too. Mollie took me into the parlor an' fetched a glass o' wine to stren'then me up." Maw mused a moment; then spoke with a touch of patronage: "I'm goin' to knit Clem some new socks this winter. He says he can't git none like the oldtime wool ones; an' the market floors are cold. Clem's done what he could, an' I'll be real glad to help him out.... Oh, I asked 'em to come an' set with us at the service--S'norta too. I allowed we could manage to spare 'em the room."

She dreamed again, launched on a sea of glory; then roused to her final triumph:

"But that's only part, Luke. The best's comin'. Jim Beckonridge wants you to go down an' see him. 'That lame boy o' yours,' he sez, 'was in here a spell ago with some notion about raisin' bees an' buckwheat together, an' gittin' a city market fur buckwheat honey. Slipped my mind,' he sez, 'till I heard what Nat'd done; an' then it all come back. City party this summer had the same notion an' was lookin' out for a likely place to invest some cash in. You send that boy down an' we'll talk it over. Shouldn't wonder if he'd get some backin'. I calculate I might help him, myself,' he sez, 'I b'en thinkin' of it too.'... Don't seem like it could hardly be true."

"Oh, Maw!" Luke's pulses were leaping wildly. Buckwheat honey was the dear dream of many a long hour's wistful meditation. "If we could--I could study up about it an' send away fur printed books. We could make some money--"

But Maw had not yet finished.

"An' they's some about Tom, too, Luke! That young Doctor Wells down there--he's on'y b'en there a year--he come right up, an' spoke to me, in the midst of several. 'I want to talk about your boy,' he sez. 'I've wanted to fur some time, but didn't like to make bold; but now seem's as good a time as any.' 'They're all talkin' of him,' I sez. 'Well,' he sez, 'I don't mean the dead, but the livin' boy--the one folks calls Big Tom. I've heard his story, an' I got a good look over him down here in the store a while ago. Woman'--he sez it jest like that--'if that big boy o' your'n had a little operation, he'd be as good as any.'

"I answered him patient, an' told him what ailed Tom an' why he couldn't be no different--jest what old Doc Andrews told us--that they was a little piece o' bone druv deep into his skull that time he fell. He spoke real vi'lent then. 'But--my Lord!--woman,' he sez, 'that's what I'm talkin' about. If we jack up that bone'--trepannin', he called it too--'his brains'd git to be like anybody else's.' Told me he wants fur us to let him look after it. Won't cost anything unless we want. They's a hospital to Rockville would tend to it, an' glad to--when we git ready.... My poor Tommy!... Don't seem's if it could be true."

Her face softened, and she broke up suddenly.

"I got good boys all round," she wept. "I always said it; an' now folks know."

* * *

Luke lay on the old settle, thinking. In the air-tight stove the hickory fagots crackled, with jeweled color-play. On the other side Tom sat whittling silently--Tom, who would presently whittle no more, but rise to be a man.

It was incredible! Incredible that the old place might some day shake off its shackles of poverty and be organized for a decent struggle with life! Incredible that Maw--stepping briskly about getting the supper--should be singing!

Already the room seemed filled and warmed with the odors of prosperity and self-respect. Maw had put a red geranium on the table; there was the crispy fragrance of frying salt pork and soda biscuit in the air.

These the Hayneses! These people, with hope and self-esteem once more in their hearts! These people, with a new, a unique place in the community's respect! It was all like a beautiful miracle; and, thinking of its maker, Luke choked suddenly and gulped.

There was a moist spot on the old Mexican hairless right under his eyes; but it had been made by tears of pride, not sorrow. Maw was right! A hero's folks hadn't ought to cry. And he wouldn't. Nat was better off than ever--safe and honored. He had trod the path of glory. A line out of the boy's old Reader sprang to his mind: "The paths of glory lead but to the grave." Oh, but it wasn't true! Nat's path led to life--to hope; to help for all of them, for Nat's own. In his death, if not in his life, he had rehabilitated them. And Nat--who loved them--would look down and call it good.

In spite of himself the boy sobbed, visioning his brother's face.

"Oh, Nat!" he whispered. "I knew you'd do it! I always said you'd do somethin' big for us all."

CHING, CHING, CHINAMAN[20]

[Note 20: Copyright, 1917, by The Pictorial Review Company. Copyright, 1918, by Wilbur Daniel Steele.]

BY WILBUR DANIEL STEELE

From The Pictorial Review

How gaily we used to chant it over Yen Sin's scow when I was a boy on Urkey water-front, and how unfailingly it brought the minister charging down upon us. I can see him now, just as he used to burst upon our vision from the wharf lane, face paper-white, eyes warm with a holy wrath, lips moving uncontrollably. And I can hear his voice trembling at our heels as we scuttled off:

"For shame, lads! Christ died for him, lads! For shame! Shame!"

And looking back I can see him there on the wharf above the scow, hands hanging, shoulders falling together, brooding over the unredeemed.

Minister Malden had seen "the field" in a day of his surging youth--seen it, and no more. He had seen it from the deck of the steamer by which he had come out, and by which he had now to return, since his seminary bride had fallen sick on the voyage. He perceived the teeming harbor clogged with junks and house-boats, the muddy river, an artery out of the heart of darkness, the fantastic, colored shore-lines, the vast, dull drone of heathendom stirring in his ears, the temple gongs calling blindly to the blind, the alluring and incomprehensible accents of the boatmen's tongue which he was to have made his own and lightened with the fierce sweet name of the Cross--and now could not.

Poor young Minister Malden, he turned his face away. He gave up "the field" for the bride, and when the bride went out in mid-ocean, he had neither bride nor field. He drifted back to New England, somehow or other, and found Yen Sin.

He found another bride too; Minister Malden was human. It was a mercy of justice, folks said, when Widow Gibbs got a man like Minister Malden. Heaven knows she had had bad enough luck with Gibbs, a sallow devil of a whaler who never did a fine act in his life till he went down with his vessel and all hands in the Arctic one year and left Sympathy Gibbs sitting alone in the Pillar House on Lovett's Court, pretty, plump, and rather well-to-do as Urkey goes.

Everybody in the island was glad enough when those two undertook to mend each other's blasted life--everybody but Mate Snow. He had been thinking of Sympathy Gibbs himself, they said; and they said he stood behind the prescription screen in his drug-store far into the night, after the betrothal was given out in Center Church, his eyes half-closed, his thin lips bluish white, and hell-fire smouldering out of sight in him. And they said Mate was the kind that never forget. That was what made it so queer.

It seems to me that I must remember the time when the minister lived in the Pillar House with Sympathy Gibbs.

Back there in the mists of youth I seem to see them walking home together after the Sunday morning preaching, arm in arm and full of a sedate joy; turning in between the tubbed box-trees at Lovett's Court, loitering for a moment to gaze out over the smooth harbor and nod to the stragglers of the congregation before they entered the big green door flanked by the lilac panes.

Perhaps it was told me. There can be no question, though, that I remember the night when Minister Malden came home from the Infield Conference, a father of two days' standing. Urkey village made a festival of that homecoming to the tiny daughter he had never seen, and to Sympathy Gibbs, weak and waiting and radiant. Yes, I remember.

We were all at the landing, making a racket. The minister looked ill when he came over the packet's side, followed by Mate Snow, who had gone to Conference with him as lay delegate from Center Church. Our welcome touched him in a strange and shocking way; he staggered and would have fallen had it not been for Mate's quick hand. He had not a word to say to us; he walked up the shore street between the wondering lines till he came to the Pillar House, and there he stood for a moment, silhouetted against the open door, a drooping, hunted figure, afraid to go in.

We saw his shadow later, moving uncertainly across the shades in the upper chamber where Sympathy Gibbs lay with her baby, his hand lifted once with the fingers crooked in mysterious agony. Some one started a hymn in the street below and people took it up, bawling desperately for comfort to their souls. Mate Snow didn't sing. He stood motionless between the box-trees, staring up at the lighted window shades, as if waiting. By-and-by Minister Malden came down the steps, and moving away beside him like a drunken man, went to live in the two rooms over the drugstore. And that was the beginning of it.

* * *

Folks said Mate Snow was not the kind to forget an injury, and yet it was Mate who stood behind the minister through those first days of shock and scandal, who out-faced the congregation with his stubborn, tight lips, and who shut off the whisperings of the Dorcas Guild with the sentence which was destined to become a sort of formula on his tongue through the ensuing years:

"You don't know what's wrong, and neither do I; but we can all see the man's a saint, can't we?"

"But the woman?" some still persisted.

"Sympathy Gibbs? You ought to know Sympathy Gibbs by this time."

And if there was a faint curling at the corners of his lips, they were all too dull to wonder at it. As for me, the boy, I took the changing phenomena of life pretty well for granted, and wasted little of my golden time speculating about such things. But as I look back now on the blunt end of those Urkey days, I seem to see Minister Malden growing smaller as he comes nearer, and Mate Snow growing larger--Mate Snow browbeating the congregation with a more and more menacing righteousness--Minister Malden, in his protecting shadow, leaner, grayer, his eyes burning with an ever fiercer zeal, escaping Center Church and slipping away to redeem the Chinaman.

"There is more joy in heaven over one sinner," was his inspiration, his justification, and, I suspect, his blessed opiate.

But it must have been hard on Yen Sin. I remember him now, a steam-blurred silhouette, earlier than the earliest, later than the latest, swaying over his tubs and sad-irons in the shanty on the stranded scow by Pickett's wharf, dreaming perhaps of the populous rivers of his birth, or of the rats he ate, or of the opium he smoked at dead of night, or of those weird, heathen idols before which he bowed down his shining head--familiar and inscrutable alien.

An evening comes back to me when I sat in Yen Sin's shop and waited for my first "stand up" collar to be ironed, listening with a kind of awe to the tide making up the flats, muffled and unfamiliar, and inhaling the perfume compounded of steam, soap, hot linen, rats, opium, tea, idols and what-not peculiar to Yen Sin's shop and to a thousand lone shops in a thousand lone villages scattered across the mainland. When the precious collar was at last in my hands, still limp and hot from its ordeal, Yen Sin hung over me in the yellow nimbus of the lamp, smiling at my wonder. I stared with a growing distrust at the flock of tiny bird-scratches inked on the band.

"What," I demanded suspiciously, "is that?"

"Lat's Mista You," he said, nodding his head and summoning another hundred of wrinkles to his damp, polished face.

"That ain't my name. You don't know my name," I accused him.

"Mista Yen Sin gottee name, allee light."

The thing fascinated me, like a serpent.

"Whose name is that, then?" I demanded, pointing to a collar on the counter between us. The band was half-covered with the cryptic characters, done finely and as if with the loving hand of an artist.

Yen Sin held it up before his eyes in the full glow of the lamp. His face seemed incredibly old; not senile, like our white-beards mumbling on the wharves, but as if it had been a long, long time in the making and was still young. I thought he had forgotten me, he was so engrossed in his handiwork.

"Lat colla?" he mused by-and-by. "Lat's Mista Minista, boy."

"Mister Minister Malden?"

And there both of us stared a little, for there was a voice at the door.

"Yes? Yes? What is it?"

Minister Malden stood with his head and shoulders bent, wary of the low door-frame, and his eyes blinking in the new light. I am sure he did not see me on the bench; he was looking at Yen Sin.

"How is it with you to-night, my brother?"

The Chinaman straightened up and faced him, grave, watchful.

"Fine," he said. "Mista Yen Sin fine. Mista Minista fine, yes?"

He bowed and motioned his visitor to a rocker, upholstered with a worn piece of Axminster and a bit of yellow silk with half a dragon on it. The ceremony, one could see, was not new. Vanishing into the further mysteries of the rear, he brought out a bowl of tea, steaming, a small dish of heathenish things, nuts perhaps, or preserves, deposited the offering on the minister's pointed knees, and retired behind the counter to watch and wait.

An amazing change came over the minister. Accustomed to seeing him gentle, shrinking, illusively non-resisting, I scarcely knew this white flame of a man, burning over the tea-bowl!

"You are kind to me," he cried, "and yet your heart is not touched. I would give up my life gladly, brother, if I could only go up to the Throne and say to Jesus, 'Behold, Lord, Thy son, Yen Sin, kneeling at the foot of the Cross. Thou gavest me the power, Lord, and the glory is thine!' If I could say that, brother, I--I--"

His voice trailed off, though his lips continued to move uncertainly. His face was transfigured, his eyes filmed with dreams. He was looking beyond Yen Sin now, and on the lost yellow millions. The tea, untasted, smoked upward into his face, an insidious, narcotic cloud. I can think of him now as he sat there, wresting out of his easeless years one moment of those seminary dreams; the color of far-away, the sweet shock of the alien and the bizarre, the enormous odds, the Game. The walls of Yen Sin's shop were the margins of the world, and for a moment the missionary lived.

"He would soften your heart," he murmured. "In a wondrous way. Have you never thought, Yen Sin, 'I would like to be a good man'?"

The other spread his right hand across his breast.

"Mista Yen Sin velly humble dog. Mista Yen Sin no good. Mista Yen Sin's head on le glound. Mista Yen Sin velly good man. Washy colla fine."

It was evidently an old point, an established score for the heathen.

"Yes, I must say, you do do your work. I've brought you that collar for five years now, and it still seems new." The minister's face fell a little. Yen Sin continued grave and alert.

"And Mista Matee Snow, yes? His colla allee same like new, yes?"

"Yes, I must say!" The other shook himself. "But it's not that, brother. We're all of us wicked, Yen Sin, and unless we--"

"Mista Minista wickee?"

For a moment the minister's eyes seemed fascinated by the Chinaman's; pain whitened his face.

"All of us," he murmured uncertainly, "are weak. The best among us sins in a day enough to blacken eternity. And unless we believe, and have faith in the Divine Mercy of the Father, and confess--confession--" His voice grew stronger and into it crept the rapt note of one whose auditor is within. "Confession! A sin confessed is no longer a sin. The word spoken out of the broken and contrite heart makes all things right. If one but had faith in that! If--if one had Faith!"

The life went out of his voice, the fire died in his eyes, his fingers drooped on the tea-bowl. The Chinaman's clock was striking the half after seven. He stared at the floor, haggard with guilt.

"Dear me, I'm late for prayer-meeting again. Snow will be looking for me."

I slipped out behind him, glad enough of Urkey's raw air after that close chamber of mysteries. I avoided the wharf-lane, however, more than a little scared by this sudden new aspect of the Minister, and got myself out to the shore street by Miah White's yard and the grocery porch, and there I found myself face to face with Mate Snow. That frightened me still more, for the light from Henny's Notions' window was shining oddly in his eyes.

"You're lookin' for the minister," I stammered, ducking my head.

He stopped and stared down at me, tapping a sole on the cobbles.

"What's this? What's this?"

"He--he says you'd be lookin' for 'im, an' I seen 'im to the Chinaman's an' he's comin' right there, honest he is, Mr. Snow."

"Oh! So? I'd be looking for him, would I?"

"Y--y--yessir."

I sank down on the grocery steps and studied my toes.

"He was there, though!" I protested in desperation, when we had been waiting in vain for a long quarter-hour. The dark monitor lifted his chin from his collar and looked at his watch.

"It's hard," I heard him sigh, as he turned away down Lovett's Court, where Center Church blossomed with its prayer-meeting lamps. Shadows of the uneasy flock moved across the windows; Emsy Nickerson, in his trustee's black, peered out of the door into the dubious night, and beyond him in the bright vestry Aunt Nickerson made a little spot of color, agitated, nursing formless despairs, an artist in vague dreads.

I was near enough, at the church steps, to hear what Mate told them.

"I'll lead to-night. He's gone out in the back-country to pray alone."

Aunt Nickerson wept quietly, peeping from the corners of her eyes. Reverent awe struggled with an old rebellion in Emsy's face, and in others as they came crowding. The trustee broke out bitterly:

"Miah White's took to the bottle again, along o' him. If only he'd do his prayin' at Miah's house a spell, 'stead o' the back-country--"

"There was a back-country in Judea," Mate cried him down. "And some one prayed there, not one night, but forty nights and days!"

What a far cry it was from the thwarted lover behind the prescription screen, fanning the flames of hell-fire through the night, to the Seer thundering in the vestry--had there been any there with heads enough to wonder at it.

It happened from time to time, this mysterious retreat into the moors, more frequently as the Infield Conference drew on and the hollows deepened in the minister's cheeks and his eyes shone brighter with foreboding. Nor was this the first time the back-country had been mentioned in the same breath with the Wilderness of Judea. I can remember our Miss Beedie, in Sunday School, lifting her eyes and sighing at the first verse of the fourth chapter of the Book of Luke.

And to-night, while I crept off tingling through the dark of Lovett's Court, he was in the Wilderness again, and I had seen him last.

I brought up by one of the tubbed box-trees and peered in at the Pillar House with a new wonder. I was so used to it there, dead on the outside and living on the inside, that I had never learned to think of it as a strange thing. Perhaps a dozen times I had seen little Hope Gibbs (they still said "Gibbs") playing quietly among the lilacs in the back yard. It was always at dusk when the shadows were long there, and she a shadow among them, so unobtrusive and far away. As for her mother, no one ever saw Sympathy Gibbs.

Crouching by the box-tree, I found myself wondering what they were doing in there, Sympathy Gibbs and the little girl; whether they were sleeping, or whether they were sitting in the dark, thinking, or whispering about the husband and father who was neither husband nor father, or whether, in some remote chamber, there might not be a lamp or a candle burning.

The dead hush of the place oppressed me. I turned my head to look back at the comfortable, bumbling devotion of Center Church, and this is what I saw there.

The door was still open, a blank, bright rectangle giving into the deserted vestry, and it was against this mat of light that I spied Minister Malden's head and shoulders thrust furtively, as he peeped in and seemed to harken to the muffled unison of the prayer.

You may imagine me startled enough at that, but what of my emotion when, having peeped and listened and reassured himself for a dozen seconds, Minister Malden turned and came softly down the Court toward the gate and the box-trees and me, a furtive silhouette against the door-light, his face turned back over one shoulder.

I couldn't bolt; he was too close for that. The wonder was that he failed to see me, for he stopped within two yards of where I cowered in the shadow and stood for a long time gazing in between the trees at the pillared porch, and I could hear his breathing, uneven and laborious, as though he had been running or fighting. Once I thought he struck out at something with a vicious fist. Then his trouble was gone, between two winks, and he was gone too, up the walk and up the steps, without any to-do about it. I don't know whether he tapped on the door or not. It was open directly. I caught a passing glimpse of Sympathy Gibbs in the black aperture; the door closed on them both, and the Pillar House was dead again.

Now this was an odd way for Minister Malden to fast and pray in the Wilderness--odd enough, one would say, to keep me waiting there a while to see what would come of it all. But it didn't. I had had enough of mysteries for one Summer's night, or at any rate I had enough by the time I got my short legs, full tilt, into the shore street. For I had caught a fleeting glimpse, on the way, of a watcher in the shadow behind the other box-tree--Yen Sin, the heathen, with a surprised eyeball slanting at me over one shoulder.

* * *

Among the most impressive of the phenomena of life, as noted in my thirteenth year, is the amazing way in which a community can change while one is away from it a month. Urkey village at the beginning of my 'teens seemed to me much the same Urkey village upon which I had first opened my eyes. And then I went to make a visit with my uncle Orville Means in Gillyport, just across the Sound, and when I came back on the packet I could assure myself with all the somber satisfaction of the returning exile that I would scarcely have known the old place.

Gramma Pilot's cow had been poisoned. There had been a fire in the Selectmen's room at Town Hall. Amber Matheson had left Mrs. Wharf's Millinery and set up for herself, opposite the Eastern School. And Mate Snow, all of a sudden, had bought the old Pons house, on the hill hanging high over the town, and gone to live there. With a leap, and as it were behind my back, he sat there dominating the village and the harbor and the island--our Great Man.

He took Minister Malden with him, naturally, out of the two rooms over the store, into one room in the third story of the house on the hill--where Sympathy Gibbs could see him if she chose to look that way, as frankly and ignominiously a dependent as any baron's chaplain in the Golden Days.

"She'd have done better with Mate, after all," folks began to say.

But of all the changes in the village, the most momentous to me was the change in Yen Sin. I don't know why it should have been I, out of all the Urkey youth, who went to the Chinaman's; perhaps it was the spiritual itch left from that first adventure on the scow. At any rate, I had fallen into a habit of dropping in at the cabin, and not always with a collar to do.

I had succeeded in worming out of him the meaning of that first set of bird-scratches on my collar-band--"The boy who throws clam-shells"--and of a second and more elaborate writing--"The boy who is courageous in the face of all the water of the ocean, yet trembles before so much of it as may be poured in a wash-basin." There came a third inscription in time, but of that he would not tell me, nor of Mate Snow's, nor the minister's. It was a queer library he had, those fine-written collars of Urkey village.

He had been growing feebler so long and so gradually that I had made nothing of it. Once, I remember, it struck me queer that he wasn't working so hard as he had used to. Still earliest of all and latest of all, he would sometimes leave his iron cooling on the board now and stand for minutes of the precious day, dreaming out of the harbor window. When the sun was sinking, the shaft through the window bathed his head and his lean neck with a quality almost barbaric, and for a moment in the gloom made by the bright pencil, the new, raw things of Urkey faded out, leaving him alone in his ancient and ordered civilization, a little wistful, I think, and perhaps a little frightened, as a child waking from a long, dreaming sleep, to find his mother gone.

He had begun to talk about China, too, and the river where he was born. And I made nothing of it, it came on so gradually, day by day. Then I went away, as I have said, and came back again. I dropped in at the scow the second day after the packet brought me home.

"Hello, there!" I cried, peeping over the counter, "I got a collar for you to--to--" I began to stumble. "Mr. Yen Sin, dear me, what's the matter of you?"

"Mista Yen Sin fine," he said in a strengthless voice, smiling and nodding from the couch where he lay, half propped up by a gorgeous, faded cushion. "Mista Yen Sin go back China way pletty quick now, yes."

"Honest?"

He made no further answer, but took up the collar I had brought.

"You been gone Gillypo't, yes? You take colla China boy, yes?"

"Yessir!"

"He pletty nice man, Sam Low, yes?"

"Oh, you know him, then? Oh, he's all right, Yen Sin."

It was growing dark outside, and colder, with a rising wind from landward to seaward against the tide. A sense of something odd and wrong came over me; it was a moment before I could make it out. The fire was dead in the stove for the first time in memory and the Vestal irons were cold. Yen Sin asked me to light the lamp. In the waxing yellow glow he turned his eyes to mine, and mine were big.

"You know Mista God?" he questioned.

"Oh, yes," I answered soberly. "Yes, indeed."

"Mista God allee same like Mista Yen Sin, yes?"

I felt myself paling at his blasphemy, and thought of lightning.

"Mista God," he went on in the same speculative tone, "Mista God know allee bad things, allee same like Mista Yen Sin, yes?"

"Where is the minister?" I demanded in desperation.

"Mista Yen Sin likee see Mista Minista." When he added, with a transparent hand fluttering over his heart: "Like see pletty quick now," I seemed to fathom for the first time what was happening to him.

"Wait," I cried, too full of awe to know what I said. "Wait, wait, Yen Sin. I'll fetch 'im."

It was dark outside, the sky overcast, and the wind beginning to moan a high note across the roofs as it swept in from the moors and out again over the graying waters. In the shore street my eyes chanced upon the light of Center Church, and I remembered that it was meeting-night.

* * *

There was only a handful of worshippers that evening, but a thousand could have had no more eyes it seemed to me as I tiptoed down the aisle with the scandalized pad-pad of Emsy Nickerson's pursuing soles behind my back. Confusion seized me; I started to run, and had come almost up to Mister Malden before I had wit enough to discover that it wasn't Minister Malden at all, but Mate Snow in the pulpit, standing with an open hymn-book in one hand and staring down at me with grim, inquiring eyes. After a time I managed to stammer:

"The Chinaman, you know--he's goin' to die--the minister--"

Then I fled, dodging Emsy's legs. Confused voices followed me; Aunt Nickerson's full of a nameless horror; Mate Snow's, thundering: "Brother Hemans, you will please continue the meeting. I will go and see what I can do. But your prayers are needed here."

Poor Minister Malden! His hour had struck--the hour so long awaited--and now it was Mate Snow who should go to answer it. Perhaps the night had something to do with it, and the melancholy disaster of the wind. Perhaps it was the look of Mate Snow's back as he passed me, panting on the steps, his head bowed with his solemn and triumphant stewardship. But all of a sudden I hated him, this righteous man. He had so many things, and Minister Malden had nothing--nothing but the Chinaman's soul--and he was going to try and get that too.

I had to find Minister Malden, and right away. But where was he, and on prayer-meeting night too? My mind skipped back. The "Wilderness."

I was already ducking along the Court to reconnoiter the Pillar House, black and silent beyond the box-trees. And then I put my hands in my pockets, my ardor dimmed by the look of that vacant, staring face. What was I, a boy of thirteen, against that house? I could knock at the door, to be sure, as the minister had done that other night. Yes; but when I stood, soft-footed, on the porch, the thought that Sympathy Gibbs might open it suddenly and find me there sent the hands back again into the sanctuary of my pockets. What did I know of her? What did any one know of her? To be confronted by her, suddenly, in the dark behind a green door--I tiptoed down the steps.

If only there were a cranny of light somewhere in the dead place! I began to prowl around the yard, feeling adventurous enough, you may believe, for no boy had ever scouted that bit of Urkey land before. And I did find a light, beneath a drawn shade in the rear. Approaching as stealthily as a red Indian, I put one large, round eye to the aperture.

If I had expected a melodramatic tableau, I was disappointed. I had always figured the inside of the Pillar House as full of treasures, for they told tales of the old whaler's wealth. My prying eyes found it bare, like a deserted house gutted by seasons of tramps. A little fire of twigs and a broken butter-box on the hearth made a pathetic shift at domestic cheer. Minister Malden sat at one side of it, his back to me, his face half-buried in his hands. Little Hope Gibbs played quietly on the floor, building pig-pens with a box of matches, a sober, fire-lined shade. Sympathy Gibbs was not in the picture, but I heard her voice after a moment, coming out from an invisible corner.

"How much do you want this time, Will?"

"Want?" There was an anguished protest in the man's cry.

"Need, then." The voice was softer.

The minister's face dropped back in his hands, and after a moment the words came out between his tight fingers, hardly to be heard.

"Five hundred dollars, Sympathy."

I thought there was a gasp from the corner, suppressed. I caught the sound of a drawer pulled open and the vague rustling of skirts as the woman moved about. Her voice was as even as death itself.

"Here it is, Will. It brings us to the end, Will. God knows where it will come from next time."

"It--it--you mean--" An indefinable horror ran though the minister's voice, and I could see the cords shining on the hands which gripped the chair-arms. "Next time--next year--" His eyes were fixed on the child at his feet. "God knows where it will come from. Perhaps--before another time--something will happen. Dear little Hope--little girl!"

The child's eyes turned with a preoccupied wonder as the man's hand touched her hair; then went back to the alluring pattern of the matches.

Sympathy Gibbs spoke once more.

"I've found out who holds the mortgage, Will. Mr. Dow told me."

His hand slid from Hope's hair and hung in the air. During the momentary hush his head, half-turned, seemed to wait in a praying suspense.

"It's Mate Snow," the voice went on. The man covered his face.

"Thank God!" he said. I thought he shivered. "Then it's all--all right," he sighed after a moment. "I was afraid it might be somebody who would--who might make trouble." He took out a handkerchief and touched his forehead with it. "Thank--God!"

"Why do you thank God?" A weariness, like anger, touched her words.

"Why? Why do I thank God?" He faced her, wondering. "Because he has given me a strong man to be my friend and stand behind me. Because Mate Snow, who might have hated me, has--"

"Has sucked the life out of you!" It came out of the corner like a blade. "Yes, yes, he has sucked the life out of you in his hate, and thrown the dry shell of you to me; and that makes him feel good on his hill there. No, no, no; I'm going to say it now. Has he ever tried to find out what was wrong with us? No. He didn't need to. Why? Because no matter what it was, we were given over into his hands, body and soul. And now it's Mate Snow who is the big man of this island, and it's the minister that eats the crumbs that fall from his table, and folks pity you and honor him because he's so good to you, and--"

And this was Urkey village, and night, and Yen Sin was dying.

"And he's down to the Chinaman's now!" I screamed, walking out of my dream. "An' the Chinaman's dyin' an' wants the minister, an' Mate Snow he got there first."

The light went out in the room; I heard a chair knocked over, and then Minister Malden's voice: "God forgive me! God forgive me!"

I ran, sprawling headlong through the shrubs.

Out in the dark of Lovett's Court I found people all about me, the congregation, let out, hobbling and skipping and jostling shoreward, a curious rout. Others were there, not of the church; Kibby Baker, the atheist, who had heard the news through the church window where he peeped at the worshipers; Miah White's brother, the ship-calker, summoned by his sister; a score of others, herding down the dark wind. At the shore street, folks were coming from the Westward. It was strange to see them all and to think it was only a heathen dying.

Or, perhaps, it wasn't so strange, when one remembered Minister Malden coming down the years with that light in his eyes, building his slow edifice, like one in Israel prophesying the coming of the Messiah.

I shall never forget the picture I saw that night from the deck of the Chinaman's scow. The water here in the lee was as smooth as black glass, save for the little ground-swell that rocked the outer end of the craft. The tide was rising; the grounded end would soon be swimming. There were others on the deck with me, and more on the dock overhead, their faces picked out against the sky by the faint irradiations from the lighted shanty beneath. And over and behind it all ran the tumult of the elements; behind it the sea, where it picked up on the Bight out there beyond our eyes; above it the wind, scouring the channels of the crowded roofs and flinging out to meet the waters, like a ravening and disastrous bride.

Mate Snow stood by the counter in the little cabin, his close-cropped head almost to the beams, his voice, dry austere, summoning the Chinaman to repentance. "Verily, if a man be not born again, he shall not enter into the Kingdom of Heaven." His eyes skipped to the door.

"And to be born again," he went on with a hint of haste, "you must confess, Yen Sin, and have faith. That is enough. The outer and inner manifestations--confession and faith."

"Me, Mista Yen Sin--confessee?"

A curious and shocking change had come over the Chinaman in the little time I had been away. He lay quite motionless on his couch, with a bit of silken tapestry behind his head, like a heathen halo protecting him at last. He was more alive than he had been, precisely because the life had gone out of him, and he was no longer bothered with it. His face was a mask, transparent and curiously luminous, and there for the first time I saw the emotion of humor, which is another name for perception.

His unclouded eyes found me by the door and he moved a hand in a vague gesture. I went, walking stiff-legged, awe mingling with self-importance.

"Mista Boy, please," he whispered in my ear. "The collas on the shelf theah. Led paypah--"

Wondering, I took them down and piled them on the couch beside him, one after another, little bundles done up carefully in flaring tissue with black characters inked on them.

"That one!" he whispered, and I undid the one under his finger, discovering half a dozen collars, coiled with their long imprisonment.

"And that one, and that one--"

They covered his legs and rose about his thin shoulders, those treasured soiled collars of his, gleaming under the lamp like the funeral-pyre of some fantastic potentate. Nothing was heard in the room save the faint crackling of the paper, and after a moment Lem Pigeon murmuring in amazement to his neighbor, over in a corner.

"Look a-there, will ye? He's got my collar with the blood spot onto it where the Lisbon woman's husband hit me that time down to New Bedford. What ye make o' that now?"

Yen Sin lifted his eyes to Mate Snow's hanging over him in wonder.

"Mista Matee Snow confessee, yes?"

There was a moment of shocked silence while our great man stared at Yen Sin. He took his weight from the counter and stood up straight.

"I confess my sins to God," he said.

The other moved a fluttering hand over his collars. "Mista Yen Sin allee same like Mista God, yes."

In the hush I heard news of the blasphemy whispering from lip to lip, out the door and up the awe-struck dock. Mate Snow lifted a hand.

"Stop!" he cried. "Yen Sin, you are standing in the Valley of the Shadow of Death--"

"Mista Matee Snow wickee man? No? Yes? Mista Matee Snow confessee?"

The Chinaman was making a game of his death-bed, and even the dullest caught the challenge. Mate Snow understood. The yellow man had asked him with the divine clarity of the last day either to play the game or not to play the game. And Mate Snow wanted something enough to play.

"Yes," he murmured, "I am weak. All flesh is weak." He faltered, and his brow was corded with the labor of memory. It is hard for a good man to summon up sins enough to make a decent confession; nearly always they fall back in the end upon the same worn and respectable category.

"I confess to the sin of pride," he pronounced slowly. "And to good deeds and kind acts undone; to moments of harshness and impatience--"

"Mista Matee Snow confessee?" Yen Sin shook a weary protest at the cheater wasting the precious moments with words. Mate Snow lifted his eyes, and I saw his face whiten and a pearl of sweat form on his forehead. A hush filled the close cave of light, a waiting silence, oppressive and struck with a new expectancy. Little sounds on the dock above became important--young Gilman Pilot's voice, cautioning: "Here, best take my hand on that ladder, Mr. Malden. Last rung's carried away."

It was curious to see Mate Snow's face at that; it was as if one read the moving history of years in it as he leaned over the counter and touched the dying man's breast with a passion strange in him.

"I will tell you how wicked I am, Yen Sin. Three years ago I did Ginny Silva out of seventy dollars wages in the bogs; and if he's here tonight I'll pay him the last cent of it. And--and--" He appealed for mercy to the Chinaman's unshaken eyes. Then, hearing the minister on the deck behind, he cast in the desperate sop of truth. "And--and I have coveted my neighbor's wife!"

It was now that Minister Malden cried from the doorway: "That is nothing, Yen Sin--nothing--when you think of me!"

You may laugh. But just then, in that rocking death-chamber, with the sea and the dark and the wind, no one laughed. Except Yen Sin, perhaps; he may have smiled, though the mask of his features did not move. Minister Malden stepped into the room, and his face was like new ivory.

"Look at me! I have wanted to bring your soul to Christ before I died. That is white, but all the rest of me is black. I have lived a lie; I have broken a law of God; to cover that I have broken another, another--"

His voice hung in the air, filled with a strange horror of itself. The Chinaman fingered his collars. Without our consent or our understanding, he had done the thing which had so shocked us when he said it with his lips; the heathen sat in judgment, weighing the sins of our little world.

"Yes?" he seemed to murmur. "And then?"

The minister's eyes widened; pain lifted him on his toes.

"I am an adulterer," he cried. "And my child is a--a--bastard. Her mother's husband, Joshua Gibbs, didn't go down with his vessel after all. He was alive when I married her. He is alive today, a wanderer. He learned of things and sent me a letter; it found me at the Infield Conference the day before I came home that time to see my baby. Since that day it has seemed to me that I would suffer the eternity of the damned rather than that that stain should mar my child's life, and in the blackness of my heart I have believed that it wouldn't if it weren't known. I have kept him quiet; I have hushed up the truth. I have paid him money, leaving it for him where he wrote me to leave it. I have gone hungry and ragged to satisfy him. I have begged my living of a friend. I have drained the life of the woman I love. And yet he is never content. And I have betrayed even him. For he forbade me to see his wife ever again, or even to know the child I had begotten, and I have gone to them, in secret, by night. I have sinned not alone against God, but against the devil. I have sinned against--everything!"

* * *

The fire which had swept him on left him now of a sudden, his arms hung down at his sides, his head drooped. It was Mate Snow who broke the silence, falling back a step, as if he had been struck.

"God forgive me," he said in awe. "And I have kept you here. You! To preach the word of God to these people. God forgive me!"

"I think Mista God laugh, yes."

Yen Sin wasn't laughing himself; he was looking at his collars. Mate Snow shrugged his shoulders fiercely, impatient of the interruption.

"I have kept you here," he pursued bitterly, "for the good of my own soul, which would have liked to drive you away. I have kept you here, even when you wanted to go away--"

"Little mousie want to go away. Little cat say, 'no--no.'" Yen Sin's head turned slowly and he spoke on to the bit of yellow silk, his words clear and powerless as a voice in a dream. "No--no, Mousie, stay with little cat. Good little cat. Like see little mousie jump. Little cat!"

Mate Snow wheeled on him, and I saw a queer sight on his face for an instant; the gray wrinkles of age. My cousin Duncan was there, constable of Urkey village, and he saw it too and came a step out of his corner. It was all over in a wink; Mate Snow lifted his shoulders with a sigh, as much as to say: "You can see how far gone the poor fellow is."

The Chinaman, careless of the little by-play, went on.

"Mista Sam Kow nice China fella. Mista Minista go to Mista Sam Kow in Infield, washy colla. Mista Yen Sin lite a letta to Mista Sam Kow, on Mista Minista colla-band. See? Mista Sam Kow lite a letta back on colla-band. See?"

We saw--that the yellow man was no longer talking at random, but slowly, with his eyes on the collar he held in his hand, like a scholar in his closet, perusing the occult pages of a chronicle.

"Mista Sam Kow say: 'This man go night-time in Chestnut Stleet; pickee out letta undah sidewalk, stickee money-bag undah sidewalk, cly, shivah, makee allee same like sick fella. Walkee all lound town allee night. Allee same like Chlistian dlunk man. No sleepee. That's all--Sam Kow.' Mista Yen Sin keepee colla when Mista Minista come back; give new colla: one, two, five, seven time; Mista Minista say: 'You washy colla fine, Yen Sin: this colla, allee same like new.' Mista Matee Snow, his colla allee same like new, too--"

* * *

Something happened so suddenly that none of us knew what was going on. But there was my cousin Duncan standing by the counter, his arm and shoulder still thrust forward with the blow he had given; and there was our great man of the hill flung back against the wall with a haggard grimace set on his face.

"No, you don't!" Duncan growled, his voice shivering a little with excitement. "No, you don't, Mate!"

Mate Snow screamed, and his curse was like the end of the world in Urkey island.

"Curse you! The man's a thief, I tell you. He's stolen my property! I demand my property--those collars there in his hand now. You're constable, you say. Well, I want my--"

He let himself down on the bench, as if the strength had left his knees.

"He's going to tell you lies," he cried. "He's making fools of you all with his--his--Duncan, boy! Don't listen to the black liar. He's going to try and make out 'twas me put the letter under the walk in Chestnut Street, up there to Infield; that it was me, all these years, that went back and got out money he put there. Me! Mate Snow. Duncan, boy; he's going to tell you a low, black-hearted lie!"

"How do you know?" That was all my cousin Duncan said.

To the dying man, nothing made much difference. It was as if he had only paused to gather his failing breath, and when he spoke his tone was the same, detached, dispassionate, with a ghost of humor running through it.

"How many times?" He counted the collars with a finger tip. "One two, tlee, six, seven time. Seven yeahs. Too bad. Any time Mista Minista wantee confessee, Mista God makee allee light. Mista Yen Sin allee same like Mista God. Wait. Wait. Wait. Laugh. Cly inside!"

Mate Snow was leaning forward on the bench in a queer, lazy attitude, his face buried in his hands and his elbows propped on his knees. But no one looked at him, for Minister Malden was speaking in the voice of one risen from the dead, his eyes blinking at the Chinaman's lamp.

"Then you mean--you mean that he--isn't alive? After all? That he wasn't alive--then? You mean it was all a--a kind of a--joke? I--I--Oh, Mate! Mate Snow!"

It was queer to see him turning with his news to his traditional protector. It had been too sudden; his brain had been so taken up with the naked miracle that Gibbs was not alive that all the rest of it, the drawn-out and devious revenge of the druggist, had somehow failed to get into him as yet.

"Mate Snow!" he cried, running over to the sagging figure. "Did you hear, Mate? Eh? It isn't true! It was all a--a joke, Mate!" He shook Snow's shoulder with a pleading ecstasy. "It's been a mistake, Mate, and I am--she is--little Hope is--"

He fell back a step, letting the man lop over suddenly on his doubled knees, and stared blankly at a tiny drug-phial, uncorked and empty, rolling away across the floor. He passed a slow hand across his eyes. "Why--why--I--I'm afraid Mate is--isn't very--well."

Urkey had held its tongue too long. Now it was that the dam gave way and the torrent came whirling down and a hundred voices were lifted. Crowds and shadows distracted the light. One cried. "The man's dead, you fools; can't you see?" A dozen took it up and it ran out and away along the rumbling dock. "Doctor!" another bawled. "He's drank poison! Where's the doctor at?" And that, too, went out, and a faint shout answered from somewhere shoreward that the doctor was out at Si Pilot's place and Miah White was after him, astraddle of the tar-wagon horse. Through it all I can remember Aunt Nickerson's wail continuing, undaunted and unquenchable, "God save our souls! God save our souls!"

And then, following the instinct of the frightened pack, they were all gone of a sudden, carrying the dead man to meet the doctor. I would have gone, too, and I had gotten as far as the door at their heels, when I paused to look back at the Chinaman.

He lay so still over there on the couch--the thought came to me that he, too, was dead. And of a sudden, leaning there on the door-frame, the phantom years trooped back to me, and I saw the man for the first time moving through them--a lone, far outpost of the thing he knew, one yellow man against ten thousand whites, unshaken, unappalled, facing the odds, working so early, so late, day after day and year after year, and smiling a little, perhaps, as he peeped behind the scenes of the thing which we call civilization. Yes, cry as he might inside, he must have smiled outside, sometimes, through those years of terror, at the sight of Minister Malden shrinking at the shadow of the ghost of something that was nothing, to vanish at a touch of light.

And now his foreign service was ended; his post was to be relieved; and he could go wherever he wanted to go.

Not quite yet. He had been dreaming, that was all. His eyes opened, and rested, not on me, but to the right of me. Then I saw for the first time that I wasn't alone in the room with him after all, but that Minister Malden was standing there, where he had stood through all the din like a little boy struck dumb before a sudden Christmas tree.

And like a little boy, he went red and white and began to stammer.

"I--I--Yen Sin--" He held his breath a moment. Then it came out all together. "I'll run and fetch them--both!" With that he was past me, out of the door and up the ladder, and I heard his light feet drumming on the dock, bearing such news as never was.

* * *

The Chinaman's eyes had come to me now, and there was a queer light in them that I couldn't understand. An adventure beyond my little comprehension was taking shape behind them, and all I knew enough to do was to sneak around behind the counter and take hold of one of his fingers and shake it up and down, like one man taking a day's leave of another. His eyes thanked me for my violence; then they were back again to their mysterious speculations. An overweening excitement gathered in them. He frightened me. Quite abruptly, as if an unexpected reservoir of energy had been tapped, the dying man lifted on an elbow and slid one leg over the edge of the couch. Then he glanced at me with an air almost furtive.

"Boy," he whispered. "Run quick gettee Mista Minista, yes."

"But he's coming himself," I protested. "You better lay back."

"Mista Yen Sin askee please! Please, boy."

What was there for me to do? I ran. Once on the dock above, misgivings assailed me. I was too young, and the night was too appalling. I had forgotten the wind, down in the cabin, but in the open here I felt its weight. It grew all the while; its voice drowned the world now, and there was spindrift through it, picked from the back shore of the island and flung all the way across. Objects were lost in it; ghostly things, shore lights, fish-houses, piers, strained seaward. I heard the packet's singing masts at the next wharf, but I saw no packet. The ponderous scow below me became a thing of life and light, an eager bird fluttering at its bonds and calling to the wide spaces. To my bewildered eyes it seemed to move--it was moving, shaking off the heavy hands of bondage, joining itself with the wind. I got down on my knees of a sudden and peered at the deck.

"Yen Sin!" I screamed. "What you doin' out there?"

I saw him dimly in the open air outside his door, fumbling and fumbling at something. This was his great adventure, the thing that had gleamed in his eyes and had tapped that unguessed reservoir of strength. His voice crept back to me, harassed by the wind,

"This velly funny countly, Mista Boy. Mista Yen Sin go back China way."

His bow-line was fast to an iron ring on the wharf. I wanted to hold him back, and I clutched at the rope with my hands as if my little strength were something against that freed thing. The line came up to me easily, cast off from the scow at the other end.

He was waning. His window and door and the little fan-light before the door were all I could see now, and even that pattern blurred and became uncertain and ghostly on the mat of the night. He was clear of the wharves now, and the wind had him--sailing China way--so peaceful, so dreamless, surrounded by his tell-tale cargo of Urkey's unwashed collars.

* * *

I don't know how long it was I crouched there on the timbers, staring out into the havoc of that black night, and listening to the hungry clamor of the Bight. I must have been crying for the minister, over and over, without knowing it, for when my cousin Duncan's hand fell on my shoulder and I started up half out of my wits, he pointed a finger toward the outer edge of the wharf.

And there they were in a little close group, Sympathy Gibbs standing straight with the child in her arms, and Minister Malden down on his knees. There were many people on the pier, all with their eyes to sea, all except Sympathy Gibbs; hers were up-shore, where Mate Snow lay in state on his own counter, all his sweet revenge behind him and gone.

I thought little Hope was asleep in the swathing shawl, till I saw the dark round spots of her eyes. If it was a strange night for the others, it was stranger still to her.

The wind and the rain beat on Minister Malden's bended back. He loved it that way. The missionary was praying for the soul of the heathen.

NONE SO BLIND[21]

[Note 21: Copyright 1917, by Harper and Brothers. Copyright 1918, by Mary Synon.]

BY MARY SYNON

From Harper's Magazine.

We were listening to Leila Burton's music--her husband, and Dick Allport, and I--with the throb of London beating under us like the surge of an ocean in anger, when there rose above the smooth harmonies of the piano and the pulsing roar of the night a sound more poignant than them both, the quavering melody of a street girl's song.

Through the purpling twilight of that St. John's Eve I had been drifting in dreams while Leila had gone from golden splendors of chords which reflected the glow on westward-fronting windows into somber symphonies which had seemed to make vocal the turbulent soul of the city--for Dick Allport and I were topping the structure of that house of life that was to shelter the love we had long been cherishing. With Leila playing in that art which had dowered her with fame, I was visioning the glory of such love as she and Standish Burton gave each other while I watched Dick, sensing rather than seeing the dearness of him as he gave to the mounting climaxes the tense interest he always tendered to Leila's music.

I had known, before I came to love Dick Allport, other loves and other lovers. Because I had followed will-o'-the-wisps of fancy through marshes of sentiment I could appreciate the more the truth of that flame which he and I had lighted for our guidance on the road. A moody boy he had been when I first met him, full of a boy's high chivalry and of a boy's dark despairs. A moody man he had become in the years that had denied him the material success toward which he had striven; but something in the patience of his efforts, something in the fineness of his struggle had endeared him to me as no triumph could have done. Because he needed me, because I had come to believe that I meant to him belief in the ultimate good of living, as well as belief in womanhood, I cherished in my soul that love of him which yearned over him even as it longed for him.

Watching him in the dusk while he lounged in that concentrated quiet of attention, I went on piling the bricks of that wide house of happiness we should enter together; and, although I could see him but dimly, so well did I know every line of his face that I could fancy the little smile that quivered around his lips and that shone from the depths of his eyes as Leila played the measures we both loved. I must have been smiling in answer when the song of the girl outside rose high.

Not until that alien sound struck athwart the power and beauty of the spell did I come to know how high I had builded my castles; but the knocking at the gate toppled down the dreams as Leila swept a discord over the keyboard and crossed to the open window.

In the dusk, as she flung back the heavy curtains, I could see the bulk of Brompton Oratory set behind the houses like the looming back-drop of a painted scene. Nearer, in front of a tall house across the way, stood the singer, a thin girl whose shadowy presence seemed animated by a curious bravery. In a nasal, plaintive voice she was singing the words of a ballad of love and of loving that London, as only London can, had made curiously its own that season. The insistence of her plea--for she sang as if she cried out her life's longing, sang as if she called on the passing crowd not for alms, but for understanding--made her for the moment, before she faded back into oblivion, an artist, voicing the heartache and the heartbreak of womankind; and the artist in Leila Burton responded to the thrill.

Until the ending of the song she stood silent in front of the window, unconscious of the fact that she, and not the scene beyond her, held the center of the stage. Not for her beauty, although at times Leila Burton gave the impression of being exquisitely lovely, was she remarkable, but rather for that receptive attitude that made her an inspired listener. In me, who had known her for but a little while, she awakened my deepest and drowsiest ambition, the desire to express in pictures the light and the shade of the London I knew. With her I could feel the power, and the glory, and the fear, and the terror of the city as I never did at other times. It was not alone that she was all things to all men; it was that she led men and women who knew her to the summits of their aspirations.

Even Standish Burton, big, sullen man that he was, immersed in his engineering problems, responded to his wife's spiritual charm with a readiness that always aroused in Dick and myself an admiration for him that our other knowledge of him did not justify. He was, aside from his relationship to Leila, a man whose hardness suggested a bitter knowledge of dark ways of life. Now, crouched down in the depths of his chair, he kept watching Leila with a gaze of smouldering adoration, revealing that love for her which had been strong enough to break down those barriers which she had erected in the years while he had worked for her in Jacob's bondage. In her he seemed to be discovering, all over again, the vestal to tend the fires of his faith.

Dick Allport, too, bending forward over the table on which his hands fell clenched, was studying Leila with an inscrutable stare that seemed to be of query. I was wondering what it meant, wondering the more because my failure to understand its meaning hung another veil between my vision and my shrine of belief in the fullness of love, when the song outside came to an end and Leila turned back to us.

Her look, winging its way to Standish, lighted her face even beyond the glow from the lamps which she switched on. For an instant his heavy countenance flared into brightness. Dick Allport sighed almost imperceptibly as he turned to me. I had a feeling that such a fire as the Burtons kindled for each other should have sprung up in the moment between Dick and me, for we had fought and labored and struggled for our love as Standish and Leila had never needed to battle. Because of our constancy I expected something better than the serene affectionateness that shone in Dick's smile. I wanted such stormy passion of devotion as Burton gave to Leila, such love as I, remembering a night of years ago, knew that Dick could give. It was the old desire of earth, spoken in the street girl's song, that surged in me until I could have cried out in my longing for the soul of the sacrament whose substance I had been given; but the knowledge that we were, the four of us, conventional people in a conventional setting locked my heart as it locked my lips until I could mirror the ease with which Leila bore herself.

"I have been thinking," she said, lightly, "that I should like to be a street singer for a night. If only a piano were not so cumbersome, I should go out and play into the ears of the city the thing that girl put into her song."

"Why not?" I asked her, "It would be an adventure, and life has too few adventures."

"It might have too many," Dick said.

"Not for Leila," Standish declared. "Life's for her a quest of joy."

"That's it," Dick interposed. "Her adventures have all been joyous."

"But they haven't," Leila insisted. "I'm no spoiled darling of the gods. I've been poor, poor as that girl out there. I've had heartaches, and disappointments, and misfortunes."

"Not vital ones," Dick declared. "You've never had a knock-out blow."

"She doesn't know what one is," Standish laughed, but there sounded a ruefulness in his laughter that told of the kind of blow he must once have suffered to bring that note in his voice. Standish Burton took life lightly, except where Leila was concerned. His manner now indicated, almost mysteriously, that something threatened his harbor of peace, but the regard Leila gave to him proved that the threat of impending danger had not come to her.

"Oh, but I do know," she persisted.

"Vicariously," I suggested. "All artists do."

"No, actually," she said.

"You're wrong," said Standish. "You're the sort of woman whom the world saves from its own cruelties."

There was something so essentially true in his appraisal of his wife that the certainty covered the banality of his statement and kept Dick and myself in agreement with him. Leila Burton, exquisitely remote from all things commonplace, was unquestionably a woman to be protected. Without envy--since my own way had its compensations in full measure--I admitted it.

"I think that you must have forgotten, if you ever knew," she said, "how I struggled here in London for the little recognition I have won."

"Oh, that!" Dick Allport deprecated. "That isn't what Stan means. Every one in the world worth talking about goes through that sort of struggle. He means the flinging down from a high mountain after you've seen the glories, not of this world, but of another, the casting out from paradise after you've learned what paradise may mean. He spoke with an odd timbre of emotion in his voice, a quality that puzzled me for the moment.

"That's it," said Standish, gratefully. "Those are the knock-out blows."

"Well, then, I don't know them"--Leila admitted her defeat--"and I hope that I shall not."

Softly she began to play the music of an accompaniment. There was a familiar hauntingness in its strains that puzzled me until I associated them with the song that Burton used to whistle so often in the times when Leila was in Paris and he had turned for companionship to Dick and to me.

"I've heard Stan murder that often enough to be able to try it myself," I told her.

"I didn't know he knew it," she said. "I heard it for the first time the other day. A girl--I didn't hear her name--sang it for an encore at the concert of the Musicians' Club. She sang it well, too. She was a queer girl," Leila laughed, "a little bit of a thing, with all the air of a tragedy queen. And you should have heard how she sang that! You know the words?"--she asked me over her shoulder:

"And because I, too, am a lover, And my love is far from me, I hated the two on the sands there, And the moon, and the sands, and the sea."

"And the moon, and the sands, and the sea," Dick repeated. He rose, going to the window where Leila had stood, and looking outward. When he faced us again he must have seen the worry in my eyes, for he smiled at me with the old, endearing fondness and touched my hair lightly as he passed.

"What was she like--the girl?" Standish asked, lighting another cigarette.

"Oh, just ordinary and rather pretty. Big brown eyes that seemed to be forever asking a question that no one could answer, and a little pointed chin that she flung up when she sang." Dick Allport looked quickly across at Burton, but Stan gave him no answering glance. He was staring at Leila as she went on: "I don't believe I should have noticed her at all if she hadn't come to me as I was leaving the hall. 'Are you Mrs. Standish Burton?' she asked me. When I told her that I was, she stared me full in the face, then walked off without another word. I wish that I could describe to you, though, the scorn and contempt that blazed in her eyes. If I had been a singer who had robbed her of her chance at Covent Garden, I could have understood. But I'd never seen her before, and my singing wouldn't rouse the envy of a crow!" She laughed light-heartedly over the recollection, then her face clouded. "Do you know," she mused, "that I thought just now, when the girl was singing on the street, that I should like to know that other girl? There was something about her that I can't forget. She was the sort that tries, and fails, and sinks. Some day, I'm afraid, she'll be singing on the streets, and, if I ever hear her, I shall have a terrible thought that I might have saved her from it, if only I had tried!"

"Better let her sort alone," Burton said, shortly. He struck a match and relit his cigarette with a gesture of savage annoyance. Leila looked at him in amazement, and Dick gave him a glance that seemed to counsel silence. There was a hostility about the mood into which Standish relapsed that seemed to bring in upon us some of the urgent sorrows of the city outside, as if he had drawn aside a curtain to show us a world alien to the place of beauty and of the making of beauty through which Leila moved. Even she must have felt the import of his mood, for she let her hands fall on the keys while Dick and I stared at each other before the shock of this crackle that seemed to threaten the perfection of their happiness.

From Brompton came the boom of the bell for evensong. Down Piccadilly ran the roar of the night traffic, wending a blithesome way to places of pleasure. It was the hour when London was wont to awaken to the thrill of its greatness, its power, its vastness, its strength, and its glory, and to send down luminous lanes its carnival crowd of men and women. It was the time when weltering misery shrank shrouded into merciful gloom; when the East End lay far from our hearts; when poverty and sin and shame went skulking into byways where we need never follow; when painted women held back in the shadows; when the pall of night rested like a velvet carpet over the spaces of that floor that, by daylight, gave glimpses into loathsome cellars of humanity. It was, as it had been so often of late, an hour of serene beauty, that first hour of darkness in a June night with the season coming to an end, an hour of dusk to be remembered in exile or in age.

There should have come to us then the strains of an orchestra floating in with the fragrance of gardenias from a vendor's basket, symbols of life's call to us, luring us out beneath stars of joy. But, instead, the bell of Brompton pealed out warningly over our souls, and, when its clanging died, there drifted in the sound of a preaching voice.

Only phrases clattering across the darkness were the words from beyond--resonant through the open windows: "The Cross is always ready, and everywhere awaiteth thee.... Turn thyself upward, or turn thyself downward; turn thyself inward, or turn thyself outward; everywhere thou shalt find the Cross;... if thou fling away one Cross thou wilt find another, and perhaps a heavier."

Like sibylline prophecy the voice of the unseen preacher struck down on us. We moved uneasily, the four of us, as he cried out challenge to the passing world before his voice went down before the surge of a hymn. Then, just as the gay whirl of cars and omnibuses beat once more upon the pavements, and London swung joyously into our hearts again, the bell of the telephone in the hall rang out with a quivering jangle that brought Leila to her feet even as Standish jumped to answer its summons.

She stood beside the piano as he gave answer to the call, watching him as if she expected evil news. Dick, who had moved back into the shadow from a lamp on the table, was staring with that same searching gaze he had bestowed on her when she had lingered beside the window. I was looking at him, when a queer cry from Standish whirled me around.

In the dim light of the hall he was standing with the instrument in his hands, clutching it with the stupidity of a man who has been struck by an unexpected and unexplainable missile. His face had gone to a grayish white, and his hands trembled as he set the receiver on the hook. His eyes were bulging from emotion and he kept wetting his lips as he stood in the doorway.

"What is it?" Leila cried. "What's happened, Stan? Can't you tell me? What is it?"

Not to her, but to Dick Allport, he made answer. "Bessie Lowe is dead!"

I saw Dick Allport's thunderstruck surprise before he arose. I saw his glance go from Standish to Leila with a questioning that overrode all other possible emotion in him. Then I saw him look at Burton as if he doubted his sanity. His voice, level as ever, rang sharply across the other man's distraction.

"When did she die?" he asked him.

"Just now." He ran his hand over his hair, gazing at Dick as if Leila and I were not there. "She--she killed herself down in the Hotel Meynard."

"Why?" Leila's voice, hard with terror, snapped off the word.

"She--she--I don't know." He stared at his wife as if he had just become conscious of her presence. The grayness in his face deepened, and his lips grew livid. Like a man condemned to death, he stared at the world he was losing.

"Who is Bessie Lowe?" Leila questioned. "And why have they called you to tell of her?" Her eyes blazed with a fire that seemed about to singe pretense from his soul.

His hand went to his throat, and I saw Leila whiten. Her hand, resting on the piano, trembled, but her face held immobile, although I knew that all the happiness of the rest of her life hung upon his answer. On what Standish Burton would tell her depended the years to come. In that moment I knew that she loved him even as I loved Dick, even as women have always loved and will always love the men whom fate had marked for their caring; and in a sudden flash of vision I knew, too, that Burton, no matter what Bessie Lowe or any other girl had ever been to him, worshiped his wife with an intensity of devotion that would make all his days one long reparation for whatever wrong he might have done her. I knew, though, that, if he had done the wrong, she would never again be able to give him the eager love he desired, and I, too, an unwilling spectator, waited on his words for his future, and Leila's; but his voice did not make answer. It was Dick Allport who spoke.

"Bessie Lowe is a girl I used to care for," he said. "She is the girl who sang at the Musicians' Club, the girl who spoke to you. She heard that I was going to be married. She wanted me to come back to her. I refused."

He was standing in the shadow, looking neither at Leila nor at me, but at Standish Burton. Burton turned to him.

"Yes," he muttered thickly, "they told me to tell you. They knew you'd be here."

"I see," said Leila. She looked at Standish and then at Dick Allport, and there came into her eyes a queer, glazed stare that filmed their brightness. "I am sorry that I asked questions, Mr. Allport, about something that was nothing to me. Will you forgive me?"

"There is nothing to be forgiven," he said. He turned to her and smiled a little. She tried to answer his smile, but a gasp came from her instead.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, "so sorry for her!"

It was Standish's gaze that brought to me sudden realization that I, too, had a part in the drama. Until I found his steady stare on me I had felt apart from the play that he and Dick and Leila were going through, but with his urgent glare I awoke into knowledge that the message he had taken for Dick held for me the same significance that Leila had thought it bore for her. Like a stab from a knife came the thought that this girl--whoever she was--had, in her dying, done what she had not done in life, taken Dick Allport from me. There went over me numbing waves of a great sense of loss, bearing me out on an ocean of oblivion. Against these I fought desperately to hold myself somewhere near the shore of sensibility. As if I were beholding him from a great distance, I could see Dick standing in the lamplight in front of Leila Burton. Understanding of how dear he was to me, of how vitally part of me he had grown in the years through which I had loved him--sometimes lightly, sometimes stormily, but always faithfully--beaconed me inshore; and the plank of faith in him, faith that held in itself something of forgiving charity, floated out to succor my drowning soul. I moved across the room while Standish Burton kept his unwinking gaze upon me, and Leila never looked up from the piano. I had come beside Dick before he heard me.

He looked at me as if he had only just then remembered that I was there. Into his eyes flashed a look of poignant remorse. He shrank back from me a little as I touched his hand, and I turned to Leila, who had not stirred from the place where she had listened to Standish's cry when he took the fateful message. "We are going," I said, "to do what we can--for her."

She moved then to look at me, and I saw that her eyes held not the compassion I had feared, but a strange speculativeness, as if she questioned what I knew rather than what I felt. Their contemplating quiet somehow disturbed me more than had her husband's flashlight scrutiny, and with eyes suddenly blinded and throat drawn tight with terror I took my way beside Dick Allport out from the soft lights of the Burtons' house into the darkness of the night.

Outside we paused a moment, waiting for a cab. For the first time since he had told Leila of Bessie Lowe, Dick spoke to me. "I think," he said, "that it would be just as well if you didn't come."

"I must," I told him, "It isn't curiosity. You understand that, don't you? It is simply that this is the time for me to stand by you, if ever I shall do it, Dick."

"I don't deserve it." There was a break in his voice. "But I shall try to, my dear. I can't promise you much, but I can promise you that."

Down the brightness of Piccadilly into the fuller glow of Regent Street we rode without speech. Somewhere below the Circus we turned aside and went through dim canons of houses that opened a way past the Museum and let us into Bloomsbury. There in a wilderness of cheap hotels and lodging-houses we found the Meynard.

A gas lamp was flaring in the hall when the porter admitted us. At a desk set under the stairway a pale-faced clerk awaited us with staring insolence that shifted to annoyance when Dick asked him if we might go to Bessie Lowe's room. "No," he said, abruptly. "The officers won't let any one in there. They've taken her to the undertaker's."

He gave us the location of the place with a scorn that sent us out in haste. I, at least, felt a sense of relief that I did not have to go up to the place where this unknown girl had thrown away the greatest gift. As we walked through the poorly lighted streets toward the Tottenham Court Road I felt for the first time a surge of that emotion that Leila Burton had voiced, a pity for the dead girl. And yet, stealing a look at Dick as he walked onward quietly, sadly, but with a dignity that lifted him above the sordidness of the circumstances, I felt that I could not blame him as I should. It was London, I thought, and life that had tightened the rope on the girl.

Strangely I felt a lightness of relief in the realization that the catastrophe having come, was not really as terrible as it had seemed back there in Leila's room. It was an old story that many women had conned, and since, after all, Dick Allport was yet young, and my own, I condoned the sin for the sake of the sinner; and yet, even as I held the thought close to my aching heart, I felt that I was somehow letting slip from my shoulders the cross that had been laid upon them, the cross that I should have borne, the burden of shame and sorrow for the wrong that the man I loved had done to the girl who had died for love of him.

The place where she lay, a gruesome establishment set in behind that highway of reeking cheapness, the Tottenham Court Road, was very quiet when we entered. A black-garbed man came to meet us from a room in which we saw two tall candles burning. Dick spoke to him sharply, asking if any one had come to look after the dead girl.

"No one with authority," the man whined--"just a girl as lived with her off and on."

He stood, rubbing his hands together as Dick went into hurried details with him, and I went past them into the room where the candles burned. For an instant, as I stood at the door, I had the desire to run away from it all, but I pulled myself together and went over to the place where lay the girl they had called Bessie Lowe.

I had drawn back the sheet and was standing looking down at the white face when I heard a sob in the room. I replaced the covering and turned to see in the corner the shadowy form of a woman whose eyes blazed at me out of the dark. While I hesitated, wondering if this were the girl who had lived occasionally with Bessie Lowe, she came closer, staring at me with scornful hate. Miserably thin, wretchedly nervous as she was, she had donned for the nonce a mantle of dignity that she seemed to be trailing as she approached, glaring at me with furious resentment. "So you thought as how you'd come here," she demanded of me, her crimsoned face close to my own, "to see what she was like, to see what sort of a girl had him before you took him away from her? Well, I'll tell you something, and you can forget it or remember it, as you like. Bessie Lowe was a good girl until she ran into him, and she'd have stayed good, I tell you, if he'd let her alone. She was a fool, though, and she thought that he'd marry her some day--and all the time he was only waiting until you'd take him! You never think of our kind, do you, when you're living out your lives, wondering if you care enough to marry the men who're worshipping you while they're playing with us? Well, perhaps it won't be anything to you, but, all the same, there's some kind of a God, and if He's just He'll punish you when He punishes Standish Burton!"

"But I--" I gasped. "Did you think that I--?"

"Aren't you his wife?" She came near to me, peering at me in the flickering candle-light. "Aren't you Standish Burton's wife?"

"No," I said.

"Oh, well"--she shrugged--"you're her sort, and it'll come to the same thing in the end."

She slouched back to the corner, all anger gone from her. Outside I heard Dick's voice, low, decisive. Swiftly I followed the girl. "You must tell me," I pleaded with her, "if she did it because of Standish Burton."

"I thought everybody knew that," she said, "even his wife. What's it to you, if you're not that?"

"Nothing," I replied, but I knew, as I stood where she kept vigil with Bessie Lowe, that I lied. For I saw the truth in a lightning-flash; and I knew, as I had not known when Dick perjured himself in Leila's music-room, that I had come to the place of ultimate understanding, for I realized that not a dead girl, but a living woman, had come between us. Not Bessie Lowe, but Leila Burton, lifted the sword at the gateway of my paradise.

With the poignancy of a poisoned arrow reality came to me. Because Dick had loved Leila Burton he had laid his bond with me on the altar of his chivalry. For her sake he had sacrificed me to the hurt to which Standish would not sacrifice her. And the joke of it--the pity of it was that she hadn't believed them! But because she was Burton's wife, because it was too late for facing of the truth, she had pretended to believe Dick; and she had known, she must have known, that he had lied to her because he loved her.

The humiliation of that knowledge beat down on me, battering me with such blows as I had not felt in my belief that Dick had not been true to me in his affair with this poor girl. Her rivalry, living or dead, I could have endured and overcome--for no Bessie Lowe could ever have won from Dick, as she could never have given to him, that thing which was mine. But against Leila Burton I could not stand, for she was of my world, of my own people, and the crown a man would give to her was the one he must take from me.

There in that shabby place I buried my idols. Not I, but a power beyond me, held the stone on which was written commandment for me. By the light of the candles above Bessie Lowe I knew that I should not marry Dick Allport.

I found him waiting for me at the doorway. I think that he knew then that the light of our guiding lantern had flickered out, but he said nothing. We crossed the garishly bright road and went in silence through quiet streets. Like children afraid of the dark we went through the strange ways of the city, two lonely stragglers from the procession of love, who, with our own dreams ended, saw clearer the world's wild pursuit of the fleeing vision.

We had wandered back into our own land when, in front of the darkened Oratory and almost under the shadow of Leila Burton's home, there came to us through the soft darkness the ominous plea that heralds summer into town. Out of the shadows an old woman, bent and shriveled, leaned toward us. "Get yer lavender tonight," she pleaded. "'Tis the first of the crop, m'lidy."

"That means--" Dick Allport began as I paused to buy.

I fastened the sprigs at my belt, then looked up at the distant stars, since I could not yet bear to look at him. "It means the end of the season," I said, "when the lavender comes to London."

THE YEARBOOK OF THE AMERICAN SHORT STORY FOR 1917

ADDRESSES OF AMERICAN MAGAZINES PUBLISHING SHORT STORIES

NOTE. This address list does not aim to be complete, but is based simply on the magazines which I have considered for this volume.

Ainslee's Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. All-Story Weekly, 8 West 40th Street, New York City. American Magazine, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City. Art World, 2 West 45th Street, New York City. Atlantic Monthly, 3 Park Street, Boston, Mass. Bellman, 118 South 6th Street, Minneapolis, Minn. Black Cat, Salem, Mass. Bookman, 443 Fourth Avenue, New York City. Boston Evening Transcript, 324 Washington Street, Boston, Mass. Century Magazine, 353 Fourth Avenue, 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. Detective Story Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. Everybody's Magazine, Spring and Macdougal Streets, New York City. Every Week, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City. Forum, 286 Fifth Avenue, 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 Magazine, 119 West 40th Street, New York City. Illustrated Sunday Magazine, 193 Main Street, Buffalo, N. Y. Ladies' Home Journal, Independence Square, Philadelphia, Pa. Live Stories, 35 West 39th Street, New York City. McCall's Magazine, 236 West 37th Street, New York City. McClure's Magazine, 251 Fourth Avenue, New York City. Metropolitan Magazine, 432 Fourth Avenue, New York City. Midland, Moorhead, Minn. Milestones, Akron, Ohio. Munsey's Magazine, 8 West 40th Street, New York City. Outlook, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City. Pagan, 174 Centre Street, New York City. Parisienne, Printing Crafts Building, 461 Eighth Avenue, New York City. Pearson's Magazine, 34 Union Square, New York City. Pictorial Review, 216 West 39th Street, New York City. Queen's Work, 3200 Russell Avenue, St. Louis, Mo. Reedy's Mirror, Syndicate Trust Building, St. Louis, Mo. 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, Printing Crafts Building, New York City. Snappy Stories, 35 West 39th Street, New York City. Southern Woman's Magazine, American Building, Nashville, Tenn. Stratford Journal, 32 Oliver Street, Boston, Mass. Sunset Magazine, 460 Fourth Street, San Francisco, Cal. To-day's Housewife, 461 Fourth Avenue, New York City. Top-Notch Magazine, 79 Seventh Avenue, New York City. Touchstone, 118 East 30th Street, New York City. Woman's Home Companion, 381 Fourth Avenue, New York City. Woman's World, 107 So. Clinton Street, Chicago, Ill. Youth's Companion, St. Paul Street, Boston, Mass.

THE BIOGRAPHICAL ROLL OF HONOR OF AMERICAN SHORT STORIES FOR 1917

NOTE. Only stories by American authors are listed. The best sixty-three stories are indicated by an asterisk before the title of the story. The index figures 1, 2, and 3 prefixed to the name of the author indicate that his work has been included in the Rolls of Honor for 1914, 1915, and 1916 respectively.

"AMID, JOHN." (M. M. STEARNS.) Born at West Hartford, Conn., 1884. Lived in New England at Hartford, South Dartmouth, Mass., and Randolph, N. H., until 1903, with the exception of two years abroad. Threatened with blindness when fifteen years old, and gave up school work, but later resumed studies, graduating from Stanford University, 1906. Has been active in newspaper work in Los Angeles. Has since developed water, broken horses, and set out lemon trees. Married. Three children. Good mechanic. Musical. Fond of boating and chess. Authority on turkey raising. At present associate scenario editor of the American Film Company, Santa Barbara, Cal.

Professor, A.

(3) ANDERSON, SHERWOOD. Born in Camden, Ohio. Primary school education. Newsboy until he became strong enough to work; then a day laborer. With American army in Cuban campaign. Studied for a few months at college, Springfield, Ohio. Now an advertising writer. Author of "Windy McPherson's Son" and "Marching Men." Has three novels, three books of short stories, and book of songs unpublished. First short story published, "The Rabbit-pen," Harper's Magazine, July, 1914. Lives in Chicago.

"Mother." Thinker, The. Untold Lie, The.

(3) ANDREWS, MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN. Born at Mobile, Ala. While still a baby, moved with her parents to Lexington, Ky., where she lived until about 1880. Married W. S. Andrews, 1884, now Justice Supreme Court of New York. Chief interests: horseback riding, shooting, and fishing. Author of "The Marshal," "The Enchanted Forest," "The Three Things," "The Good Samaritan," "The Perfect Tribute," "Bob and the Guides," "The Militants," "The Eternal Feminine," "The Eternal Masculine," "The Courage of the Commonplace," "The Lifted Bandage," "Counsel Assigned," "Better Treasure," and "Old Glory." First short story, "Crowned with Glory and Honor," Scribner's Magazine, February, 1902. Resides in Syracuse, N. Y.

Blood Brothers. Return of K. of K., The.

(3) BABCOCK, EDWINA STANTON. Born at Nyack, N. Y. One of eleven children. Academic experience up to age of twenty-three, one year in private school. Attended extension classes in English, Teachers' College, Columbia University. Author "Greek Wayfarers," a volume of verse. First short story, "The Diary of a Cat," Harper's Magazine, August, 1904. Her deepest enthusiasms are children, the mountains of Greece, the French Theatre, and the Irish imagination. She lives at Nyack, N. Y., and Nantucket, Mass.

*Excursion, The.

BARNARD, FLOY TOLBERT. Born in Hunter, Ohio, 1879. High school education in Perry, Iowa. Married Dr. Leslie O. Barnard, 1902. Went West, 1905. Descendant of Rouget de Lisle, author of the "Marseillaise," through her mother. Her great-grandfather dropped the "de" to please a Quaker girl, who would not otherwise marry him, so opposed was she to the French, and to a name so associated with war. Her first story, "--Nor the Smell of Fire," appeared in Young's Magazine February, 1915. Lives in Seattle, Wash.

Surprise in Perspective, A.

BEER, THOMAS. Born in 1889, Council Bluffs, Iowa. Educated at MacKenzie School, Dobbs Ferry, N. Y., Yale College (1911), Columbia Law School. Now in National army. First story, "The Brothers," Century, February, 1917. Chief interest: the theatre. Lives at Yonkers, N. Y.

*Brothers, The. *Onnie.

(3) BOTTOME, PHYLLIS. Born of American parents. Now resident in England. Author of "The Derelict," "The Second Fiddle," and "The Dark Tower."

*Ironstone.

"BRECK, JOHN." (ELIZABETH C. A. SMITH.) Lives in Grosse Isle, Mich.

*From Hungary.

(3) BROOKS, ALDEN. Author of "The Fighting Men." Lives in Paris. Now in the American army in France.

Three Slavs, The.

(23) BROWN, ALICE. Born at Hampton Falls, N. H., 1857. Graduated from Robinson Seminary, Exeter, N. H., 1876. Author "Fools of Nature," "Meadow-Grass," "The Road to Castaly," "The Day of His Youth," "Tiverton Tales," "King's End," "Margaret Warrener," "The Mannerings," "High Noon," "Paradise," "The County Road," "The Court of Love," "Rose MacLeod," "The Story of Thyrza," "Country Neighbors," "John Winterbourne's Family," "The One-Footed Fairy," "The Secret of the Clan," "Vanishing Points," "Robin Hood's Barn," "My Love and I," "Children of Earth," "The Prisoner," "Bromley Neighbourhood," and other books. Lives in Boston.

*Flying Teuton, The. Nemesis.

(1) BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS. Born in Philadelphia, 1882. Educated at Princeton, 1904, and at Merton College, Oxford. Author of "In the High Hills." Instructor of English at Princeton for two years. Then went West, settling in Jackson Hole, Wyo., where he is senior partner of a cattle ranch. He is now in the Signal Corps, Aviation Section, U. S. Army. First story, "The Water-Hole," Scribner's Magazine, July, 1915 (reprinted in "The Best Short Stories of 1915").

*Closed Doors. *Cup of Tea, A. Glory of the Wild Green Earth, The. John O'May. Le Panache.

(13) BUZZELL, FRANCIS. Born in Romeo, Mich., 1882. His father was editor of the Romeo Hydrant, which Mr. Buzzell mentions in his Almont stories as the "Almont Hydrant." Moved when he was seven years old to Port Huron, Mich. Backward student. Educated in private school, and one year in Port Huron High School and Business College. Worked in railroad yards, and at age of nineteen as reporter on Port Huron Herald. At twenty-one became Chicago newspaper reporter, and later, associate editor, Popular Mechanics. In 1912 began literary career by publishing two poems in Poetry. Went to New York determined to become a great poet, and stayed there nine months. Married Miriam Kiper and returned to Chicago. Now a chief petty officer, U. S. N., and associate editor of Great Lakes Recruit. Lives in Lake Bluff, Ill.

*Lonely Places. *Long Vacation, The.

(3) CAMPBELL, FLETA. (See Roll of Honor for 1916 under SPRINGER, FLETA CAMPBELL.) Born in Newton, Kan., 1886, moved to Oklahoma, 1889. Educated in common schools of the frontier, no high school, and a year and a half preparatory school, University of Oklahoma. Lived in Texas and California. First story, "Solitude," Harper's Magazine, March, 1912. Lives in New York City.

*Mistress, The.

CEDERSCHIOeLD, GUNNAR.

*Foundling, The.

CHAMBERLAIN, GEORGE AGNEW. Born of American parents, Sao Paulo, Brazil, 1879. Educated Lawrenceville School, N. J., and Princeton. Unmarried. In consular service since 1904. Now American Consul at Lourenco Marquez, Portuguese East Africa.

Man Who Went Back, The.

CLEGHORN, SARAH NORCLIFFE. Born at Norfolk, Va., 1876. Educated at Burr and Burton Seminary, Manchester, Vt., an old country co-educational school; and one year at Radcliffe. Writer and tutor by profession. Chief interests are anti-vivisection, socialism, and above all, pacifism of the "extreme" kind. She likes best of everything in the world to go on a picnic with plenty of children. First short story, "The Mellen Idolatry," Delineator, about 1900. Author of "A Turnpike Lady," "The Spinster," "Fellow Captains" (with Dorothy Canfield), and "Portraits and Protests." Lives in Manchester, Vt.

"Mr. Charles Raleigh Rawdon, Ma'am."

(23) COBB, IRVIN SHREWSBURY. Born at Paducah, Ky., 1876. Education limited to attendance of public and private schools up to age of sixteen. Reporter and cartoonist for several years; magazine contributor since 1910. Chief interests, outdoor life and travel. First short story, "The Escape of Mr. Trimm," Saturday Evening Post, November, 1910. Author of "Back Home," "Cobb's Anatomy," "The Escape of Mr. Trimm," "Cobb's Bill of Fare," "Roughing It de Luxe," "Europe Revised," "Paths of Glory," "Speaking of Operations," "Local Color," "Fibble, D. D.," "Old Judge Priest," "Speaking of Prussians," "Those Times and These," and "'Twixt the Bluff and the Sound." Lives within commuting distance of New York City.

*Boys Will Be Boys. Cinnamon Seed and Sandy Bottom. *Family Tree, The. *Quality Folks.

(3) CONNOLLY, JAMES BRENDAN. Born at South Boston, Mass. Education, parochial and public schools of Boston and a few months in Harvard. Married Elizabeth F. Hurley, 1904. Clerk, inspector, and surveyor with U. S. Engineering Corps, Savannah, 1892-95. Won first Olympic championship of modern times at Athens, 1896. Served in Cuban campaign and in U. S. Navy, 1907-08. Progressive candidate for Congress, 1912. Member National Institute of Arts and Letters. Author "Jeb Hutton," "Out of Gloucester," "The Seiners," "The Deep Sea's Toll," "The Crested Seas," "An Olympic Victor," "Open Water," "Wide Courses," "Sonnie Boy's People," "The Trawler," "Head Winds," and "Running Free." Lives in Boston.

Breath o' Dawn.

(2) COWDERY, ALICE. Born in San Francisco. Graduate of Leland Stanford University. First short story, "Gallant Age," Harper's Magazine, September, 1914. Lives in California.

Robert.

CRABBE, BERTHA HELEN. Born in 1887 in Coxsackie, N. Y. Her father moved his family to Rockaway Beach, L. I., in 1888, when it was little more than an isolated fishing-station. It was her good fortune to live among the novel conditions attending the rapid growth of this pioneer village, and to be surrounded by those interesting and widely varying types of people who are drawn to a city-in-the-making. Educated in public schools of the Rockaways, and at a boarding school in Tarrytown, N. Y. Student of painting. First story published in 1913 in a magazine of the Munsey group. Lives in Far Rockaway.

Once in a Lifetime.

DOBIE, CHARLES CALDWELL. Born in San Francisco, 1881. Education; grammar school and seventeen years' supplementary schooling in University of Hard Knocks. In fire insurance business for nearly twenty years. First story, "An Invasion," San Francisco Argonaut, Oct. 8, 1910. Gave up business, 1916, to devote himself to literature. Lives in San Francisco.

Empty Pistol, The. Gifts, The. *Laughter. *Our Dog.

DODGE, MABEL.

Farmhands.

(23) DUNCAN, NORMAN. Born at Brantford, Ont., 1871. Educated University of Toronto. On staff New York Evening Post, 1897-01; professor rhetoric, Washington and Jefferson College, 1902-06; adjunct professor English literature, University Of Kansas, 1908-10. Travelled widely in Newfoundland, Labrador, Asia, and Australasia. Died 1916. Author: "The Soul of the Street," "The Way of the Sea," "Dr. Luke of the Labrador," "Dr. Grenfell's Parish," "The Mother," "The Adventures of Billy Topsail," "The Cruise of the Shining Light," "Every Man for Himself," "Going Down from Jerusalem," "The Suitable Child," "Higgins," "Billy Topsail & Company," "The Measure of a Man," "The Best of a Bad Job," "A God in Israel," "The Bird-Store Man," "Australian Byways," and "Billy Topsail, M.D."

*Little Nipper of Hide-an'-Seek Harbor, A.

(13) DWIGHT, H. G. Born in Constantinople, 1875. Educated at St. Johnsbury Academy, St. Johnsbury, Vt., and Amherst College. Chief interests: gardening and sailing. He remembers neither the title nor the date of his first published story. This because he was his own first editor and publisher. "First real story," "The Bathers," Scribner's Magazine, December, 1903. Author of "Constantinople," "Stamboul Nights," and "Persian Miniatures." Lives in Roselle, N. J. Is now an army field clerk in France.

*Emperor of Elam, The.

FERBER, EDNA. Born in Kalamazoo, Mich., 1887. Educated in public and high schools, Appleton, Wis. Began as reporter on Appleton Daily Crescent at seventeen. Employed on Milwaukee Journal and Chicago Tribune; contributor to magazines since 1910. First short story, "The Homely Heroine," Everybody's Magazine, November, 1910. Jewish religion. Author of "Dawn O'Hara," "Buttered Side Down," "Roast Beef Medium," "Personality Plus," "Emma McChesney & Co.," and "Fanny Herself." Co-author with George V. Hobart of "Our Mrs. McChesney." Lives in New York City.

*Gay Old Dog, The.

FOLSOM, ELIZABETH IRONS. Born at Peoria, Ill., 1876. Grandfather and father were both writers. For a number of years member of editorial staff of The Pantagraph at Bloomington, Ill., doing the court work there and reading law at the same time. Left newspaper in 1916 to devote herself to fiction. First short story, "The Scheming of Letitia," Munsey's Magazine, April, 1914. Lives in New York City.

Kamerad.

FRANK, WALDO. Born in 1800, Long Branch, N. J. Educated in New York public schools and at Yale. (B.A., M.A., and Honorary Fellowship.) While still at college, wrote regular signed column of dramatic criticism in New Haven Journal-Courier. Two years' newspaper work in New York. Went to Europe, devoting himself to study of French and German theater. One of the founders and associate editor of the Seven Arts Magazine. Chief interests: fiction, drama, criticism of American literary standards, and strengthening of relations between America and contemporary European (non-English) cultures. First story, "The Fruit of Misadventure," Smart Set, July, 1915. Author of "The Unwelcome Man." Lives in New York City.

*Bread-Crumbs. Candles of Romance, The. Rudd.

(123) FREEMAN, MARY E. WILKINS. Born at Randolph, Mass., 1862. Educated at Randolph and Mt. Holyoke. Married Dr. Charles M. Freeman, 1902. Author of "A Humble Romance," "A New England Nun," "Young Lucretia," "Jane Field," "Giles Corey," "Pembroke," "Madelon," "Jerome," "Silence," "Evelina's Garden," "The Love of Parson Lord," "The Heart's Highway," "The Portion of Labor," "Understudies," "Six Trees," "The Wind In the Rose Bush," "The Givers," "Doc Gordon," "By the Light of the Soul," "Shoulders of Atlas," "The Winning Lady," "Green Door," "Butterfly House," "The Yates Pride," "Copy-Cat," and other books. Lives in Metuchen, N. J.

Boomerang, The. Cloak Also, The. Ring with the Green Stone, The.

GEER, CORNELIA THROOP, is an instructor in Bryn Mawr College.

*Pearls Before Swine.

(123) GEROULD, KATHARINE FULLERTON. Born in Brockton, Mass., 1879. Graduate of Radcliffe College. Married, 1910. Reader in English, Bryn Mawr, 1901-10. Author: "Vain Oblations," "The Great Tradition," "Hawaii," and "A Change of Air." Lives in New Jersey.

*East of Eden. *Hand of Jim Fane, The. *Knight's Move, The. *Wax Doll, The. *What They Seem.

GLASGOW, ELLEN. Born in Richmond, Va., 1874. Educated at home, but this has been supplemented by a wide range of reading, and travel both abroad and in this country. Her first short story was "A Point in Morals," Harper's Magazine, about 1897. Author of "The Descendant," "Some Phases of an Inferior Planet," "The Voice of the People," "The Freeman and Other Poems," "The Battleground," "The Deliverance," "The Wheel of Life," "The Ancient Law," "The Romance of a Plain Man," "The Miller of Old Church," "Virginia," "Life and Gabriella." She lives in Richmond, Va.

*Dare's Gift.

GLASPELL, SUSAN. (Mrs. George Cram Cook.) Born in Davenport, Iowa, 1882. Graduate Drake University. Reporter in Des Moines for several years. The idea for "A Jury of Her Peers" came from a murder trial which she reported. Chief interest: the little theater. Associated with the Provincetown Players. Married George Cram Cook, 1913. First story, "In the Face of His Constituents," Harper's Magazine, October 1903. Author of "The Glory of the Conquered," "The Visioning," "Lifted Masks," "Fidelity," several one-act plays: "Trifles," "Suppressed Desires" (in collaboration with George Cram Cook), "The People," and "Close the Book." Lives in Provincetown and New York City.

*Hearing Ear, The. *Jury of Her Peers, A. Matter of Gesture, A.

(13) GORDON, ARMISTEAD CHURCHILL. Born in Albemarle County, Va., 1855. Educated at classical academy in Warrenton, N. C., and Charlottesville, Va., and at University of Virginia. Lawyer in Staunton, Va., since 1879. First story, "Envion," South Atlantic Magazine, July, 1880. Of this story his friend, Thomas Nelson Page, wrote in a preface to a volume of Mr. Gordon's stories, printed in 1899, but never published, entitled "Envion and Other Tales of Old and New Virginia": "To one of these sketches the writer is personally indebted for the idea of a tragic love affair during the war, an idea which he employed in his story 'Marse Chan,' and also for the method which he adopted of telling the story through the medium of a faithful servant." Author of "Befo' de War: Echoes in Negro Dialect" (with Thomas Nelson Page), "Congressional Currency," "For Truth and Freedom: Poems of Commemoration," "The Gay Gordons," "The Gift of the Morning Star," "The Ivory Gate," "Robin Aroon: A Comedy of Manners," "William Fitzhugh Gordon, a Virginian of the Old School," "J. L. M. Curry" (with E. A. Alderman), "Maje, a Love Story," and "Ommirandy." Lives in Staunton, Va.

*His Father's Flag.

(3) GREENE, FREDERICK STUART. Born in Rappahannock County, Va., 1870. Graduated from Virginia Military Institute, 1890. Civil engineer until May 14, 1917. Now commanding officer of Company "B," 302d Engineers, National Army, Camp Upton, N. Y. His chief interests are to see this war to a successful conclusion, and to devote himself thereafter to writing. First story, "Stictuit," Saturday Evening Post, April 5, 1913. Editor of "The Grim 13." Lives on Long Island, N. Y.

*Bunker Mouse, The. *"Molly McGuire, Fourteen."

(3) HALLET, RICHARD MATTHEWS. Born in Yarmouthport, Mass. Author of "The Lady Aft" and "Trial By Fire."

*Rainbow Pete.

HARRIS, CORRA MAY. Born at Farm Hill, Ga. 1869. Married Rev. Lundy Howard Harris, 1887. Methodist. Began writing for the Independent, 1899. Author: "The Jessica Letters" (with Paul Elmer More), "A Circuit Rider's Wife," "Eve's Second Husband," "The Recording Angel," "In Search of a Husband," and "Co-Citizens." Lives in Rydal, Ga.

Other Soldiers in France, The.

HARTMAN, LEE FOSTER. Born in Fort Wayne, Ind., 1879. Graduate of Wesleyan University. Engaged in newspaper and magazine work in New York City since 1901. Now assistant editor of Harper's Magazine. First story, "My Lady's Bracelet," Munsey's Magazine, October, 1904. Author of "The White Sapphire." Lives in New York City.

*Frazee.

HEMENWAY, HETTY LAWRENCE. (MRS. AUGUSTE RICHARD.) Born in Boston, 1890. Educated in private schools in her home city. She has always been fond of outdoor life and devoted to animals, especially dogs and horses. Married Lieut. Auguste Richard, 1917. First story, "Four Days," Atlantic Monthly, May, 1917, since reprinted in book form.

*Four Days.

HUNT, EDWARD EYRE. Graduate of Harvard. Associated with American Relief Commission in Belgium. Author of "War-Bread."

Ghosts. Saint Dympna's Miracle.

(23) HURST, FANNIE. Born in Hamilton, Ohio, 1889, but spent the first nineteen years of her life in St. Louis, Mo. An only child, and consequently forced into much solitude and a precocious amount of reading. Educated at home and in public schools of St. Louis. Graduate of Washington University. Two years' graduate work at Columbia. After vacillating between writing and the stage, the pen finally conquered, and between 1909 and 1912 just thirty-three manuscripts were submitted to and rejected by one publication alone,--a publication which later came to feature her work. First short story published in Reedy's Mirror, 1909; second story in Smith's Magazine, 1912. Lives in New York City. Active in women's suffrage, tennis and single tax; but her chief interest is her writing, her work-day being six hours long. Has made personal studies of the life she interprets, having at various times apprenticed herself as waitress, saleswoman, and factory-girl. Author of "Just Around the Corner," "Every Soul Hath Its Song," "Gaslight Sonatas."

*Get Ready the Wreaths. Solitary Reaper.

HUTCHISON, PERCY ADAMS. Graduate of, and for some years instructor at, Harvard University.

*Journey's End.

(3) JOHNSON, FANNY KEMBLE. (MRS. VINCENT COSTELLO.) Born in Rockbridge County, Va., and educated in private schools. Moved to Charleston, W. Va., 1897. Married Vincent Costello, 1899. Has lived in Wheeling, W. Va., since 1907. Her chief interests are her four children, her writing, and contemporary history as it is made from day to day. "The Pathway Round," Atlantic Monthly, August, 1900, marked her entrance into the professional magazines. Author of "The Beloved Son."

*Strange-Looking Man, The.

JONES, E. CLEMENT. Born in Boston, 1890. First short story in verse, "Country Breath and the Ungoverned Brother," London Nation, 1911. Contributor to The New Republic and The Seven Arts. Lives in Concord, Mass.

*Sea-Turn, The.

KAUFFMAN, REGINALD WRIGHT. Born at Columbia, Pa., 1877. Educated at St. Paul's School, Concord, and at Harvard. Married, 1909. In newspaper work since 1897. Associate editor Saturday Evening Post, 1904-07; later associate editor Delineator, and managing editor Hampton's Magazine. Author of "Jarvis of Harvard," "The Things That Are Caesar's," "The Chasm," "Miss Frances Baird, Detective," "The Bachelor's Guide to Matrimony," "What is Socialism?", "My Heart and Stephanie," "The House of Bondage," "The Girl That Goes Wrong," "The Way of Peace," "The Sentence of Silence," "The Latter Day Saints" (with Ruth Kauffman), "Running Sands," "The Spider's Web," "Little Old Belgium," "In a Moment of Time," "Jim," and "The Silver Spoon." Lives in Columbia, Pa.

Lonely House, The.

KLINE, BURTON. Born at Williamsport, Pa., 1877. Educated at Dickinson Seminary, Williamsport, and at Harvard. Married, 1909. Newspaper man. Magazine editor Boston Transcript. Republican. Lutheran. Author of "Struck by Lightning" and "The End of the Flight." Lives in Arlington, Mass.

*Caller in the Night, The.

KRYSTO, CHRISTINA. Born in Batum, Russia, 1887. Her early education was thoroughly Russian. She was taught at home and given unrestricted freedom in a really fine library. Emigrated to California when nine years old. Studied at University of California. Now engaged in ranch work and the endeavor to arrange her life so that there will be room in it for writing. "Babanchik" is her first story. She lives in Alta Loma, Cal.

Babanchik.

LEE, JENNETTE. Born at Bristol, Conn., 1860. Attended Bristol schools. Began teaching, 1876. Graduated from Smith College, 1886. First story, "Bufiddle," published in the Independent, 1886. Taught English at Vassar, Western Reserve College for Women, and Smith College. Her special interest is relating education to life. Resigned professorship in English at Smith College, 1913. Married Gerald Stanley Lee, 1896. Author of "Kate Wetherell," "A Pillar of Salt," "The Son of a Fiddler," "Uncle William," "The Ibsen Secret," "Simeon Tetlow's Shadow," "Happy Island," "Mr. Achilles," "The Taste of Apples," "The Woman in the Alcove," "Aunt Jane," "The Symphony Play," "Unfinished Portraits," and "The Green Jacket." She lives in Northampton, Mass.

John Fairchild's Mirror.

LEWIS, ADDISON. Born in Minneapolis, 1889. Educated in public schools. Graduated from University of Minnesota in 1912. Regards as a liberal share of his education a very brief circus career, and five years spent as assistant managing editor of The Bellman and the Northwestern Miller. His professions are journalism and advertising; is bothered mostly with the necessity of getting the nebulous idea for a story on paper, freshwater sailing, and the problem of improving his game of golf. First story, "The End of the Lane," Reedy's Mirror, Feb. 2, 1917. He lives in Minneapolis.

*When Did You Write Your Mother Last?

LONDON, JACK. Born at San Francisco, 1876. Educated at University of California. Married Bessie Maddern, 1900; Charmian Kittredge, 1905. Went to the Klondike instead of graduating from college; went to sea before the mast; traveled as a tramp through the United States and Canada; war correspondent during the Russo-Japanese War; and navigated his yacht "Snark" in the South Seas, 1907-09. Socialist. Author of "The Son of the Wolf," "The God of His Fathers," "A Daughter of the Snows," "The Children of the Frost," "The Cruise of the Dazzler," "The People of the Abyss," "Kempton-Wace Letters," "The Call of the Wild," "The Faith of Men," "The Sea Wolf," "The Game," "War of the Classes," "Tales of the Fish Patrol," "Moon-Face," "Scorn of Women," "White Fang," "Before Adam," "Love of Life," "The Iron Heel," "The Road," "Martin Eden," "Lost Face," "Revolution," "Burning Daylight," "Theft," "When God Laughs," "Adventure," "The Cruise of the Snark," "South Sea Tales," "Smoke Bellew Tales," "The House of Pride," "A Son of the Sun," "The Night-Born," "The Abysmal Brute," "John Barleycorn," "The Valley of the Moon," "The Strength of the Strong," "The Mutiny of the Elsinore," "The Scarlet Plague," "The Star Rover," "The Little Lady of the Big House," "Jerry," and "Michael, the Brother of Jerry." He died in 1916.

Like Argus of the Ancient Time.

(3) MARSHALL, EDISON. Born in Rensselaer, Ind. Moved to Medford, Ore., in 1907. Educated at University of Oregon. In newspaper work till 1916. Now writing for the magazines. Unmarried. Chief interests: hunting and fishing. His first story was, "The Sacred Fire," Argosy, April, 1915. Age, twenty-four. Principal ambition is to get to France. Lives in Medford, Ore.

Man that Was in Him, The.

MASTERS, EDGAR LEE. Born at Garnett, Kan., 1868. Educated at high school and Knox College. Studied law in his father's office. Admitted to the bar, 1891. Married, 1898. Democrat. Author of "A Book of Verses," "Maximilian," "The New Star Chamber and Other Essays," "Blood of the Prophets," "Althea," "The Trifler," "Spoon River Anthology," "Songs and Satires," and "The Great Valley." His first story was published in the Peoria Call in 1886 or 1887, and in 1889 he published several short stories in the Waverly Magazine. Lives in Chicago.

Boyhood Friends. *Widow La Rue.

MORTON, JOHNSON.

*Understudy, The.

NAFE, GERTRUDE. Born in Grand Island, Neb., 1883. Graduate of University of Colorado. Teaches English in East Denver High School. Her chief interest in life is revolution. Her first contribution was "The Woman Who Stood in the Market Place," published in Mother Earth in February, 1914. Lives in Denver, Colo.

One Hundred Dollars.

NICHOLSON, MEREDITH. Born at Crawfordsville, Ind., 1866. Educated in Indianapolis public schools. Married, 1896. Member of National Institute of Arts and Letters. Author of "Short Flights," "The Hoosiers," "The Main Chance," "Zelda Dameron," "The House of a Thousand Candles," "Poems," "The Port of Missing Men," "Rosalind at Red Gate," "The Little Brown Jug at Kildare," "The Lords of High Decision," "The Siege of the Seven Suitors," "The Hoosier Chronicle," "The Provincial American," "Otherwise Phyllis," "The Poet," "The Proof of the Pudding," "The Madness of May," and "A Reversible Santa Claus."

"My first literary tinklings were in verse; you will note two volumes of poems in my list. Finding at fifteen that the schools within my reach did not meet my requirements, I went to work and began educating myself along lines of least resistance. My occupations were various: worked in printing offices, learned shorthand, became stenographer in a law office; was in newspaper work for twelve years; at thirty was auditor and treasurer of a coal-mining corporation in Colorado; after three years of business became a writer of books. When I was eighteen I wrote three short stories which were published, and after that wrote no fiction till I was thirty-two. I haven't thought of it before, but it was odd that I wrote no short stories and had no interest in that form until about five years ago. Since then I have done a number every year. Without being a politician, I have dabbled somewhat in political matters, making speeches at times, and abusing my fellow partisans (I am a Democrat) when they needed chastisement. I have been defeated for nominations and have declined nominations, and I once refused a foreign appointment of considerable dignity that was very kindly offered me by a President. When it comes to 'interests' I have, I suppose, a journalistic mind. Anything that is of contemporaneous human interest interests me--even free verse, which I despise, but read." Mr. Nicholson lives in Indianapolis.

*Heart of Life, The.

NORTON, ROY. Born at Kewanee, Ill., 1869. High school education. Studied law, mining, and languages. Married, 1894. Practiced law at Ogden, 1892. In newspaper work for some years. Democrat. Roman Catholic. Mason. Author of "Guilty" (with William Hallowell), "The Vanishing Fleets," "The Toll of the Sea," "Mary Jane's Pa," "The Garden of Fate," "The Plunderer," "Captains Three," "The Mediator," "The Moccasins of Gold," "The Boomers," and "The Man of Peace." Lives in New Jersey.

Aunt Seliny.

(2) O'BRIEN, SEUMAS. Born at Glenbrook, County Cork, Ireland, April 26, 1880,--three days and three hundred and sixteen years (?) after Mr. William Shakespeare of Stratford-on-Avon. Education: none or very little, and less German than French. Profession: pessimist. Chief interests: Russian Jewesses and American dollars. In more sober truth, education: Presentation Brothers Schools, Cork School of Art, Cork School of Music, Metropolitan School of Art, Dublin, and Royal College of Art, London. Profession: sculptor and dramatist. Chief interests: literature, art, and music. First magazine to publish his work, The Tatler. Author of "The Whale and the Grasshopper," "Duty, and Other Irish Comedies," and "The Knowledgeable Man." Lives in Brooklyn, N. Y.

*Murder?

O'HIGGINS, HARVEY J. Born in London, Ont., 1876. Educated at public schools and Toronto University. In newspaper work from 1897 to 1902. First short story, "Not for Publication," in Youth's Companion, March, 1902. Chief interests: those of a publicist, aiding social and political reforms. Author of "The Smoke Eaters," "Don-a-Dreams," "A Grand Army Man," "Old Clinkers," "The Beast and the Jungle" (with Judge Ben B. Lindsey), "Under the Prophet in Utah" (with Frank J. Cannon), "The Argyle Case" (with Harriet Ford), "The Dummy," "Polygamy," "Silent Sam" (with Harriet Ford), and "Adventures of Detective Barney." He lives in New Jersey.

From the Life: Thomas Wales Warren.

(3) O'SULLIVAN, VINCENT. Born in New York, 1872. Graduate of Oxford. Author of "The Good Girl," "Sentiment," "Of Human Affairs," and many other books. Lives in Brooklyn, N. Y.

*Interval, The.

PANGBORN, GEORGIA WOOD. Born at Malone, N. Y., 1872. Educated at Franklin Academy, Malone; Packer Institute, Brooklyn, and Smith College. Married, 1894. First short story, "The Grek Collie," Scribner's Magazine, July, 1903. Author of "Roman Biznet" and "Interventions." Lives in New York City.

*Bixby's Bridge.

PERRY, LAWRENCE. Born in Newark, N. J., 1875. Educated in public and private schools. He had a choice between college and the New York Sun (Charles A. Dana, then editor) as a medium of higher education. Has always regarded his decision in favor of the Sun as wise, considering an ambition to learn life and then write about it. On staff of Sun and Evening Sun, 1897-1905. Went to Evening Post, 1906; there organized and edited "Yachting" until 1909. Has since concentrated on inter-collegiate sport and fiction. His first story, "Joe Lewis," in Frank Leslie's Popular Monthly, September, 1902. Author of "Dan Merrithew," "Prince or Chauffeur," "Holton," and "The Fullback." Lives in New York City.

*"Certain Rich Man, A.--"

PORTOR, LAURA SPENCER.

Boy's Mother, The. Idealist, The.

POTTLE, EMERY. Is a poet and short-story writer of distinction, now with the Aviation Corps in France, specializing in Observation Balloon work.

Breach in the Wall, The. *Portrait, The.

PROUTY, OLIVE HIGGINS. Born in Worcester, Mass., 1882. Educated in public schools. Graduated from Smith College, 1904. Post-graduate work at Simmons College and Radcliffe. Chief interests: home and her children's development and education. Married in 1907. First story, "When Elise Came," American Magazine, April, 1909. Author of "Bobbie, General Manager," and "The Fifth Wheel." Lives in Brookline, Mass.

New England War Bride, A.

PULVER, MARY BRECHT. Born in Mount Joy, Pa., 1883. Educated in public schools, normal school, and Philadelphia School of Applied Art. Married, 1906. Chief interests: music, painting, and literature. Author of "The Spring Lady." Lives in Binghamton, N. Y.

*Path of Glory, The.

RAISIN, OVRO'OM, is a distinguished Yiddish writer of fiction now living in New York City.

Ascetic, The.

RICHARDSON, NORVAL. Born at Vicksburg, Miss., 1877. Educated at Lawrenceville School, N. J., and Southwestern Presbyterian University. Secretary and treasurer Lee Richardson & Company. In diplomatic service since 1909 at Havana, Copenhagen, and Rome. Author of "The Heart of Hope," "The Lead of Honour," "George Thorne," and "The Honey Pot." Is now connected with the American Embassy, Rome, Italy.

*Miss Fothergill.

(23) ROSENBLATT, BENJAMIN. Born on New Year's Eve, 1880, in a tiny Russian village named Resoska. When he was ten, his parents brought him to New York, where he was set to work in a shop at once. Later he sold newspapers. At the age of seventeen his first story in Yiddish, entitled "She Laughed," appeared in Voerwarts. At that time he studied English diligently, and prepared himself for college. For a number of years he was a frequent contributor to the Jewish press. His first English story, entitled "Free," appeared in The Outlook, July 4, 1903. After leaving the normal training school he taught English to foreigners, opening a preparatory school. His story "Zelig," in my opinion, was the best American short story in 1915. He is now attending New York University, and is an insurance agent. He lives in Brooklyn, N. Y.

Madonna, The.

SCHNEIDER, HERMAN. Born at Summit Hill, Pa., 1872. Graduated from Lehigh University in science, 1894. Now Dean of the College of Engineering, University of Cincinnati. Profession: civil engineer. Chief interests: advancing technical education, promoting scientific research, and planning methods to give free outlook to the creative genius of the country in science, art, music, literature, and every other phase of human endeavor. Author of "Education for Industrial Workers." First short story, "Arthur McQuaid, American," Outlook, May 23, 1917. At present, living in Washington, working in the Ordnance Department on industrial service problems.

Shaft of Light, A.

SHEPHERD, WILLIAM GUNN, is a war correspondent in Europe, who was with Richard Harding Davis at Salonika when the incident occurred which suggested to Davis the idea for his short story, "The Deserter."

*Scar that Tripled, The.

SHOWERMAN, GRANT. Born in Brookfield, Wis., 1870, of Dutch and English stock, his grandfather, Luther Parker, having in 1836 driven the entire distance from Indian Stream, N. H., to Wisconsin, where he was the first permanent settler in his township. Educated in Brookfield district school, Carroll College, and University of Wisconsin. Fellow in the American School of Classical Studies at Rome, 1898-1900. Married, 1900. Now professor of classics, University of Wisconsin. Interested chiefly in literature and finds his diversion on the Four Lakes. First short story, "Italia Liberata," Scribner's Magazine, January, 1908. Author of "With the Professor," a translation of Ovid's "Heroides" and "Amores," "The Indian Stream Republic and Luther Parker," "A Country Chronicle," and "A Country Child." Lives in Madison, Wis.

*Country Christmas, A.

(123) SINGMASTER, ELSIE. (MRS. HAROLD LEWARS.) Born at Schuylkill Haven, Pa., 1879. Graduate of Radcliffe College. Her first story, "The Lese Majeste of Hans Heckendorn," Scribner's Magazine, November, 1905. Author of "When Sarah Saved the Day," "When Sarah Went to School," "Gettysburg," "Katy Gaumer," "Emmeline," "The Long Journey," "Martin Luther: the Story of His Life," and "History of Lutheran Missions." Lives in Gettysburg, Pa.

*Christmas Angel, The. *Flag of Eliphalet, The.

SMITH, ELIZABETH C. A. (See "BRECK, JOHN.")

(23) SMITH, GORDON ARTHUR, was born in Rochester, N. Y., 1886. Educated at Harvard. Studied architecture in Paris for four years. Now a writer by profession. Chief interests: aviation, architecture, and music. First published story, "The Bottom of the Sea," in Black Cat at age of sixteen. Author of "Mascarose" and "The Crown of Life." Now an ensign in the U. S. Navy Flying Forces, "somewhere in France." Home: Rochester, N. Y.

*End of the Road, The. Friend of the People, A.

(23) SNEDDON, ROBERT W. Born in 1880 at Beith, Ayrshire, Scotland, the son of a doctor. Studied arts and law at Glasgow University, and served law apprenticeship at Glasgow and Edinburgh. Lived in London and Paris, and since 1909 has lived in New York. First short story, "Little Golden Shoes," The Forum, August, 1912. Author of "The Might-Have-Beens." Fond of outdoors and fireside. Chief interest: reaching the heart of the public. Chief sport: hunting for a publisher for three volumes of short stories and for producers for his plays.

"Mirror! Mirror! Tell Me True!"

"STAR, MARK," is the pseudonym of a lady who prefers to remain unknown.

Garden of Sleep, The.

(23) STEELE, WILBUR DANIEL. Born in Greensboro, N. C., 1886. Educated at University of Denver. Studied art in Denver, Boston, and Paris. First short story, "On the Ebb Tide," Success, 1910. Author of "Storm." Lives in Provincetown, Mass.

*Ching, Ching, Chinaman. Devil of a Fellow, A. Free. *Ked's Hand. Point of Honor, A. *White Hands. *The Woman at Seven Brothers.

STEFFENS, (JOSEPH) LINCOLN. Born at San Francisco, 1866. Educated at University of California, Berlin, Heidelberg, Leipzig, Paris, and Sorbonne. Married, 1891. In newspaper work, 1892-1902. Since then managing and associate editor at different times of McClure's Magazine, American Magazine, and Everybody's Magazine. Author of "The Shame of the Cities," "The Struggle for Self Government," "Upbuilders," and "The Least of These." He lives in New York City.

Bunk. Great Lost Moment, The.

SULLIVAN, ALAN, is a Canadian author.

Only Time He Smiled, The.

(123) SYNON, MARY. Born in Chicago, 1881. Educated at St. Jarlath's School, West Division High School, and University of Chicago. In newspaper work since 1900. Chosen by Gaelic League in 1912 to write for American newspapers a series of articles on the Irish situation. First story, "The Boy Who Went Back to the Bush," Scribner's Magazine, November, 1909. For three years secretary of the Woman's Auxiliary of the Catholic Church Extension Society; now executive secretary of the Woman's Liberty Loan Committee. Author of "The Fleet Goes By." Lives in Wilmette, Ill.

Clay-Shattered Doors. End of the Underground, The. *None So Blind.

TABER, ELIZABETH STEAD.

*Scar, The.

(3) VORSE, MARY HEATON. (MARY HEATON VORSE O'BRIEN.) Born in New York. Never went properly to school because her family traveled widely, but studied art in Paris at several academies. She is most interested in radical thought, especially as expressed in the radical wing of the labor movement. Married Albert W. Vorse, 1898; Joseph O'Brien, 1912. First story, "The Boy Who Didn't Catch Things," Everybody's Magazine, June, 1904. Author of "The Breaking in of a Yachtsman's Wife," "The Very Little Person," "The Autobiography of an Elderly Woman," "The Heart's Country," and "The Ninth Man." Lives in Provincetown, Mass., and New York City.

Great God, The. Pavilion of Saint Merci, The.

(23) WESTON, GEORGE. Born in New York, 1880. High school education. Studied law and founded the Western Engineering Company. On editorial staff of New York Evening Sun from 1900. Retired to farm in Connecticut, 1912. An enthusiastic sportsman, farmer, and motorist. Single, white, an ardent Republican, a staunch admirer of Mr. Charles Chaplin, an accomplished listener to the violin, a Latin versifier, a connoisseur of roses, a fancier of fox-terriers, a lover of shad-roe and bacon, and a never-swerving champion of woman's suffrage. First short story, "After Many Years," Harper's Magazine, 1910. Author of "Oh, Mary, Be Careful!" Lives in Packer, Conn.

Perfect Gentleman, A.

THE ROLL OF HONOR OF FOREIGN SHORT STORIES IN AMERICAN MAGAZINES FOR 1917

NOTE. Stories of special excellence are indicated by an asterisk. The index figures 1, 2, and 3 prefixed to the name of the author indicate that his work has been included in the Rolls of Honor for 1914, 1915, and 1916 respectively.

I. ENGLISH AND IRISH AUTHORS

(23) AUMONIER, STACY.

*In the Way of Business. *Packet, The. *Them Others.

(3) BERESFORD, J. D.

*Escape, The. *Little Town, The. *Powers of the Air.

(13) CONRAD, JOSEPH.

*Warrior's Soul, The.

DUDENEY, MRS. HENRY.

*Feather-bed, The.

DUNSANY, LORD.

*How the Gods Avenged Meoul Ki Ning.

(123) GALSWORTHY, JOHN.

*Defeat. Flotsam and Jetsam. Juryman, The.

GEORGE, W. L.

*Interlude.

GIBSON, WILFRID WILSON.

*News, The.

HAMILTON, COSMO.

Ladder Leaning on a Cloud, The.

HOUSEMAN, LAURENCE.

Inside-out.

LAWRENCE, D. H.

*England, My England. *Mortal Coil, The. *Thimble, The.

LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD.

Bugler of the Immortals, The.

MACHEN, ARTHUR.

*Coming of the Terror, The.

MACMANUS, SEUMAS.

*Mad Man, the Dead Man, and the Devil, The.

MORDAUNT, ELINOR.

*Gold Fish, The.

PERTWEE, ROLAND.

*Camouflage. *Red and White.

(3) SOUTAR, ANDREW.

Behind the Veil.

THOMAS, EDWARD.

*Passing of Pan, The.

(3) WYLIE, I. A. R.

*Holy Fire. *'Melia No-Good. *Return, The.

II. TRANSLATIONS

ANDREYEV, LEONID NIKOLAEVICH. (Russian.)

*Lazarus.

ANONYMOUS. (German.)

Evocation, The. "Huppdiwupp."

BAZIN, RENE. (French.)

*Mathurine's Eyes.

BOUTET, FREDERIC. (French.)

*Medallion, The.

CHEKHOV, ANTON. (Russian.) (See TCHEKHOV, ANTON.)

CHIRIKOV, EVGENIY. (Russian.)

*Past, The.

DELARUE-MADRUS, LUCIE. (French.)

*Death of the Dead, The.

HEINE, ANSELMA. (German.)

*Vision, The.

LE BRAZ, ANATOLE. (French.)

Christmas Treasure, The.

LEV, BERNARD. (Bohemian.)

Bert, the Scamp. *Marfa's Assumption.

MADEIROS E ALBUQUERQUE, JOSE DE. (Brazilian.)

*Vengeance of Felix, The.

NETTO, COELHO. (Brazilian.)

*Pigeons, The.

PHILIPPE, CHARLES-LOUIS. (French.)

*Meeting, The.

RINCK, C. A. (German.)

Song, The.

SALTYKOV, M. Y. ("N. SCHEDRIN.") (Russian.)

*Hungry Officials and the Accommodating Muzhik, The.

"SKITALETS." (Russian.)

*"And the Forest Burned."

TCHEKHOV, ANTON. (Russian.)

Dushitchka. *Old Age.

THE BEST BOOKS OF SHORT STORIES OF 1917: A CRITICAL ANALYSIS

CHRISTMAS TALES OF FLANDERS, illustrated by Jean de Bosschere (Dodd, Mead & Co.). If you like Andersen's Fairy Tales, here is a book which comes as truly from the heart of a people. Many old folk legends are here set down just as they came from the lips of old people in Flanders, and as they have never grown old in that countryside let us hope that they will take root equally well here. The volume is superbly illustrated with many pictures from the whimsical fancy of Jean de Bosschere. These pictures are indescribable, but they will rejoice the heart of any child, old or young.

FROM DEATH TO LIFE by A. Apukhtin, translated by R. Frank and E. Huybers (R. Frank). This story, which so happily inaugurates a series of translations from Russian literature, is a poetic study in life after death, chronicling the experiences of a soul between death and rebirth. The translators have succeeded in reflecting successfully the fine imaginative style of this prose poem, which deserves to be widely known. It tempts us to wish that other stories by Apukhtin may soon find an English translator.

TALES OF THE REVOLUTION by Michael Artzibashev, translated by Percy Pinkerton. (B. W. Huebsch.) The five tales by Artzibashev included in this volume all have the same quality of bitter irony and mordant self-analysis. The psychological revelation of the mind that has made the later phases of the present Russian Revolution possible is complete, and I know of no book that presents more clearly and truthfully the rudderless pessimism of these particular spiritual reactions. Such courageous dissection of the diseased mind has never been undertaken in American or English fiction, and though its realism is appalling, it is healthful in its naked frankness.

THE FRIENDS by Stacy Aumonier (The Century Co.). When "The Friends" was published two years ago in The Century Magazine, it was evident at once that an important new short-story writer had arrived. The homely humanity of his characterization was but the evidence of a rich imaginative talent that found self-expression in the more quiet ways of life. I said at the time that I believed "The Friends" to be one the two best short stories of 1915, and others felt it to be the best story of the year. To "The Friends" have now been added in this volume two other stories of almost equal distinction,--"The Packet" and "'In the Way of Business.'" While Mr. Aumonier has a certain didactic intention in these stories, he has kept it entirely subordinate to the artistry of his exposition, and it is the few characters which he has added to English fiction that we remember after his somewhat obvious moral has been conveyed. His short stories have the same flavor of belated Victorianism that one enjoys in the novels of William De Morgan, and he is equally noteworthy in his chosen field.

IRISH IDYLLS by Jane Barlow (Dodd, Mead & Co.). This new edition of "Irish Idylls" should introduce the admirable studies of Miss Barlow to a new audience that may not be familiar with what was a pioneer volume in its day. Published in 1893, it almost marked the beginning of the Irish literary movement, and so many fine writers followed Miss Barlow that she has been most unfairly concealed by their shadows. Her studies of the lives and deaths, joys and sorrows, of Connemara peasants are none the less real because they are the product of observation by one who did not live among them. They show, as Miss Barlow says, that "there are plenty of things beside turf to be found in a bog." It is true that they represent a slight spirit of condescension, entirely absent from the work of Padraic Colum, for instance, but they approach far more closely to the heart of the Irish fishermen and farmers than the work of any other English type of mind; and although Miss Barlow is best known today by her poetry, I have always felt that she conveyed more poetry into "Irish Idylls" than into any other of her books. The volume is a necessary and permanent edition to any small collection of modern Irish literature.

DAY AND NIGHT STORIES by Algernon Blackwood (E. P. Dutton & Co.). In these fifteen short stories Mr. Blackwood has adequately maintained the quality of his best previous animistic work. To those who found a new imaginative world in "The Centaur" and "Pan's Garden," the old familiar magic still has power in many of these stories,--almost completely in "The Touch of Pan" and "Initiation." Hardly inferior to these stories for their passionate reality are "The Other Wing," "The Occupant of the Room," "The Tryst," and "H. S. H." There is no story in this volume which would not have made the reputation of a new writer, and I can hardly find a better introduction than "Day and Night Stories" to the beauty of Mr. Blackwood's imaginative life. He serves the same altar of beauty in our day that John Keats served a century ago, and I cannot but believe that his magic will gain greater poignancy as generations pass.

THE DERELICT by Phyllis Bottome (The Century Co.). This collection of Miss Bottome's short stories, many of which have previously appeared in the Century Magazine during the past two years, gives a more complete revelation of her talent than either of her novels. I suspect that the short story is her true literary medium, and certainly there are at least six of these eight short stories which I should be compelled to list with three stars in my annual Roll of Honor. In subject and mood they range from tragedy to social comedy. Elsewhere in this volume I have discussed "'Ironstone,'" which seems to me the best of these stories. A subtle irony pervades them, but it is so definitely concealed that its insistence is never evident.

OLD CHRISTMAS, AND OTHER KENTUCKY TALES IN VERSE by William Aspenwall Bradley (The Houghton-Mifflin Co.). In this series of vignettes in verse Mr. Bradley has presented the Kentucky mountaineer as imaginatively as Robert Frost has presented the farmer-folk of New Hampshire in "North of Boston" and "Mountain Interval." The racy humor of these narratives is thoroughly indigenous, and Mr. Bradley's work has a vivid dramatic power which challenges successfully a comparison with the stories of John Fox, Jr. These poems prove Mr. Bradley's rightful claim to be the first adequate imaginative interpreter of the people who live in the Cumberland Mountains.

THE FIGHTING MEN by Alden Brooks (Charles Scribner's Sons). Of these six stories four have been published in Collier's Weekly during the past two years, and elsewhere I have had occasion to comment upon their excellence. These narratives may be regarded as separate cantos of a war epic, which is fairly comparable for its vividness of portrayal to Stephen Crane's masterpiece, "The Red Badge of Courage." Few writers, other than these two, have been able to portray the naked ugliness of warfare, and the passions which warfare engenders, with more brutal power. Time alone will tell whether these stories have a chance of permanence, but I am disposed to rank them with that other portrait of the mercilessness of war, "Under Fire," by Henri Barbusse.

LIMEHOUSE NIGHTS by Thomas Burke (Robert M. McBride & Co.). These colorful stories of life in London's Chinatown are in my humble belief destined never to grow old. This volume is the most important volume of short stories by a new English writer to appear during 1917, and is only surpassed by Daniel Corkery's volume "A Munster Twilight." Such patterned prose in fiction has not been known since the days of Walter Pater, and Mr. Burke's sense of the almost intolerable beauty of ugly things has a persuasive fascination for the reader who may have a strong prejudice against his subjects. Such horror as Mr. Burke has imagined is almost impossible to portray convincingly, yet the author has softened its starkness into patterns of gracious beauty and musical rhythmic speech.

RINCONETE AND CORTADILLO by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, translated from the Spanish by Mariano J. Lorente, with a preface by R. B. Cunninghame Graham (The Four Seas Co.). This is an excellent translation by a Spanish man of letters of what is perhaps the best exemplary Novel by Cervantes. As Mr. Cunninghame Graham points out in his delightful introduction, "Rinconete and Cortadillo" is perhaps the best sketch of Spanish low-life that has come down to us. It is highly amoral, despite its sub-title, and all the more delightful perhaps on that account. I hope that the translator may be persuaded, if the volume goes into the second edition it so richly deserves, to omit his very contentious preface, which can be of interest only to himself and two other people. Then our delight in this volume would be complete.

THE DUEL (Macmillan), THE HOUSE WITH THE MEZZANINE (Scribner), THE LADY WITH THE DOG (Macmillan), THE PARTY (Macmillan), and ROTHSCHILD'S FIDDLE (Boni and Liveright) by Anton Chekhov. TO THE DARLING, which was the first volume, so far as I know, of Chekhov, to be presented to the American public, five new collections of Chekhov's tales have been added during the past year in excellent English renderings. Three of these volumes are translated by Constance Garnett, whose superb translations of Turgenieff and Dostoievsky are well known to American readers. Because Chekhov ranks with Poe and De Maupassant as one of the three supreme masters of the short story, it is a matter of signal importance that these translations should appear, and in them every mood of Russian life is reflected with subtle artistry and a passionate reality of creative vision. Chekhov is destined to exert greater and greater influence on the American short story as the translations of his work increase, and these five volumes prove him to be fully equal to Dostoievsky in sustained and varied spiritual observation. These stories range through the entire gamut of human emotion from sublime tragedy to the richest and most golden comedy. If I were to choose a single author of short stories for my library on a desert island, my choice would inevitably turn to these volumes.

THOSE TIMES AND THESE by Irvin S. Cobb (George H. Doran Co.). This is quite the best volume of short stories that Mr. Cobb has yet published. Since "The Escape of Mr. Trimm," which was his first short story, was printed in the Saturday Evening Post seven years ago, Mr. Cobb's literary development has been rapid, if not sure; but he may now with this volume lay claim fairly to the mantle of Mark Twain for the rich humanity with which he has endowed his substance and the inimitable humor of his characterizations. In "The Family Tree" and "Cinnamon Seed and Sandy Bottom" Mr. Cobb has added two stories of permanent value to American literature, and in "Mr. Felsburg Gets Even" and "And There Was Light" Mr. Cobb's literary art is almost as well sustained. My only quarrel with him in this book is for the inclusion of "A Kiss for Kindness," where a fine short-story possibility seems to have been entirely missed by the author, perhaps because, as he ingenuously confessed shortly afterward, he had just become an abandoned farmer.

RUNNING FREE by James B. Connolly (Charles Scribner's Sons). Of the ten short stories included by Mr. Connolly in this collection, four are among the best he has ever written: "Breath O' Dawn," "The Sea-Birds," "The Medicine Ship," and "One Wireless Night." With the simplicity of speech which characterizes all of Mr. Connolly's work, he relates his story for the story's sake. Because he is an Irishman he is an incorrigible romanticist, and I suspect that characterization interests him for the story's sake rather than for itself alone. But now that Richard Harding Davis is dead, I suppose that James B. Connolly may fairly take his place as our best born yarner, with all a yarner's privileges.

TEEPEE NEIGHBORS by Grace Coolidge (The Four Seas Co.). This quiet little book of narratives and Indian portraits by Miss Coolidge deserves more attention than it has yet received, and for its qualities of quiet pathos and sympathetic insight into the Indian character I associate it as of equal value with Margaret Prescott Montague's stories of blind children in West Virginia.

A MUNSTER TWILIGHT by Daniel Corkery (Frederick A. Stokes Co.). I have never read a new volume of short stories with such a sense of discovery as I felt when these tales came to my hand. Because the volume appears to have attracted absolutely no attention as yet in this country, I wish to emphasize my firm belief that this is the most memorable volume of short stories published in English within the past five years. It makes us eager to read Mr. Corkery's new novel, "The Threshold of Quiet," in order that we may see if such a glorious imaginative sweep can be maintained in a novel as the reader will find in any single short story of this volume. Here you will find the very heart of Ireland's spiritual adventure revealed in folk speech of inevitable beauty. There is not a story in the book which does not disclose new aspects after repeated readings. A craftsmanship so fine and vigorous is seldom related with such artistic humility. "A Munster Twilight" proves that there are still great men in Ireland.

BROUGHT FORWARD, FAITH, HOPE, CHARITY, PROGRESS, and SUCCESS by R. B. Cunninghame Graham (Frederick A. Stokes Co.). It is an extraordinary fact that a short-story writer so deservedly well-known in England as Mr. Cunninghame Graham, whose sketches of life in many parts of the globe have been published at frequent intervals through the past decade, is yet entirely unknown in this country. To be sure, such has been the fate of W. H. Hudson until very recently. These six volumes certainly rank, by virtue of the quality of their style and the imaginative reality of their substance, with the best work of Mr. Hudson, and the parallel is the more complete because both writers have made the vanished life of the South American plains real to the English mind. Mr. Cunninghame Graham is one of the great travel writers, and ranks with Borrow and Ford, but he is more impartially interested in character than either Borrow or Ford, and has a far more vivid feeling for the spiritual values of landscape. It may be that these stories are for the few only, but I am loth to believe it. The life of the pampas and the life of the Moroccan desert live in these pages with an actuality as great as the life of the American plains lives in the work of Hamlin Garland, and there is an epic sweep in Mr. Cunninghame Graham's vision that I find in no other contemporary English writer.

THE ECHO OF VOICES by Richard Curle (Alfred A. Knopf). It is very rarely that a disciple as faithful as Mr. Curle publishes a volume which his master would be proud to sign, but I think that the reader will detect in this book the authentic voice of Joseph Conrad. Mr. Conrad's own personal enthusiasm for the book is an ingratiating introduction to the reader, but in these eight stories Mr. Curle can certainly afford to stand alone. Preoccupied as he is with the mystery of human existence, and the effect of circumstance upon the character, he portrays eight widely different human types, almost all of them with a certain pathetic futility of aspect, so surely and finely that they live before us. It is an interesting fact that the three best short story books in English of 1917 come from the other side of the water. "Limehouse Nights," "A Munster Twilight," and "The Echo of Voices" make this year so memorable in fiction that later years may well prove disappointing.

THE ETERNAL HUSBAND AND OTHER STORIES and THE GAMBLER AND OTHER STORIES by Fyodor Dostoievsky (The Macmillan Co.). These two new volumes continue the complete English edition of Dostoievsky which is being translated by Constance Garnett. The renderings have the same qualities of idiomatic speech and subtly rendered nuance which is always to be found in this translator's work, and although both of these volumes represent the minor work of Dostoievsky, his minor work is finer than our major work, and characterized by a passionate curiosity about the human soul and a deep insight into its mysteries. It is idle to argue as to whether these narratives are short stories or brief novels. However we classify them, they are profound revelations of human relationship, and place their author among the great masters of the world's literature. Nor is it pertinent to discuss their technique or lack of it. Their technique is sufficient for the author's purpose, and he has achieved his will nobly in a manner inevitable to him.

BILLY TOPSAIL, M.D., by Norman Duncan (Fleming H. Revell Co.). In this posthumous volume Norman Duncan has woven together a selection of his later short stories, in which further adventures of Doctor Luke of the Labrador are chronicled. They represent the very best of his later work, and in them the stern physical conditions with which nature surrounds the life of man provide an admirably rendered background for the portrayal of character developed by circumstance. Norman Duncan can never have a successor, and in "Billy Topsail, M.D." the reader will find him very nearly at his best.

MY PEOPLE by Caradoc Evans (Duffield & Co.). "My People" is a record of the peasantry of West Wales, and these chronicles are set down with a biblical economy of speech that makes for a noteworthy literary style. I refuse to believe that they are a truthful portrait of the folk of whom Mr. Evans writes, but I believe that he has created a real subjective world of his own that is thoroughly convincing. H. G. Wells has written eulogistically of the book and also of the author's novel, "Capel Sion." I appreciate the qualities in the book that have won Mr. Wells' esteem, and the book is indeed memorable. But I believe that its excellence is an artificial excellence, and I commend it to the reader as a work of incomparable artifice rather than as a faithful reflection of life.

IN HAPPY VALLEY by John Fox, Jr. (Charles Scribner's Sons). Of these ten new chronicles of the Kentucky mountains, gathered from the pages of Scribner's Magazine during the past year for the most part, "His Last Christmas Gift" is the most memorable. But all the stories are brief and vivid vignettes of the countryside which Mr. Fox knows so well, told with the utmost economy of speech and with a fine sense of atmospheric values. These stories are a happy illustration of the better regionalism that is characteristic of contemporary American fiction, and like "Ommirandy" will prove valuable records to a later generation of a life that even now is rapidly passing away.

THE WAR, MADAME, by Paul Geraldy (Charles Scribner's Sons). The delicate fantasy of this little story only enhances the poignant tragedy that it discloses. Somehow it suggests a comparison with "Four Days" by Hetty Hemenway, although it is told with greater deftness and a more subtle irony. In these pages pulses the very heart of France, and it is compact of the spirit that has made France a mistress to die for. The translation is admirable.

COLLECTED POEMS by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson (The Macmillan Co.). In these noble studies of English social life among the laboring classes Mr. Gibson has collected all of his stories in verse which he wishes to retain in his collected works. He has already become an influence on the work of many of his contemporaries, and the qualities of incisive observation, warm humanity, and subtle art which characterize his best work are adequately disclosed in his poems. I am sure that the reader of short stories will find them as fascinating as any volume of prose published this year, and the sum of all these poems is an English Comedie Humaine which portrays every type of English labor in rich imaginative speech. The dramatic quality of these stories is achieved by virtue of a constant economy of selection, and a nervous singing speech as authentic as that of Synge.

OMMIRANDY by Armistead C. Gordon (Charles Scribner's Sons). In this collection Mr. Gordon, whose name is so happily associated with that of Thomas Nelson Page, has collected from the files of Scribner's Magazine the deft and insinuating chronicles of negro life on a Virginia plantation which have attracted so much favorable comment in recent years. This collection places Mr. Gordon in the same rank as the author of "Marse' Chan," as a literary artist of the vanished South. These transcripts from the folk life of the people are told very quietly in a persuasive style that reveals a rich poetic sense of human values. The mellow atmosphere of these stories is particularly noteworthy, and Mr. Gordon's instinctive sympathy with his subject has saved him from that spirit of condescension which has been the weakness of so much American folk writing in the past. "Ommirandy" will long remain a happy and honorable tradition in American literature.

THE GRIM 13, edited by Frederick Stuart Greene (Dodd, Mead & Co.), is a collection of thirteen stories of literary value which have been declined with enthusiastic praise by the editors of American magazines because of their grim quality, or because they have an extremely unhappy ending. The collection was gathered as a test of the public interest, in order to remove if possible what the editor believed to be a false editorial policy. It is interesting to examine these stories, and to pretend that one is an editor. The experiment has been extremely successful and has produced at least one story by an American author ("The Abigail Sheriff Memorial" by Vincent O'Sullivan) and one story by an English author ("Old Fags" by Stacy Aumonier), which are permanent in their literary value.

FOUR DAYS: THE STORY OF A WAR MARRIAGE, by Hetty Hemenway (Little, Brown & Co.). Of this story I have spoken elsewhere in this volume, I shall only add here that it is one of the most significant spiritual studies in fiction that the war has produced, and that it is directly told in a style of sensitive beauty.

A DIVERSITY OF CREATURES by Rudyard Kipling (Doubleday, Page & Co.) is the first collection of Mr. Kipling's short stories published in several years. I must confess frankly that there is but one story in the volume which seems to me a completely realized rendering of the substance which Mr. Kipling has chosen, and that is the incomparable satire on publicity entitled "The Village That Voted the Earth Was Flat." In this volume you will find many stories in many moods, and some of them are postscripts to earlier volumes of Mr. Kipling. I cannot believe that his war stories deserve as high praise as they have been accorded. This volume presents Mr. Kipling as the most consummate living master of technique in the English tongue, but his inspiration has failed him except for the single exception which I have chronicled. The volume is a memory rather than an actuality, and it has the pathos of a forgotten dream.

THE BRACELET OF GARNETS AND OTHER STORIES by Alexander Kuprin, translated by Leo Pasvolsky, with an Introduction by William Lyon Phelps (Charles Scribner's Sons). This collection of stories is based on the author's own selection for this purpose, and although the translation is not thoroughly idiomatic, the sheer poetry of Kuprin's imagination shines through the veil of an alien speech and captures the imagination of the reader. Kuprin's pictorial sense is curiously similar to that of Wilbur Daniel Steele, and it is interesting to study the reactions of similar temperaments on widely different substances and backgrounds. Kuprin achieves a chiselled finality of utterance which is as evident in his tragedy as in his comedy, and in some of these pieces a fine allegorical beauty shines prismatically through a carefully economized brilliance of narrative.

THE PRUSSIAN OFFICER AND OTHER STORIES by D. H. Lawrence (B. W. Huebsch). The twelve short stories collected in this volume are full of the same warm color that one always associates with Mr. Lawrence's best work, and the nervous complaining beauty of his style makes him the English compeer of Gabriele d'Annunzio. The warm lush fragrance of many European countrysides pervades these stories and a certain poignant sensual disillusionment is insistently stressed by the characters who flit through the shadowy foreground. It is the definitely realized and concrete sense of landscape that Mr. Lawrence has achieved which is his finest artistic attribute, and the sensitive response to light which is so characteristic an element in his vision bathes all the pictures he presents in a rich glow, whose gradations of light and shadow respond finely to the emotional reactions of his characters. He is the most sophisticated of the contemporary English realists, and has the sense of poetry to a high degree which is conspicuously absent in the work of other English novelists.

A DESIGNER OF DAWNS AND OTHER TALES by Gertrude Russell Lewis (Pilgrim Press). I set this volume of allegories beside "Flame and the Shadow-Eater" by Henrietta Weaver as one of the two best books of allegories published in 1917. These seven little tales have a quiet imaginative glow that is very appealing and I find in them a folk quality that is almost Scandinavian in its naivete.

THE TERROR: A MYSTERY, by Arthur Machen (Robert M. McBride & Co.). When this story was first published in the Century Magazine in 1917, under the title of "The Coming of the Terror," it was at once hailed by discriminating readers as the best short story by an English writer published in an American magazine since "The Friends" by Stacy Aumonier. It is now published in its complete form as originally written, and although it is as long as a short novel, it has an essential unity of incident which justifies us in claiming it as a short story. I suppose that Algernon Blackwood is the only other English writer who has the same gift for making strange spiritual adventures completely real to the imagination, and the author of "The Bowmen" has surpassed even that fine story in this description of how a mysterious terror overran England during the last years of the great war and how the mystery of its passing was finally revealed. The emotional tension of the reader is enhanced by the quiet matter-of-fact air with which the story is presented. The volume is one of the best five or six books of short stories which England has produced during the past year.

THE SECOND ODD NUMBER: THIRTEEN TALES, by Guy de Maupassant, the translation by Charles Henry White, an Introduction by William Dean Howells (Harper & Brothers). It is reported in some volume of French literary memoirs that Guy de Maupassant regarded the first series of "The Odd Number" as better than the original. Be this as it may, the thirteen stories which make up this volume are admirably rendered with a careful reflection of the slightest nuances. As Mr. Howells states in his introduction to the volume: "The range of these stories is not very great; the effect they make is greater than the range." But this selection has been admirably chosen with a view to making the range as wide as possible, and I can only hope that it will serve to influence some of our younger writers toward a greater descriptive and emotional economy.

THE GIRL AND THE FAUN by Eden Phillpotts (J. B. Lippincott Co.). These eight idylls of the four seasons are graceful Greek legends told with a modern touch in poetic prose. They have a quality of quiet beauty which will commend them to many readers to whom the more realistic work of Mr. Phillpotts does not appeal, and the admirable illustrations by Frank Brangwyn are a felicitous accompaniment to the modulated prose of Mr. Phillpotts.

BARBED WIRE AND OTHER POEMS by Edwin Ford Piper (The Midland Press, Moorhead, Minn.). As Grant Showerman's "A Country Chronicle" is an admirable rendering of the farm life of Wisconsin in the seventies, so these poems are a fine imaginative record of the pioneer life of Nebraska a little later. I believe this volume to contain quite as fine poetry as Robert Frost's "North of Boston." Here you will meet many men and women struggling against the loneliness of prairie life, and winning spiritual as well as material conquests out of nature. The greater part of this volume is composed of a series of narrative poems entitled "The Neighborhood." Their lack of literary sophistication is part of their charm, and the calculated ruggedness of the author's style is a faithful reflection of his barren physical background.

BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES, compiled and edited by Thomas Seltzer (Boni and Liveright). This is the first anthology of Russian short stories which has yet been published in English, and the selections are excellent. There is a wide range of literary art represented in this volume, and the translations are extremely smooth and idiomatic. As is only fitting, the work of Tolstoi, Dostoievsky, Turgenev, and other Russians, whose work is already well known to the American reader, are only represented lightly in the collection, and greater space is devoted to the stories of Chekhov and other writers less familiar to the American public. Nineteen stories are translated from the work of Pushkin, Gogol, Turgenev, Dostoievsky, Tolstoi, Saltykov, Korolenko, Garshin, Chekhov, Sologub, Potapenko, Semyonov, Gorky, Andreyev, Artzybashev, and Kuprin, and the volume is prefixed with an excellent critical introduction by the editor.

A COUNTRY CHILD by Grant Showerman (The Century Co.). This is a sequel to Professor Showerman's earlier volume, "A Country Chronicle." The book is an epic of what a little boy saw and felt and dreamed on a farm in Wisconsin forty years ago, told just as a little boy would tell it. It will help you to remember how you went to the circus and how you stayed up late on your birthday. You will also recall the ball game the day you didn't go home from school, and how you went in swimming, and about that fight with Bill, and ever so many other things which you thought that you had forgotten. I think all the boys and girls that used to write to James Whitcomb Riley should send a birthday letter this year to Grant Showerman, so that he will get it on the 9th of January. Let's start a movement in Wisconsin to have a Showerman Day.

FLAME AND THE SHADOW-EATER by Henrietta Weaver (Henry Holt & Co.). In these fifteen short allegorical tales Henrietta Weaver has introduced with considerable skill much Persian philosophy, and presented it to the American reader so attractively that it is thoroughly persuasive. Akin in a measure to certain similar stories by Jeannette Marks, they have the same prismatic quality of brilliance and impermanence. I do not believe that the reader who enjoys the poetry of the mind will find these allegories specially esoteric, but I may commend them frankly for their story value, irrespective of the symbols which the author has chosen to attach to them.

THE GREAT MODERN FRENCH STORIES edited by Willard Huntington Wright (Boni and Liveright), MARRIED by August Strindberg (Boni and Liveright), and VISIONS by Count Ilya Tolstoy (James B. Pond) have reached me too late for extended review. I list them here as three volumes of permanent literary value.

VOLUMES OF SHORT STORIES PUBLISHED DURING 1917

NOTE. An asterisk before a title indicates distinction. This list includes single short stories, collections of short stories, and a few continuous narratives based on short stories previously published in magazines.

I. AMERICAN AUTHORS

ADAMS, SAMUEL HOPKINS. *Our Square and the People In It. Houghton-Mifflin.

BAIN, R. NISBET. *Cossack Fairy Tales. Stokes.

BANGS, JOHN KENDRICK. Half Hours With the Idiot. Little, Brown.

BASSETT, WILBUR. Wander-Ships. Open Court Pub. Co.

BEACH, REX. Laughing Bill Hyde. Harper.

BEND, REV. JOHN J. Stranger than Fiction. Sheehan.

BOTTOME, PHYLLIS. *Derelict, The. Century.

BRADLEY, WILLIAM ASPENWALL. *Old Christmas, and Other Kentucky Tales in Verse. Houghton-Mifflin.

BRADY, CYRUS TOWNSEND. Little Book for Christmas, A. Putnam.

BROOKS, ALDEN. *Fighting Men, The. Scribner.

BROWN, KATHARINE HOLLAND. *Wages of Honor, The. Scribner.

BRUBAKER, HOWARD. Ranny. Harper.

BRUNTON, F. CARMICHAEL. Enchanted Lochan, The. Crowell.

BUNNER, H. C. *More "Short Sixes." Scribner. *"Short Sixes." Scribner.

BUNTS, FREDERICK EMORY. Soul of Henry Harrington, The. Cleveland: privately printed.

BUTLER, ELLIS PARKER. Dominie Dean. Revell.

CARMICHAEL, M. H. Pioneer Days. Duffield.

CARTER, CHARLES FRANKLIN. Stories of the Old Missions of California. Elder.

CHAMBERS, ROBERT W. *Barbarians. Appleton.

COBB, IRVIN S. *Those Times and These. Doran.

COFFIN, JULIA H. Vendor of Dreams, The. Dodd, Mead.

*COLLIER'S, PRIZE STORIES FROM. 5 v. Collier.

CONNOLLY, JAMES B. *Running Free. Scribner.

COOLIDGE, GRACE. *Teepee Neighbors. Four Seas.

CROWNFIELD, GERTRUDE. Little Tailor of the Winding Way, The. Macmillan.

DAVIS, CHARLES BELMONT. Her Own Sort and Others. Scribner.

DAVIS, RICHARD HARDING. *Boy Scout, The, and Other Stories. Scribner. *Deserter, The. Scribner.

DUNCAN, NORMAN. *Billy Topsail, M.D. Revell.

EELLS, ELSIE SPICER. *Fairy Tales from Brazil. Dodd, Mead.

FISHER, FRED B. Gifts from the Desert. Abington Press.

FOOTE, JOHN TAINTOR. Dumb-bell of Brookfield. Appleton.

FORD, SEWELL. Wilt Thou Torchy. Clode.

FOR FRANCE. Doubleday, Page.

FOX, EDWARD LYELL. New Gethsemane, The. McBride.

FOX, JOHN, JR. *In Happy Valley. Scribner.

FUTRELLE, JACQUES. Problem of Cell 13, The. Dodd, Mead.

GORDON, ARMISTEAD C. *Ommirandy. Scribner.

GREENE, FREDERICK STUART, Editor. *Grim Thirteen, The. Dodd, Mead.

"HALL, HOLWORTHY." Dormie One. Century.

HANSHEW, T. W. Cleek's Government Cases. Doubleday, Page.

HEMENWAY, HETTY. *Four Days. Little, Brown.

"HENRY, O." *Waifs and Strays. Doubleday, Page.

HINES, JACK. Blue Streak, The. Doran.

HOLMES, MARY CAROLINE. "Who Follows in Their Train?" Revell.

HOUGH, LYNN HAROLD. Little Old Lady, The.

HUGHES, RUPERT. In a Little Town. Harper.

INGRAM, ELEANOR M. Twice American, The. Lippincott.

IRWIN, WALLACE. Pilgrims Into Folly. Doran.

JEFFERSON, CHARLES E. Land of Enough, The. Crowell.

JOHNSTON, MARY. *Wanderers, The. Houghton-Mifflin.

JOHNSTON, WILLIAM. "Limpy." Little, Brown.

KARR, LOUISE. Trouble. Himebaugh and Browne.

KELLERHOUSE, LUCY CHARLTON. *Forest Fancies. Duffield.

KIRK, R. G. White Monarch and the Gas-House Pup. Little, Brown.

KIRKLAND, WINIFRED. *My Little Town. Dutton.

LAIT, JACK. Gus the Bus and Evelyn, the Exquisite Checker. Doubleday, Page.

LARDNER, RING W. Gullible's Travels. Bobbs-Merrill.

LEACOCK, STEPHEN. Frenzied Fiction. Lane.

LEWIS, GERTRUDE RUSSELL. *Designer of Dawns, A. Pilgrim Press.

MCCLUNG, NELLIE L. Next of Kin, The. Houghton-Mifflin.

MACKAY, HELEN. *Journal of Small Things. Duffield.

MEIROVITZ, JOSEPH M. Path of Error, The. Four Seas Co.

MERWIN, SAMUEL. Temperamental Henry. Bobbs-Merrill.

NEWTON, ALMA. Memories. Duffield.

NOBLE, EDWARD. Outposts of the Fleet. Houghton-Mifflin.

O'BRIEN, EDWARD J., Editor. The Best Short Stories of 1916. Small, Maynard.

OSBORN, E. B. Maid with Wings, The. Lane.

PAINE, ALBERT BIGELOW. Mr. Crow and the Whitewash. Harper. Mr. Rabbit's Wedding. Harper. Mr. Turtle's Flying Adventure. Harper.

PAINE, RALPH D. Sons of Eli. Scribner.

PERKINS, J. R. Thin Volume, A. Saalfield.

PERRY, MONTANYE. Where It Touches the Ground. Abingdon Press. Zerah. Abingdon Press.

PIPER, EDWIN FORD. *Barbed Wire and Other Poems. Midland Press.

PUTNAM, NINA WILCOX. When the Highbrow Joined the Outfit. Duffield.

REEVE, ARTHUR B. Ear in the Wall, The. Hearst. Treasure Train, The. Harper.

RICHMOND, GRACE S. Whistling Mother, The. Doubleday, Page.

RINEHART, MARY ROBERTS. Bab: A Sub-deb. Doran.

RODEHEAVER, HOMER. Song Stories of the Sawdust Trail. Moffat, Yard.

ROSENBACH, A. S. W. Unpublishable Memoirs, The. Kennerley.

RYDER, ARTHUR W. *Twenty-two Goblins. Dutton.

SABIN, EDWIN L. How Are You Feeling Now? Little, Brown.

SCHAYER, E. RICHARD. Good Loser, The. McKay.

SCOTT, LEROY. Mary Regan. Houghton-Mifflin.

SHOWERMAN, GRANT. *Country Child, A. Century.

STEINER, EDWARD A. My Doctor Dog. Revell.

STERN, GERTRUDE. My Mother and I. Macmillan.

STITZER, DANIEL AHRENS. Stories of the Occult. Badger.

STUART, FLORENCE PARTELLO. Piang, the Moro Jungle Boy. Century.

TABER, SUSAN. Optimist, The. Duffield.

"THANET, OCTAVE." And the Captain Entered. Bobbs-Merrill.

THOMSON, EDWARD WILLIAM. Old Man Savarin Stories. Doran.

TOMPKINS, JULIET WILBOR. At the Sign of the Oldest House. Bobbs-Merrill.

TURPIN, EDNA. Peggy of Roundabout Lane. Macmillan.

TUTTLE, FLORENCE GUERTIN. Give My Love to Maria. Abingdon Press.

VAN LOAN, CHARLES E. Old Man Curry. Doran.

WEAVER, HENRIETTA. *Flame and the Shadow-Eater. Holt.

WILLSIE, HONORE. Benefits Forgot. Stokes.

II. ENGLISH AND IRISH AUTHORS

AUMONIER, STACY. *Friends, The, and Two Other Stories. Century.

"AYSCOUGH, JOHN." *French Windows. Longmans.

BARLOW, JANE. *Irish Idylls. Dodd, Mead.

BELL, J. J. Cupid in Oilskins. Revell. *Kiddies. Stokes.

BENSON, EDWARD FREDERIC. Freaks of Mayfair, The. Doran.

BLACKWOOD, ALGERNON. *Day and Night Stories. Dutton.

BURKE, THOMAS. *Limehouse Nights. McBride.

CORKERY, DANIEL. *Munster Twilight, A. Stokes.

CUNNINGHAME GRAHAM, R. B. *Brought Forward. Stokes. *Charity. Stokes. *Faith. Stokes. *Hope. Stokes. *Progress. Stokes. *Success. Stokes.

CURLE, RICHARD. *Echo of Voices. Knopf.

DAWSON, CONINGSBY. *Seventh Christmas, The. Holt.

DELL, ETHEL M. Safety Curtain, The. Putnam.

DOYLE, SIR ARTHUR CONAN. His Last Bow. Doran.

DUNSANY, LORD. *Dreamer's Tales, A. Boni and Liveright. *Fifty-one Tales. Little, Brown.

EVANS, CARADOC. *My People. Duffield.

GATE, ETHEL M. *Broom Fairies, The. Yale Univ. Press.

GIBSON, WILFRID WILSON. *Collected Poems. Macmillan.

HALL, MORDAUNT. Some Naval Yarns. Doran.

HARRISON, CUTHBERT WOODVILLE. *Magic of Malaya, The. Lane.

HOWARD, KEBLE. Smiths in War Time, The. Lane.

JEROME, JEROME K. Street of the Blank Wall, The. Dodd, Mead.

KIPLING, RUDYARD. *Diversity of Creatures, A. Doubleday, Page.

MACHEN, ARTHUR. *Terror, The. McBride.

MASON, A. E. W. *Four Corners of the World, The. Scribner.

NEWBOLT, SIR HENRY. *Happy Warrior, The. Longmans, Green. Tales of the Great War. Longmans, Green.

PEACOCKE, E. M. Dicky, Knight-Errant. McBride.

PHILLPOTTS, EDEN. *Girl and the Faun, The. Lippincott.

RANSOME, ARTHUR. *Old Peter's Russian Tales. Stokes.

RENDALL, VERNON HORACE. London Nights of Belsize, The. Lane.

"ROHMER, SAX." Hand of Fu-Manchu, The. McBride.

"SAPPER." *No Man's Land. Doran.

STACPOOLE, H. DE VERE. Sea Plunder. Lane.

SWINTON, LIEUT.-COL. E. D. Great Tab Dope, The. Doubleday, Page.

"TAFFRAIL." Sea Spray and Spindrift. Lippincott.

TREE, SIR HERBERT BEERBOHM. Nothing Matters. Houghton-Mifflin.

WREN, PERCIVAL C. Young Stagers. Longmans, Green.

III. TRANSLATIONS

APUKHTIN, A. (Russian.) *From Death to Life. Frank.

ARTZIBASHEV, MICHAEL MIKHAILOVICH. (Russian.) *Tales of the Revolution. Huebsch.

CERVANTES, MIGUEL DE. (Spanish.) *Rinconete and Cortadillo. Four Seas.

CHEKHOV, ANTON. (Russian.) (See TCHEKHOV, ANTON.)

*CHRISTMAS TALES OF FLANDERS. (Belgian.) Dodd, Mead.

DOSTOEVSKY, FYODOR MIKHAILOVICH. (Russian.) *Eternal Husband, The. Macmillan. *Gambler, and Other Stories, The. Macmillan.

FRANCE, ANATOLE. (French.) *Girls and Boys. Duffield. *Our Children. Duffield.

GERALDY, PAUL. (French.) *The War, Madame. Scribner.

ISPIRESCU, PETRE. (Rumanian.) *Foundling Prince, The. Houghton-Mifflin.

KUPRIN, ALEXANDER IVANOVICH. (Russian.) *Bracelet of Garnets, The. Scribner.

MAUPASSANT, GUY DE. (French.) *Mademoiselle Fifi. Boni and Liveright. *Second Odd Number, The. Harper.

SELTZER, THOMAS, Editor. (Russian.) *Best Russian Short Stories, The. Boni and Liveright.

*SHIELD, THE. (Russian.) Knopf.

STRINDBERG, AUGUST. (Swedish.) *Married. Boni and Liveright.

SUDERMANN, HERMANN. (German.) *Dame Care. Boni and Liveright.

TCHEKHOV, ANTON. (Russian.) *Duel, The. Macmillan. *House with the Mezzanine, The. Scribner. *Lady with the Dog, The. Macmillan. *Party, The. Macmillan. *Rothschild's Fiddle. Boni and Liveright. *Will o' the Wisp. International Authors' Association.

TOLSTOI, ILYA, COUNT. *Visions. Pond.

WRIGHT, WILLARD HUNTINGTON, Editor. (French.) *Great Modern French Stories, The. Boni and Liveright.

THE BEST SIXTY-THREE AMERICAN SHORT STORIES OF 1917

The sixty-three short stories published in the American magazines during 1917 which I shall discuss in this article are chosen from a larger group of about one hundred and twenty-five stories, whose literary excellence justified me in including them in my annual "Roll of Honor." The stories, which are included in this Roll of Honor have been chosen from the stories published in about sixty-five American periodicals during 1917. In selecting them, I have sought to accept the author's point of view and manner of treatment, and to measure simply the degree of success he had in doing what he set out to achieve. But I must confess that it has been difficult to eliminate personal admiration completely in the further winnowing which has resulted in this selection of sixty-three stories. Below are set forth the particular qualities which have seemed to me to justify in each case the inclusion of a story in this list.

1. THE EXCURSION by Edwina Stanton Babcock (The Pictorial Review) is in my belief one of the best five American short stories of the year. It is significant because of its faithful and imaginative rendering of American folk-life, because of its subtle characterization, and the successful manner in which it reveals the essentially racy humor of the American countryside with the utmost economy of means. The characterization is achieved almost entirely through dialogue, and the portraiture of the characters is rendered inimitably in a phrase or two. In this story, as well as in "The Band," Miss Babcock has earned the right to a place beside Francis Buzzell as a regional story writer, fairly comparable to John Trevena's renderings of Dartmoor.

2. THE BROTHERS by Thomas Beer (The Century Magazine) will remind the reader in some respects of Frederick Stuart Greene's story, "The Black Pool," published in "The Grim 13." But apart from a superficial resemblance in the substance with which both writers deal, the two stories are more notable in their differences than in their resemblances. If "The Brothers" is less inevitable than "The Black Pool," it is perhaps a more sophisticated work of art, and I am not sure but that its conclusion and the resolution of character that it involves is not more artistically convincing than the end of "The Black Pool." It is certainly a memorable first story by a new writer and would of itself be enough to make a reputation. Mr. Beer is the most original new talent that the Century Magazine has discovered since Stacy Aumonier.

3. ONNIE by Thomas Beer (The Century Magazine) has a certain stark faithfulness which makes of somewhat obvious material an extremely vivid and freshly felt rendering of life. There is a certain quality of observation in the story which we are accustomed to think of as a Gallic rather than an American trait. I think that Mr. Beer has slightly broadened his canvas where greater restraint and less cautious use of suggestion would have better answered his purpose. But "Onnie" is a better story than "The Brothers" to my mind, and Mr. Beer, by virtue of these two stories, is one of the two or three most interesting new talents of the year.

4. IRONSTONE by Phyllis Bottome (The Century Magazine). To those who have enjoyed in recent years the admirable social comedy and deft handling of English character to which Miss Bottome has accustomed us, "Ironstone" must have come as a surprise in its revelation of a new aspect in the author's talent, akin to the kind of tale which is found at its best as a "middle" in the London Nation. It compresses the emotion of a Greek drama into a space of perhaps four thousand words. I find that the closing dialogue in this story is as certain in its march as the closing pages of "Riders to the Sea," and the katharsis is timeless in its final solution.

5. FROM HUNGARY by "John Breck" (The Bookman) is perhaps not to be classified as a short story, but the academic limitations of the short story have never interested me greatly, and in its own field this short fiction sketch is memorable. Its secret is the secret of atmosphere rather than speech, but atmosphere here becomes human in its reality and the resultant effect is not unlike that of "When Hannah Var Eight Yar Old" by Miss Girling, which appeared in the Atlantic Monthly a few years ago. "John Breck," or Elizabeth C. A. Smith, to reveal her authorship, has found complete embodiment for her conception in this story for the first time, and it is a promise for a vivid and interesting future.

6. THE FLYING TEUTON by Alice Brown (Harper's Magazine) is the best short story that has come out of this war as yet in either English or American magazines. Accepting the old legend of the Flying Dutchman, Miss Brown has imagined it reembodied in a modern setting, and out of the ironies of this situation a most dramatic story results with a sure and true message for the American people. It is in my opinion one of the five best short stories of the year, and I am happy to say that it will soon be accessible to the public once more in book form.

7. CLOSED DOORS, and 8. A CUP OF TEA by Maxwell Struthers Burt (both in Scribner's Magazine). In these two stories, and in "The Glory of the Wild Green Earth," "John O'May," and "Le Panache," all of which appeared in Scribner's Magazine during the past year, a place is made for the author among American short story writers beside that of Mrs. Gerould, Wilbur Daniel Steele, and H. G. Dwight. Two years ago I had the pleasure of reprinting his first short story, "The Water-Hole," in "The Best Short Stories of 1915." I thought at that time that Mr. Burt would eventually do fine things, but I never suspected that, in the short period of two years, he would win for himself so important a place in contemporary American letters. Mr. Burt's technique is still a trifle over-sophisticated, but I suppose this is a fault on virtue's side. A collection of Mr. Burt's short stories in book form should be anxiously awaited by the American public.

9. LONELY PLACES, and 10. THE LONG VACATION by Francis Buzzell (The Pictorial Review). The attentive reader of American fiction must have already noted two memorable stories by Francis Buzzell published in previous years, "Addie Erb and Her Girl Lottie" and "Ma's Pretties." These two stories won for Mr. Buzzell an important position as an American folk-writer, and this position is amply sustained by the two fine stories which he has published during the past year. His imaginative realism weaves poignant beauty out of the simplest and most dusty elements in life, and it is my belief that it is along the lines of his method and that of Miss Babcock that America is most likely eventually to contribute something distinctively national to the world's literary culture.

11. THE MISTRESS by Fleta Campbell (Harper's Bazar) is a most highly polished and sharply outlined story of the war. It makes an art out of coldness in narration which serves to emphasize and bring out by contrast the human warmth of the story's substance.

12. THE FOUNDLING by Gunnar Cederschioeld (Collier's Weekly). Readers who recall the fine series of stories by Alden Brooks published during the past two years in Collier's Weekly and the Century Magazine will find in "The Foundling" a story equally memorable as a ruthless portrayal of the effects of war. Whether one approves or disapproves in general of the ending is irrelevant in this case. This story must take its place as one of the best dozen stories of the war.

13. BOYS WILL BE BOYS, 14. THE FAMILY TREE, and 15. QUALITY FOLKS by Irvin S. Cobb (all in the Saturday Evening Post). It is seven years since Irvin Cobb published his first short story, "The Escape of Mr. Trimm," in the Saturday Evening Post. During that short period he has passed from the position of an excellent journalist to that of America's most representative humorist, in the truer meaning of that word. Upon him the mantle of Mark Twain has descended, and with that mantle he has inherited the artistic virtues and the utter inability to criticize his own work that was so characteristic of Mr. Clemens. But the very gusto of his creative work has been shaping his style during the past two years to a point where he may now fairly claim to have mastered his material, and to have found the most effective human persuasiveness in its presentation. Our grandchildren will read these three stories, and thank God that there was a man named Cobb once born in Paducah, Kentucky.

16. LAUGHTER (Harper's Magazine), and 17. OUR DOG (Pictorial Review) by Charles Caldwell Dobie. The rapid rise of Mr. Dobie in less than two years from the date when his first short story was published challenges comparison with the similar career of Maxwell Struthers Burt. As Mr. Burt's art has its analogies with that of Mrs. Gerould, so Mr. Dobie's art has its analogies with that of Wilbur Daniel Steele. I am not certain that Mr. Dobie's talent is not essentially that of a novel-writer, but certainly at least four of the short stories which he has published during the past year are notable artistic achievements in widely different moods. If tragedy prevails, it is purified by a fine spiritual idealism, which takes symbols and makes of them something more human than a mere allegory. If an American publisher were courageous enough to start publishing a series of volumes of short stories by contemporary American writers, he could not do better than to begin with a selection of Mr. Dobie's tales.

18. A LITTLE NIPPER OF HIDE-AN'-SEEK HARBOR by Norman Duncan (Pictorial Review). This story has a melancholy interest, because it was the last story sold by its author before his sudden death last year. But it would have been remembered for its own sake as the last and not the least important of the long series of Newfoundland sagas which Mr. Duncan has given us. It shows that Norman Duncan kept his artistic vigor to the last, and those who know Newfoundland can testify that such stories as these will always remain its most permanent literary record.

19. THE EMPEROR OF ELAM by H. G. Dwight (The Century Magazine). Those who have read Mr. Dwight's volume of short stories entitled "Stamboul Nights" do not need to be told that Mr. Dwight is the one American short story writer whom we may confidently set beside Joseph Conrad as a master in a similar literary field. American editors have been diffident about publishing his stories for reasons which cast more discredit on the American editor than on Mr. Dwight, and accordingly it is a genuine pleasure to encounter "The Emperor of Elam," and to chronicle the hardihood of the editor of the Century Magazine. The story is a modern odyssey of adventure, set as usual in the Turkish background with which Mr. Dwight is most familiar. In it atmosphere is realized completely for its own sake, and as a motive power urging the lives of his characters to their inevitable end.

20. THE GAY OLD DOG by Edna Ferber (Metropolitan Magazine) is in my opinion the big story which "The Eldest" was not. It is my belief that Edna Ferber is a novelist first and a short story writer afterwards, but in "The Gay Old Dog" she has accepted a theme which can best be handled in the short story form and has made the most of it artistically, much as Fannie Hurst has done in all of her better stories. Miss Ferber has not sentimentalized her substance as she does most often, but has let it remain at its true valuation.

21. BREAD-CRUMBS by Waldo Frank (Seven Arts Magazine). I cannot help feeling that this is an extremely well written and honestly conceived story whose substance is essentially false, but the author has apparently persuaded himself of its truth and presents it almost convincingly to the reader. Be this as it may, Mr. Frank has not failed to make his two characters real for us, and the poignancy of their final revelation is certainly genuine. Mr. Frank, however, should save such material as this for longer fiction, as his method is essentially that of a novelist.

22. PEARLS BEFORE SWINE by Cornelia Throop Geer (Atlantic Monthly). With a quiet and somewhat reticent art, the author of this story has succeeded in deftly conveying to her readers a delicate pastoral scene of innocence reflecting the dreams of two little Irish children. It was a difficult feat to attempt, as few can safely reproduce the atmosphere of an alien race successfully, and, even to Irish-Americans, Ireland cannot be sufficiently realized for creative embodiment. I am told that a volume of Irish stories is promised from the pen of Miss Geer, and it should take its place with the better folk stories of modern Irish life. Miss Geer's method is the result of identification with, rather than condescension toward, her subject.

23. EAST OF EDEN (Harper's Magazine), 24. THE HAND OF JIM FANE (Harper's Magazine), 25. THE KNIGHT'S MOVE (Atlantic Monthly), 26. THE WAX DOLL (Scribner's Magazine), and 27. WHAT THEY SEEM (Harper's Magazine) by Katharine Fullerton Gerould. In these five short stories Mrs. Gerould amply sustains her claim to rank as one of the three most distinguished contemporary writers of the American short story. Preoccupied as she is with the subtle rendering of abnormal psychological situations, her work is in the great traditional line whose last completely adequate exponent was Henry James. One and all, these stories have the fascination of strange spiritual adventure, and the persuasiveness of her exposition conceals inimitably the closely woven craftsmanship of her work. Of these five stories, "The Knight's Move" and "East of Eden" surely represent a development in her art which it will be almost impossible for her to surpass.

28. DARE'S GIFT by Ellen Glasgow (Harper's Magazine). I prefer to beg the question whether this is a short story or a very short novel. It certainly has the unity of a well-defined spiritual incident, and if one recalls its substance, it is only to view it as a completely rounded whole. As such it is surely as fine a study of the influence of place as Mrs. Wharton's "Kerfol" or Mrs. Pangborn's "Bixby's Bridge." The brooding atmosphere of a house mindful of its past and reacting upon successive inmates morally, or perhaps immorally, has seldom been more faithfully rendered.

29. THE HEARING EAR (Harper's Magazine), and 30. A JURY OF HER PEERS (Every Week) by Susan Glaspell. It is always interesting to study the achievement of a novelist who has won distinction deservedly in that field, when that novelist attempts the very different technique of the short story. It is particularly interesting in the case of Susan Glaspell, because with these two stories she convinces the reader that her future really lies in the short story rather than in the novel. Few American writers have such a natural dramatic story sense, and to this Susan Glaspell has added an increasing reticence in the portrayal of her characters. In these two stories you will not find the slightest sentimentalization of her subject matter, nor is it keyed so tightly as some of her previous work. "A Jury of Her Peers" is one of the better folk stories of the year, sharing that distinction with "The Excursion" by Miss Babcock and the two stories by Francis Buzzell, of which I have spoken above.

31. HIS FATHER'S FLAG by Armistead C. Gordon (Scribner's Magazine). The many readers who have revelled in Mr. Gordon's admirable portraits of Virginia negro plantation life will be surprised and gratified at Mr. Gordon's venture in this story into a new field. This story has all the infectious emotional feeling of memory recalling glorious things, and I can only compare it for its spiritual fidelity toward a cause to the stories by Elsie Singmaster which she has gathered into her volume about Gettysburg, and particularly to that fine story, "The Survivors."

32. THE BUNKER MOUSE, and 33. "MOLLY MCGUIRE, FOURTEEN" by Frederick Stuart Greene (The Century Magazine). Captain Greene's story "The Cat of the Cane-Brake" attracted so much attention at the time of its publication in the Metropolitan Magazine a year ago that it is interesting to find him achieving high distinction in other imaginative fields. Captain Greene's natural gift of narrative is the result of a strong impulse toward creative expression, which molds its form a little self-consciously, but convincingly, for the most part. I think that he is at his best in these two stories rather than in "The Cat of the Cane-Brake" and "The Black Pool," because they are based upon a more direct apprehension and experience of life. "Molly McGuire, Fourteen" adds one more tradition to those of the Virginia Military Institute.

34. RAINBOW PETE by Richard Matthews Hallet (The Pictorial Review) reveals the author in his most incorrigibly romantic mood. Mr. Hallet casts glamour over his creations, partly through his detached and pictorial perception of life, and partly through the magic of his words. He has been compared to Conrad, and in a lesser way he has much in common with the author of "Lord Jim," but his artistic method is essentially different and quite as individual.

35. FRAZEE by Lee Foster Hartman (Harper's Magazine). Mr. Hartman has been a good friend to other story writers for so long that we had begun to forget how fine an artist he can be himself. In "Frazee" he has taken a subject which would have fascinated Mrs. Gerould and handled it with reserve and power. It is pitched in a quieter key than is usual in such a story, and the result is that character merges with atmosphere almost imperceptibly. I regard the story as almost a model of construction for students of short story writing.

36. FOUR DAYS by Hetty Hemenway (Atlantic Monthly). This remarkable story of the spiritual effect of the war upon two young people was so widely commented upon, not only after its appearance in the Atlantic Monthly, but later when it was republished in book form, that I shall only commend it to the reader here as an artistically woven study in war psychology.

37. GET READY THE WREATHS by Fannie Hurst (Cosmopolitan Magazine). The artistic qualities in Miss Hurst's work which have commended themselves to such disinterested critics as Mr. Howells are revealed once more in this story, in which Miss Hurst accepts the shoddiness of background which characterizes her literary types, and reveals the fine human current that runs beneath it all. I am not sure that Miss Hurst has not diluted her substance a little too much during the past year, and in any case that danger is implicit in her method. But in "Get Ready the Wreaths" the emotional validity of her substance is absolutely unimpeachable and her handling of the situation it presents is adequate and fine.

38. JOURNEY'S END by Percy Adams Hutchison (Harper's Magazine). An attentive reader of the American short stories during the past few years may have observed with interest at rare intervals the work of Mr. Hutchison. In it there was always a promise of an achievement not unlike that of Perceval Gibbon, but a certain looseness of texture prevented Mr. Hutchison from being completely persuasive. In "Journey's End," however, it must be confessed that he has written a memorable sea story that is certainly equal at least to the better stories in Mr. Kipling's latest volume.

39. THE STRANGE-LOOKING MAN by Fanny Kemble Johnson (The Pagan). I suppose that this story is to be regarded as a sketch rather than a short story, but in any case it is a vividly rendered picture of war's effects portrayed with subtle irony and quiet art. I associate it with "Chautonville" by Will Levington Comfort, and "The Flying Teuton" by Alice Brown, as one of the three stories with the most authentic spiritual message in American fiction that the war has produced.

40. THE SEA-TURN by E. Clement James (The Seven Arts). In this study of the spiritual reactions of a starved environment upon an imaginative mind, Mrs. Jones has added a convincing character portrait to American letters which ranks with the better short stories of J. D. Beresford in a similar genre. The story is in the same tradition as that of the younger English realists, but it is an essential contribution to our nationalism, and as such helps to point the way toward the future in which a true national literature must find its only and inevitable realization.

41. THE CALLER IN THE NIGHT by Burton Kline (The Stratford Journal). I believe that Mr. Kline has completely realized in this story a fine imaginative situation and has presented a folk story with a significant legendary quality. It is in the tradition of Hawthorne, but the substance with which Mr. Kline deals is the substance of his own people, and consequently that in which his creative impulse has found the freest scope. It may be compared to its own advantage with "The Lost Phoebe" by Theodore Dreiser, which was equally memorable among the folk-stories of 1916, and the comparison suggests that in both cases the author's training as a novelist has not been to his disadvantage as a short-story teller.

42. WHEN DID YOU WRITE YOUR MOTHER LAST? by Addison Lewis (Reedy's Mirror). This is the only story I have read in three years in which it seemed to me that I found the authentic voice of "O. Henry" speaking. Mr. Lewis has been publishing a series of these "Tales While You Wait" in Reedy's Mirror during the past few months, and I should much prefer them to those of Jack Lait for the complete success with which he has achieved his aims. Imitation of "O. Henry" has been the curse of American story-telling for the past ten years, because "O. Henry" is practically inimitable. Mr. Lewis is not an imitator, but he may well prove before very long to be "O. Henry's" successor. In the words of Padna Dan and Micus Pat, "Here's the chance for some one to make a discovery."

43. WIDOW LA RUE by Edgar Lee Masters (Reedy's Mirror). This is the best short story in verse that the year has produced, and as literature it realizes in my belief even greater imaginative fulfilment than "Spoon River Anthology." I should have most certainly wished to include it in "The Best Short Stories of 1917" had it been in prose, and it adds one more unforgettable legend to our folk imagination.

44. THE UNDERSTUDY by Johnson Morton (Harper's Magazine) is an ironic character study developed with much finesse in the tradition of Henry James. Its defect is a certain conventional atmosphere which demands an artificial attitude on the part of the reader. Its admirable distinction is its faithful rendering of a personality not unlike the "Tante" of Anne Douglas Sedgwick, if a novel portrait and a short story portrait may fittingly be compared. If the portraiture is unpleasant, it is at any rate rendered with incisive kindliness.

45. THE HEART OF LIFE by Meredith Nicholson (Scribner's Magazine). Mr. Nicholson has treated an old theme freshly in "The Heart of Life" and discovered in it new values of contrasting character. Among his short stories it stands out as notably as "A Hoosier Chronicle" among his novels. It is in such work as this that Mr. Nicholson justifies his calling, and it is by them that he has most hope of remembrance in American literature.

46. MURDER? by Seumas O'Brien (The Illustrated Sunday Magazine). With something of Hardy's stark rendering of atmosphere, Mr. O'Brien has portrayed a grim situation unforgettably. Woven out of the simplest elements, and with an entire lack of literary sophistication, his story is fairly comparable to the work of Daniel Corkery, whose volume, "A Munster Twilight," has interested me more than any other volume of short stories published in America this year. The story is of particular interest because Mr. O'Brien's reputation as an artist has been based solely upon his work as a satirist and Irish fabulist.

47. THE INTERVAL by Vincent O'Sullivan (Boston Evening Transcript). It is odd to reflect that a literary artist of Mr. O'Sullivan's distinction is not represented in American magazines during 1917 at all, and that it has been left to a daily newspaper to publish his work. In "The Interval," Mr. O'Sullivan has sought to suggest the spiritual effect of the war upon a certain type of mind. He has rendered with faithful subtleness the newly aroused longing for religious belief or some form of concrete spiritual expression that bereavement brings. This state has a pathos of its own that the author adequately realizes in his story, and his irony in portraying it is Gallic in its quality.

48. BIXBY'S BRIDGE by Georgia Wood Pangborn (Harper's Magazine). Mrs. Pangborn is well known for her artistic stories of the supernatural, and this will rank among the very best of them. She shares with Algernon Blackwood that gift for making spiritual illusion real which is so rare in contemporary work. What is specially distinctive is her gift of selection, by which she brings out the most illusive psychological contrasts.

49. "A CERTAIN RICH MAN--," by Lawrence Perry (Scribner's Magazine). I find in this story an emotional quality keyed up as tightly, but as surely, as in the best short stories by Mary Synon. Remote as its substance may seem, superficially, it touches the very heart of the experience that the war has brought to us all, and reveals the naked stuff out of which our war psychology has emerged.

50. THE PORTRAIT by Emery Pottle (The Touchstone). This study in Italian backgrounds is by another disciple of Henry James, who portrays with deft sure touches the nostalgia of an American girl unhappily married to an Italian nobleman. It just fails of complete persuasiveness because it is a trifle overstrung, but nevertheless it is memorable for its artistic sincerity.

51. THE PATH OF GLORY by Mary Brecht Pulver (Saturday Evening Post). This story of how distinction came to a poor family in the mountains through the death of their son in the French army is simply told with a quiet, unassuming earnestness that makes it very real. It marks a new phase of Mrs. Pulver's talent, and one which promises her a richer fulfilment in the future than her other stories have suggested. Time and time again I have been impressed this year by the folk quality that is manifest in our younger writers, and what is most encouraging is that, when they write of the poor and the lowly, there is less of that condescension toward their subject than has been characteristic of American folk-writing in the past.

52. MISS FOTHERGILL by Norval Richardson (Scribner's Magazine). The tradition in English fiction, which is most signally marked by "Pride and Prejudice," "Cranford," and "Barchester Towers," and which was so pleasantly continued by the late Dr. S. Weir Mitchell and by Margaret Deland, is admirably embodied in the work of this writer, whose work should be better known. The quiet blending of humor and pathos in "Miss Fothergill" is unusual.

53. THE SCAR THAT TRIPLED by William Gunn Shepherd (Metropolitan Magazine) is none the less truly a remarkable short story because it happens to be based on fact. "The Deserter" was the last fine short story written by the late Richard Harding Davis, and "The Scar That Tripled" is the engrossing narrative of the adventure which suggested that story. Personally, I regard it as superior to "The Deserter."

54. A COUNTRY CHRISTMAS by Grant Showerman (Century Magazine). Professor Showerman's country chronicles are now well known to American readers, and this is quite the best of them. These sketches rank with those of Hamlin Garland as a permanent and delightful record of a pioneer life that has passed away for ever. Their deliberate homeliness and consistent reflection of a small boy's attitude toward life have no equal to my knowledge.

55. THE CHRISTMAS ANGEL (The Pictorial Review), and 56. THE FLAG OF ELIPHALET (Boston Evening Transcript) by Elsie Singmaster add two more portraits to the pleasant gallery of Elsie Singmaster's vivid creations. Although her vein is a narrow one, no one is more competent than she in its expression, and few surpass her in the faithful rendering of homely but none the less real spiritual circumstance.

57. THE END OF THE ROAD by Gordon Arthur Smith (Scribner's Magazine) is a sequel to "Feet of Gold" and chronicles the further love adventures of Ferdinand Taillandy, and their tragic conclusion. In these two stories Mr. Smith has proven his literary kinship with Leonard Merrick, and these stories surely rank with the chronicles of Tricotrin and Pitou.

58. CHING, CHING, CHINAMAN (Pictorial Review), 59. KED'S HAND (Harper's Magazine), 60. WHITE HANDS (Pictorial Review), and 61. THE WOMAN AT SEVEN BROTHERS (Harper's Magazine) by Wilbur Daniel Steele. With these four stories, together with "A Devil of a Fellow," "Free," and "A Point of Honor," Mr. Steele assumes his rightful place with Katharine Fullerton Gerould and H. G. Dwight as a leader in American fiction. "Ching, Ching, Chinaman," "White Hands," and "The Woman at Seven Brothers" are, in my belief, the three best short stories that were published in 1917, by an American author, and I may safely predict their literary permanence. Mr. Steele's extraordinary gift for presenting action and spiritual conflict pictorially is unrivalled, and his sense of human mystery has a rich tragic humor akin to that of Thomas Hardy, though his philosophy of life is infinitely more hopeful.

62. NONE SO BLIND by Mary Synon (Harper's Magazine) is a study in tragic circumstance, the more powerful because it is so reticently handled. It is Miss Synon's first profound study in feminine psychology, and reveals an unusual sense of emotional values. Few backgrounds have been more subtly rendered in their influence upon character, and the action of the story is inevitable despite its character of surprise.

63. THE SCAR by Elisabeth Stead Taber (The Seven Arts). The brutal realism of this story may repel the reader, but its power and convincing quality cannot be gainsaid. So many writers have followed John Fox's example in writing about the mountaineers of the Alleghanies, that it is gratifying to chronicle so exceptional a story as this. It is as inevitable in its ugliness as "The Cat of the Cane-Brake" by Frederick Stuart Greene, and psychologically it is far more convincing.

MAGAZINE AVERAGES FOR 1917

The following table includes the averages of American periodicals published during 1917. One, two, and three asterisks are employed to indicate relative distinction. "Three-asterisk stories" are of somewhat permanent literary value. The list excludes reprints.

| | NO. OF | PERCENTAGE OF | NO. OF | DISTINCTIVE | DISTINCTIVE PERIODICALS | STORIES | STORIES | STORIES | PUB- | PUBLISHED | PUBLISHED | LISHED +-----------------+---------------- | | * | ** | *** | * | ** | *** ------------------------------+---------+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+---- American Magazine | 54 | 25 | 3 | 1 | 46 | 6 | 2 Atlantic Monthly | 20 | 17 | 11 | 5 | 85 | 55 | 25 Bellman | 47 | 34 | 17 | 2 | 72 | 36 | 4 Bookman | 5 | 5 | 4 | 1 | 100 | 80 | 20 Boston Evening Transcript | 6 | 6 | 6 | 2 | 100 | 100 | 33 Century | 50 | 40 | 29 | 17 | 80 | 58 | 34 Collier's Weekly | 108 | 51 | 22 | 3 | 47 | 20 | 3 Delineator | 46 | 18 | 5 | 2 | 39 | 11 | 4 Everybody's Magazine | 45 | 26 | 7 | 3 | 58 | 15 | 7 Every Week | 87 | 18 | 5 | 2 | 21 | 6 | 2 Forum | 6 | 4 | 1 | 1 | 67 | 17 | 17 Good Housekeeping | 40 | 12 | 9 | 5 | 30 | 23 | 13 Harper's Magazine | 80 | 64 | 39 | 27 | 80 | 49 | 34 Illustrated Sunday Magazine | 25 | 10 | 4 | 1 | 40 | 16 | 4 Ladies' Home Journal | 33 | 11 | 4 | 1 | 33 | 12 | 3 Masses (except Oct. and Nov.) | 11 | 6 | 3 | 0 | 54 | 27 | 0 McClure's Magazine | 45 | 9 | 4 | 2 | 20 | 9 | 4 Metropolitan | 43 | 16 | 8 | 5 | 37 | 19 | 12 Midland | 22 | 21 | 17 | 2 | 95 | 77 | 9 New Republic | 5 | 5 | 2 | 1 | 100 | 40 | 20 New York Tribune | 30 | 22 | 7 | 4 | 73 | 23 | 13 Outlook | 18 | 10 | 8 | 1 | 56 | 44 | 6 Pagan | 11 | 8 | 8 | 4 | 72 | 72 | 36 Pictorial Review | 42 | 26 | 18 | 14 | 62 | 43 | 33 Reedy's Mirror | 32 | 18 | 10 | 3 | 56 | 31 | 9 Saturday Evening Post | 235 | 62 | 25 | 7 | 21 | 11 | 3 Scribner's Magazine | 65 | 52 | 31 | 16 | 80 | 48 | 25 Seven Arts | 23 | 22 | 19 | 14 | 96 | 83 | 69 Smart Set | 107 | 22 | 12 | 3 | 20 | 11 | 3 Stratford Journal | 10 | 10 | 10 | 9 | 100 | 100 | 90 Sunset Magazine | 32 | 6 | 0 | 0 | 19 | 0 | 0 Touchstone | 15 | 15 | 10 | 2 | 100 | 67 | 13 ==============================+=========+=====+=====+=====+=====+=====+====

The following tables indicate the rank, during 1917, by number and percentage of distinctive stories published, of the nineteen periodicals coming within the scope of my examination which have published during the past year over twenty-five stories and which have exceeded an average of 15% in stories of distinction. The lists exclude reprints.

BY PERCENTAGE OF DISTINCTIVE STORIES

1. Harper's Magazine 80% 2. Scribner's Magazine 80% 3. Century Magazine 80% 4. New York Tribune 73% 5. Bellman 72% 6. Pictorial Review 62% 7. Everybody's Magazine 58% 8. Reedy's Mirror 56% 9. Collier's Weekly 47% 10. American Magazine 46% 11. Delineator 39% 12. Metropolitan Magazine 37% 13. Ladies' Home Journal 33% 14. Good Housekeeping 30% 15. Saturday Evening Post 21% 16. Every Week 21% 17. Smart Set 20% 18. McClure's Magazine 20% 19. Sunset Magazine 19%

BY NUMBER OF DISTINCTIVE STORIES

1. Harper's Magazine 64 2. Saturday Evening Post 62 3. Scribner's Magazine 52 4. Collier's Weekly 51 5. Century Magazine 40 6. Bellman 34 7. Everybody's Magazine 26 8. Pictorial Review 26 9. American Magazine 25 10. New York Tribune 22 11. Smart Set 22 12. Reedy's Mirror 18 13. Delineator 18 14. Every Week 18 15. Metropolitan Magazine 16 16. Good Housekeeping 12 17. Ladies' Home Journal 11 18. McClure's Magazine 9 19. Sunset Magazine 6

The following periodicals have published during 1917 ten or more "two-asterisk stories." The list excludes reprints. Periodicals represented in this list during 1915 as well are indicated by an asterisk. Periodicals represented in this list during 1916 are indicated by a dagger.

1. *+Harper's Magazine 39 2. *+Scribner's Magazine 31 3. *+Century Magazine 29 4. *+Saturday Evening Post 25 5. *+Collier's Weekly 20 6. Seven Arts 19 7. +Pictorial Review 18 8. Midland 17 9. *+Bellman 17 10. *+Smart Set 12 11. Atlantic Monthly 11 12. Touchstone 10

The following periodicals have published during 1917 five or more "three-asterisk stories." The list excludes reprints. Periodicals represented in this list during 1915 as well are indicated by an asterisk. Periodicals represented in this list during 1916 are indicated by a dagger.

1. *+Harper's Magazine 27 2. *+Century Magazine 17 3. *+Scribner's Magazine 16 4. Seven Arts 14 5. +Pictorial Review 14 6. Stratford Journal 9 7. *+Saturday Evening Post 7 8. Atlantic Monthly 5 9. *Metropolitan 5 10. Good Housekeeping 5

Ties in the above lists have been decided by taking relative rank in other lists into account.

INDEX OF SHORT STORIES FOR 1917

All short stories published in the following magazines and newspapers during 1917 are indexed.

American Magazine Atlantic Monthly Bellman Bookman Boston Evening Transcript Century Collier's Weekly Current Opinion Delineator Everybody's Magazine Every Week Forum Harper's Magazine Illustrated Sunday Magazine Ladies' Home Journal Little Review (except Oct.) Masses (Jan.-Sept.) McClure's Magazine Metropolitan Midland New Republic New York Tribune Outlook Pictorial Review Poetry Pagan Reedy's Mirror Russian Review (Jan.-July) Saturday Evening Post Scribner's Magazine Seven Arts Stratford Journal Sunset Magazine Touchstone Yale Review

The October and November issues of the Masses are not listed, as they were not procurable through ordinary channels. The October issue of the Russian Review was not yet published when this book went to press. The October issue of the Little Review was withdrawn from circulation before it could come to my notice.

Short stories, of distinction only, published in the following magazines and newspapers during 1917 are indexed.

Black Cat Boston Herald Colonnade Cosmopolitan Good Housekeeping Harper's Bazar Hearst's Magazine Live Stories McCall's Magazine Milestones Munsey's Magazine Parisienne Pearson's Magazine Short Stories Smart Set Snappy Stories Southern Woman's Magazine To-day's Housewife Woman's Home Companion Youth's Companion

Certain stories of distinction published in the following magazines and newspapers during 1917 are indexed, because they have been called to my attention by authors or readers.

All-Story Weekly Art World Ainslee's Magazine Dernier Cri Detective Story Magazine Los Angeles Times Queen's Work Saucy Stories Top-Notch Magazine Woman's World Young's Magazine

The Red Book Magazine is not represented in these lists, in deference to the wishes of its editor, who sent me the following telegram: "We prefer not to be listed."

One, two, or three asterisks are prefixed to the titles of stories to indicate distinction. Three asterisks prefixed to a title indicate the more or less permanent literary value of a story, and entitle it to a place on the annual "Rolls of Honor." An asterisk before the name of an author indicates that he is not an American.

The following abbreviations are used in the index:--

Ain. Ainslee's Magazine All. All-Story Weekly Am. American Magazine Atl. Atlantic Monthly Art W. Art World B. C. Black Cat Bel. Bellman B. E. T. Boston Evening Transcript B. Her. Boston Herald Cen. Century C. O. Current Opinion Col. Collier's Weekly Colon. Colonnade Cos. Cosmopolitan Del. Delineator Det. Detective Story Magazine Ev. Everybody's Magazine E. W. Every Week For.. Forum G. H. Good Housekeeping Harp. B. Harper's Bazar Harp. M. Harper's Magazine Hear. Hearst's Magazine I. S. M. Illustrated Sunday Magazine L. A. Times. Los Angeles Times L. H. J. Ladies' Home Journal Lit. R. Little Review L. St. Live Stories McC. McClure's Magazine McCall McCall's Magazine Met. Metropolitan Mid. Midland Mir. Reedy's Mirror Mun. Munsey's Magazine N. Rep. New Republic N. Y. Trib. New York Tribune Outl. Outlook Pag. Pagan Par. Parisienne Pear. Pearson's Magazine Pict. R. Pictorial Review Q. W. Queen's Work (R.) (Reprint) Rus. R. Russian Review Sau. St. Saucy Stories Scr. Scribner's Magazine S. E. P. Saturday Evening Post Sev. A. Seven Arts Sh. St. Short Stories Sn. St. Snappy Stories So. Wo. M. Southern Woman's Magazine S. S. Smart Set Strat. J. Stratford Journal Sun. Sunset Magazine To-day To-day's Housewife Top-Notch Top-Notch Magazine Touch. Touchstone W. H. C. Woman's Home Companion Wom. W. Woman's World Yale Yale Review Y. C. Youth's Companion Young Young's Magazine

A

ABBOTT, FRANCES C. **Memorial Window, The. Del. Nov. Mrs. Bodkin's Debut. Del. June.

*ABDULLAH, ACHMED. (ACHMEND ABDULLAH NADIR KHAN EL-DURANI EL-IDDRISSYEH.) ("A. A. NADIR.") (1881- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) (See also UZZELL, THOMAS H., and ABDULLAH, ACHMED.) *As He Reaped. Ain. July. *Consider the Oath of M'Taga. All. March 10. *Disappointment. All. May 19. *East or West? Top-Notch. April 15. *Five-Dollar Gold-Piece, The. Sn. St. Dec. 18. **Gamut, The. S. S. Dec. **Gentlemen of the Old Regime, A. S. S. Feb. *Guerdon, The. S. S. Feb. **Home-Coming, The. Harp. M. May. **Letter, The. S. S. Jan. **Silence. All. April 21.

ADAMS, KATHARINE. *"Silent Brown." So. Wo. M. Oct.

ADAMS, MINNIE BARBOUR. (See 1916.) *Half a Boy. Pict. R. Sept.

ADAMS, SAMUEL HOPKINS. (1871- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Letter to Nowhere, A. E. W. Feb. 12. *Little Red Doctor of Our Square, The. Col Aug. 25. *Meanest Man in Our Square, The. Col. March 24. *Paula of the Housetop. Col. July 7. *Room "12 A." Ev. Nov. "Wamble: His Day Out." Col. Jan. 13.

ADLER, HENRY. Coward, The. Pag. Sept.

*AICARD, JEAN. (1848- .) *Mariette's Gift. N. Y. Trib. Feb. 18.

ALEXANDER, MARY. Ashamed of Her Parents. Del. Nov. Girl Who Is Not Popular, The. Del. May. How Can I Meet the Right Sort of Men? Del. March. Out of Touch With Life. Del. Oct. Too Sure of Herself. Del. July. When She Runs After the Boys. Del. Aug.

ALLEN, FREDERICK LEWIS. (See 1915.) Big Game. Cen. March. Fixing Up the Balkans. Cen. May. Small Talk. Cen. Feb.

ALLEN, LORAINE ANDERSON. **Going of Agnes, The. Touch. Sept.

ALLENDORF, ANNA STAHL. *Dallying of Celia May, The. G. H. July. **Leavening of St. Rupert, The. G. H. June.

"AMID, JOHN." (M. M. STEARNS.) (See 1915 and 1916.) *Alone. Det. Sept. 25. *Busted Poor. All. Dec. 8. Freeze, The. Mid. Aug. *Interlude. Young. April. *Prem Singh. Bel. Dec. 1. ***Professor, A. Mid. Nov. Strachan's Hindu. Bel. Oct. 27.

ANDERSON, SHERWOOD. (See 1915 and 1916.) ***"Mother." Sev. A. March. ***Thinker, The. Sev. A. Sept. ***Untold Lie, The. Sev. A. Jan.

ANDERSON, WILLIAM ASHLEY. (See 1915 and 1916.) **Unwrit Dogma, The. Ev. Dec.

ANDRADE, CIPRIANO, JR. *Applied Hydraulics. S. E. P. Aug. 25.

ANDRES, MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN. (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Blood Brothers. Scr. May. ***Return of K. of K., The. McC. March. *Russian, The. Milestones. Oct.

*ANDREYEV, LEONID NIKOLAEVICH. (1871- .) (See 1916.) ***Lazarus. Strat. J. June.

ANONYMOUS. Apparition, The. N. Y. Trib. Nov. 11. Coeur de Lion. N. Y. Trib. July 22. ***Evocation, The. N. Y. Trib. April 22. Eyes of the Soul, The. N. Y. Trib. Feb. 25. Fools. Mir. Sept. 28. ***"Huppdiwupp." Lit. R. Jan. *Pipe, The. N. Y. Trib. Nov. 4. **Poilu's Dream on Christmas Eve, The. B. Her. Dec. 23. *Rendezvous, The. N. Y. Trib. Sept. 30. **Slacker with a Soul, A. N. Y. Trib. Sept. 16. *Spirit of Alsace, The. N. Y. Trib. May 6. *Voice of the Church Bell, The. N. Y. Trib. Oct. 21. War Against War. McC. April-May. When Lulu Made Trouble. Mir. May 18.

ARBUCKLE, MARY. Freedom and Robbie May. Sun. Nov.

ARMSTRONG, WILLIAM. Cupid in High Finance. Del. Sept.

ASHE, ELIZABETH. (See 1915.) *Appraisement. Atl. March.

*ASSIS, MACHADO DE. (1839-1908.) (See 1916.) **Attendant's Confession, The. (R.) Strat. J. Dec.

AUERNHEIMER, RAOUL. (1876- .) *Demonstrating That War Is War. N. Y. Trib. Jan. 28.

*AUMONIER, STACY. (See 1915 and 1916.) ***In the Way of Business. Pict. R. March. ***Packet, The. Col. May 26. ***"Them Others." Cen. Aug.

AUSTIN, F. BRITTEN. (See 1915.) **Zu Befehl! S. E. P. Dec. 1.

B

BABCOCK, EDWINA STANTON. (See 1916.) ***Excursion, The. Pict. R. Oct.

BACON, JOSEPHINE DASKAM. (1876- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Comrades in Arms. S. E. P. Oct. 27. *Entrances and Exits. Del. Oct. Ghost of Rosy Taylor, The. S. E. P. Nov. 17. *Magic Casements. Del. Nov. Square Peggy. S. E. P. Dec. 22. *Year of Cousin Quartus, A. Del. Feb.

BAILEY (IRENE) TEMPLE. (See 1915.) *Red Candle, The. Scr. Dec.

BAKER, KATHARINE. (See 1915 and 1916.) Fifty-Cent Kind, The. Atl. April.

BALL, WILLIAM DAVID. Man Who Paid, The. E. W. April 2.

BALMER, EDWIN. (1883- .) (See 1915.) Madcap. Col. Jan. 27. S. Orton, Stockholder. E. W. May 28. Telegraph Trail, The. Col. March 17. Thing That He Did, The. L. H. J. Jan. With Sealed Hood. Col. Sept. 22.

BANKS, HELEN WARD. *Mrs. Pepper Passes. Y. C. April 5.

*BARBUSSE, HENRI. **Paradis Polishes the Boots. (R.) C. O. Dec.

BARNARD, FLOY TOLBERT. (1879- .) (See 1916.) ***Surprise in Perspective, A. Harp. M. April.

BARRY, RICHARD. (1881- .) Legacy, The. Del. March.

BARTLETT, FREDERICK ORIN. (1876- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Time to Go to Newport. E. W. July 23.

BARTLEY, NALBRO. Benedict & Company. S. E. P. Oct. 13. Briggles "Goes West." S. E. P. March 10. Have a Heart! S. E. P. April 7. Reel True. S. E. P. Nov. 10. Total Bewitcher, The. S. E. P. June 16. Town Mouse, The. S. E. P. April 21.

BASSETT, WILLARD KENNETH. *End of the Line, The. S. S. Oct.

BATES, SYLVIA CHATFIELD. (See 1915 and 1916.) *Let Nothing You Dismay. W. H. C. Dec. *Light from the Holy Hill. Wom. W. Dec.

*BAZIN, RENE. (1853- .) ***Mathurine's Eyes. Strat. J. March.

BEACH, ROY. Cline's Injunction. Sun. April.

BEATTY, JEROME. "Attaboy!" McC. March. Gee-Whiz Guy, The. McC. Aug. "Take 'Im Out!" McC. May.

BECHDOLT, FREDERICK R. Pecos Kid, The. Col. Jan. 6.

BECHDOLT, JACK. Black Widow's Mercy, The. (R.) Mir. Feb. 16.

BEER, THOMAS. (1889- .) ***Brothers, The. Cen. Feb. ***Onnie. Cen. May. **Rescuer, The. S. E. P. Aug. 11.

BEHRMAN, S. N. **Coming of the Lord, The. Touch. Oct. **Song of Ariel. Sev. A. May.

*BEITH, IAN HAY. (See "HAY, IAN.")

*BELL, J(OHN) J(OY). (1871- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) **Wanted--A Pussy-Mew. Bel. March 3.

BELL, LILIAN (LIDA). (1867- .) Mrs. Galloway Goes Shopping. Del. Sept. Mrs. Galloway Tries to Reduce. Del. Nov.

BENEFIELD, BARRY. (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Simply Sugar Pie. (R.) I. S. M. April 29.

BENET, WILLIAM ROSE. (1886- .) But Once a Year. Cen. Dec.

BENNET-THOMPSON, LILLIAN. (See THOMPSON, LILLIAN BENNET-.)

*BENSON, EDWARD FREDERIC. (1867- .) *"Through." Cen. July.

BENSON, RAMSEY. (1866- .) *Shad's Windfall. B. C. March.

*BERESFORD, JOHN DAVYS. (1873- .) (See 1916.) ***Escape, The. Sev. A. Feb. ***Little Town, The. Sev. A. June. ***Powers of the Air. Sev. A. Oct.

BERRY, JOHN. (See 1916.) *Clod, The. B. C. April.

BETTS, THOMAS JEFFRIES. (See 1916.) **Alone. Scr. May.

BIGGERS, EARL DERR. (1884- .) (See 1916.) Each According to His Gifts. S. E. P. April 14. Same Old Circle. S. E. P. April 7. Soap and Sophocles. McC. July.

*"BIRMINGHAM, GEORGE A." (CANON JAMES O. HANNAY.) (1865- .) (See 1915.) *Von Edelstein's Mistake. McC. Nov.

BLAIR, GERTRUDE. Water-Witch, The. Scr. May.

BLEDSOE, JOE. *Fuzz. B. C. May.

BLYTHE, SAMUEL G. Der Tag for Us. S. E. P. Dec. 22.

BOGGS, RUSSELL A. Boomer from the West, The. S. E. P. April 28.

BOOTH, FREDERICK. (See 1916.) **Cloud-Ring, The. Sev. A. April.

BOTTOME, PHYLLIS. (See 1916.) ***"Ironstone." Cen. March.

BOURNE, RANDOLPH. *Ernest, or Parent for a Day. Atl. June.

*BOUTET, FREDERIC. *Convalescent's Return, The. N. Y. Trib. Dec. 30. ***Medallion, The. N. Y. Trib. Oct. 28. *Messenger, The. N. Y. Trib. Aug. 12. *Promise, The. N. Y. Trib. Sept. 2.

BOWER, B. M., and CONNOR, BUCK. (See 1916.) Go-Between, The. McC. March. Red Ride, The. McC. May.

BOYER, WILBUR S. *Bum Throwers. Ev. June. *Getting Even with Geo'gia. Ev. April. *One Week of Kelly. Ev. March. *There's Many a Slip. Ev. Nov.

*BOYES, DAN. Lilium Giganteum. (R.) Mir. Feb. 16.

BOYKIN, NANCY GUNTER. *Christmas Medley, A. Met. Jan. Leavings. E. W. Dec. 3. Retta Rosemary. E. W. July 16.

BRADY, ELIZABETH. *Ladislav Saves the Day. Q. W. Nov.

BRADY, MARIEL. (See 1916.) Thermopylae. Bel. Oct. 6.

BRALEY, BERTON. (See 1915.) Stuff of Dreams, The. Del. Aug.

*BRAZ, ANATOLE LE. (See LE BRAZ, ANATOLE.)

"BRECK, JOHN." (ELIZABETH C. A. SMITH.) ***From Hungary. Bookman. Dec. **Man Who was Afraid, The. Ev. Sept.

BROOKS, ALDEN. (See 1916.) **Man From America, The. Cen. July. ***Three Slavs, The. Col. May 5.

BROWN, ALICE. (1857- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Flying Teuton, The. Harp. M. Aug. ***Nemesis, Harp. M. April. *Preaching Peony, The. Harp. M. June.

BROWN, BERNICE. **Last of the Line, The. E. W. Nov. 5.

BROWN, KATHARINE HOLLAND. (See 1915 and 1916.) Millicent: Maker of History. Scr. June. **On a Brief Text from Isaiah. Scr. Feb.

BROWN, MARION FRANCIS. *Husks and Hawthorn. So. Wo. M. Aug.

BROWN, PHYLLIS WYATT. (PHYLLIS WYATT.) (See 1916.) *Checked Trousers, The. Masses. June. *Extra Chop, The. Cen. Oct.

BROWN, ROYAL. *Seventy Times Seven. McCall. April.

BROWNELL, AGNES MARY. *Fifer, The. Y. C. June 28.

BRUBAKER, HOWARD. (See 1915 and 1916.) *Baby's Place, A. Harp. M. Jan. Cabbages and Queens. Harp. M. Aug. Greeks Bearing Gifts. Harp. M. Nov. *Ranny and the Higher Life. Harp. M. June.

BRUCKMAN, CLYDE A. (See 1916.) Joe Gum. S. E. P. May 5.

BRYSON, LYMAN. (See 1915 and 1916.) **Under a Roof. Mid. July.

BULGER, BOZEMAN. (See 1915 and 1916.) *Heart of the System, The. S. E. P. Jan. 6. Queen's Mistake, The. S. E. P. March 3. *Skin Deep. Ev. March.

BUNNER, ANNE. Road to Arcady, The. Ev. July.

BURNET, DANA. (1888- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) *Christmas Fight of X 157. L. H. J. Dec. *Dub, The. S. E. P. March 17. ***Fog. (R.) I. S. M. April 1. Genevieve and Alonzo. L. H. J. March. **Sadie Goes to Heaven. G. H. Aug. **Sponge, The. Am. Jan.

BURNETT, FRANCES HODGSON. (1849- .) (See 1915.) **White People, The. Harp. M. Dec., '16-Jan., '17.

*BURROW, C. KENNETT. *Cafe de la Paix, The. (R.) Mir. Sept 21.

BURT, JEAN BROOKE. Way of the West, The. Sun. June.

BURT, MAXWELL STRUTHERS. (1882- .) (See 1915.) ***Closed Doors. Scr. Nov. ***Cup of Tea, A. Scr. July. ***Glory of the Wild Green Earth, The. Scr. Oct. ***John O'May. Scr. Jan. ***Panache, Le. Scr. Dec.

BUSBEY, KATHERINE GRAVES. (1872- .) **Senator's Son, The. Harp. M. March.

BUSS, KATE (MELDRAM). **Medals. Mid. May.

BUTLER, ELLIS PARKER. (1869- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Markley's "Size-Up" of Dix. Am. July. Mutual Spurs, Limited. S. E. P. July 21. *Red Avengers, The. Am. Jan. *Scratch-Cat. E. W. Feb. 26. Temporary Receiver, The. Am. Aug. *Trouble with Martha, The. Harp. M. Dec. **Wasted Effort. Am. May.

BUZZELL, FRANCIS. (1882- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Lonely Places. Pict. R. Dec. ***Long Vacation, The. Pict. R. Sept.

"BYRNE, DONN." (BRYAN OSWALD DONN-BYRNE.) (1888- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) **Day After Tomorrow. McC. Oct. Gryphon, The. S. E. P. April 28. *Prodigal in Utopia, The. S. E. P. Sept. 8. **Sound of Millstones, The. S. E. P. March 24. *Treasure Upon Earth, A. S. E. P. Nov. 3. *Woman in the House, A. S. E. P. March 3.

C

*CAINE, WILLIAM. (See 1916.) **Spanish Pride. Cen. Dec.

CAMERON, ANNE. Sadie's Opportunity. Am. March.

CAMERON, MARGARET. (MARGARET CAMERON LEWIS.) (1867- .) (_See 1915 and 1916._) Dolliver's Devil. Harp. M. Jan.

CAMP (CHARLES) WADSWORTH. (See 1915 and 1916.) Veiled Woman, The. Col. Nov. 17.

CAMPBELL, FLETA. (1886- .) (See 1915 and 1916 under SPRINGER, FLETA CAMPBELL.) **Incompetent, Irrelevant, and Immaterial. Harp. M. May. **Millward. Harp. M. Oct. ***Mistress, The. Harp. B. Oct.

CAMPBELL, JAY. **Jim. Scr. Feb.

CAMPEN, HELEN VAN. (See VAN CAMPEN, HELEN.)

CARLTON, AUGUSTUS. *Lady from Ah-high-ah, The. Mir. Aug. 31.

CARRUTH, GORTON VEEDER. *Chivalry at Goldenbridge. Y. C. Aug. 30.

CARVER, ADA JACK. (See 1916.) *"Joyous Coast, The." So. Wo. M. Sept.

CASEY, PATRICK and TERENCE. (See 1915.) **Kid Brother, The. Col. May 19.

*CASTLE, EGERTON. (1858- .) *Guinea Smuggler, The. Bel. June 16.

CASTLE, EVERETT RHODES. Coats Is In. S. E. P. Nov. 17. Dark-Brown Liquid, The. S. E. P. Dec. 8. Harvest Gloom. S. E. P. Dec. 15. In the Movies They Do It. S. E. P. Dec. 29.

CATHER, WILLA SIBERT. (1875- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) **Gold Slipper, A. Harp. M. Jan.

CEDERSCHIOeLD, GUNNAR. ***Foundling, The. Col. Oct. 27.

CHAMBERLAIN, GEORGE AGNEW. (1879- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Man Who Went Back, The. L. H. J. June. Neutrality and Siamese Cats. S. E. P. June 30.

CHAMBERLAIN, LUCIA. Under Side, The. S. E. P. Aug. 11.

CHAMBERS, ROBERT WILLIAM. (1865- .) (See 1915.) *Brabanconne, La. Hear. Feb.

CHANNING, GRACE ELLERY. (GRACE ELLERY CHANNING STETSON.) (1862- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Out of the Earth. S. E. P. Aug. 18.

*CHEKHOV, ANTON. (See TCHEKOV, ANTON PAVLOVITCH.)

CHENAULT, FLETCHER. Strategy Wins. Col. March 31. Young Man from Texas, The. Col. June 23.

CHESTER, GEORGE RANDOLPH. (1869- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Heavenly Spat, The. Ev. Jan.

CHILD, RICHARD WASHBURN. (1881- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Chasm, The. S. E. P. Dec. 8. Eagle Shannon Assists Mr. Sleed. Col. May 12. Eagle Shannon Deals a Blow at Progress. Col. June 16. Eagle Shannon Gives a Treatment. Col. Feb. 10. Eagle Shannon Meets the Ivory Woman. Col. April 14. *Faith. E. W. Dec. 31. **Forever and Ever. Pict. R. April. God's Laugh. Col. March 17. *Hard of Head. E. W. Jan. 22. Her Boy. E. W. Oct. 15. *Her Countenance. Hear. Oct. Love Is Love. E. W. March 12.

*CHIRIKOV, EVGENIY. ***Past, The. Rus. R. Jan.

CLEGHORN, SARAH N(ORCLIFFE). (1876- .) ***"Mr. Charles Raleigh Rawdon, Ma'am." Cen. Feb.

*CLIFFORD, SIR HUGH. (1866- .) (See 1916.) **"Our Trusty and Well-Beloved." Sh. St. April.

*CLIFFORD, MRS. W. K. (See 1915.) Quenching, The. Scr. Jan.

CLOSSER, MYRA JO. **At the Gate. Cen. March.

CLOUD, VIRGINIA WOODWARD. Boy Without a Name, The. Bel. June 30. Her Arabian Night. Bel. Aug. 11.

COBB, IRVIN S(HREWSBURY). (1876- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Boys Will Be Boys. S. E. P. Oct. 20. ***Cinnamon Seed and Sandy Bottom. S. E. P. June 9. *Ex-Fightin' Billy. Pict. R. June. ***Family Tree, The. S. E. P. March 24. *Garb of Men, The. S. E. P. Jan. 20. *Hark! From the Tombs. S. E. P. April 14. Kiss for Kindness, A. S. E. P. April 7. ***Quality Folks. S. E. P. Nov. 24.

COCKE, SARAH JOHNSON. **Men-Fokes' Doin's. S. E. P. Oct. 27. *Rooster and the Washpot, The. S. E. P. June 2.

CODY, ROSALIE M. (See EATON, JACQUETTE H., and CODY, ROSALIE M.)

COHEN, INEZ LOPEZ. (See "LOPEZ, INEZ.")

COHEN, OCTAVUS ROY. (1891- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) (See also COHEN, OCTAVUS ROY, and LEVISON, ERIC.) **Fair Play. Col. Nov. 24. Lot for a Life, A. E. W. Jan. 1. Oil and Miss Watters. I. S. M. July 8. *Partners. Col. May 5.

COHEN, OCTAVUS ROY (1891-), and LEVISON, ERIC. *Pro Patria. Ev. July.

COLLAMORE, EDNA A. *Those Twin Easter Hats. Del. April.

COLLINS, DOROTHY. Honest Mind, An. Pag. March.

COLTON, JOHN. **On the Yellow Sea. E. W. Nov. 26.

COMFORT, WILL LEVINGTON. (1878- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) **Lempke. S. E. P. Nov. 3. *Lit Up. E. W. July 30. *Pale Torrent, The. Touch. June. *Plain Woman, The. S. E. P. Nov. 24. **Respectable House, A. Touch. Aug. *Shielding Wing, The. Hear. April. **Woman He Loved, The. Touch. Nov.

CONDON, FRANK. (See 1916.) Five, Six, Pick Up Sticks. S. E. P. Nov. 17. Ne Coco Domo. S. E. P. April 7. Nothing But Some Bones. Col. Oct. 20. This Way Out. S. E. P. March 10. Water on the Side. Col. April 28.

CONNOLLY, JAMES BRENDAN. (1868- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Breath o'Dawn. Scr. Sept. *Bullfight, The. Col. Feb. 10. Strategists, The. Scr. July.

CONNOR, BREVARD MAYS. (See 1915 and 1916.) Desert Rose, The. Sun. Sept.

CONNOR, BUCK. (See Bower, B. M., and CONNOR, BUCK.)

CONNOR, TORREY. *"Si, Senor!" Sun. March.

*"CONRAD, JOSEPH." (JOSEPH CONRAD KORZENIOWSKI.) (1857- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Warrior's Soul, The. Met. Dec.

CONVERSE, FLORENCE. (1871- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Culprit, The. Atl. Jan.

CONWAY, NORMAN. *Cleansing, The. Masses. June.

COOK, MRS. GEORGE CRAM. (See GLASPELL, SUSAN.)

COOKE, MARJORIE BENTON. (See 1915 and 1916.) "It Might Have Happened." Scr. April. Morals of Peter, The. Am. Aug.

COOPER, COURTNEY RYLEY. *Congo. Ev. Nov. Ship Comes In, The. Pict R. Nov.

CORBIN, JOHN. (1870- .) Father Comes Back. Col. June 23.

CORNELL, HUGHES. (See 1916.) *Holbrook Hollow. L. A. Times. June 23.

CORNISH, REYNELLE G. E., and CORNISH, EVELYN N. *Letter of the Law, The. Outl. July 4.

COSTELLO, FANNY KEMBLE. (See JOHNSON, FANNY KEMBLE.)

COUCH, SIR ARTHUR T. QUILLER-. (See QUILLER-COUCH, SIR ARTHUR T.)

COWDERY, ALICE. (See 1915.) ***Robert. Harp. M. Feb.

CRABB, ARTHUR. Decision, The. S. E. P. Sept. 8. Third Woman, The. S. E. P. Sept. 15.

CRABBE, BERTHA HELEN. (1887- .) (See 1916.) *Lavender Satin. Y. C. Nov. 29. ***Once in a Lifetime. Bel. April 21.

CRAM, MILDRED R. (See 1916.) *Not Quite an Hour. S. S. Aug. **Statuette, The. S. S. May.

CRAWFORD, CHARLOTTE HOLMES. (See 1915.) **Daughter of Nish, A. Col. Jan. 20.

CRISSEY, FORREST. (See 1915 and 1916.) Pretender, The. Harp. M. May.

CURTISS, PHILIP EVERETT. (1885- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) *Colonel Volunteers, The. Harp. M. Oct. Gods and Little Fishes, The. E. W. Oct. 29. "Overture and Beginners!" S. E. P. Oct. 13. Pioneers, The. Harp. M. Aug.

CURWOOD, JAMES OLIVER. (1878- .) *Fiddling Man, The. E. W. April 16.

D

DALY, ALICE F. *Aunt Virginia's Box. Y. C. Nov. 22. *Heirloom, The. Y. C. Dec. 6.

DAVIES, MARION. Runaway Romany. I. S. M. Sept. 16.

DAVIS, J. FRANK. *Almanzar's Perfect Day. E. W. Aug. 27. White Folks' Talk. E. W. June 25.

DAVIS, JACOB. *Striker, The. Mir. July 27.

DAVIS, ROSE B. Bremington's Job. Sun. March.

DAWSON, (FRANCIS) WARRINGTON. (1878- .) **Man, The. Atl. March.

DELANO, EDITH BARNARD. (See 1915.) Social Folks Next Door, The. L. H. J. Nov.

*DELARUE-MADRUS, LUCIE. ***Death of the Dead, The. Strat. J. Dec. Godmother, The. N. Y. Trib. Sept. 23. Godmother, The. (II.) N. Y. Trib. Oct. 14.

DERIEUX, SAMUEL A. (See 1916.) *Destiny of Dan VI, The. Am. March.

DICKSON, HARRIS. (1868- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Jigadier Brindle, The. Col. July 14. *Jigadier's Drum, The. Col. Sept. 29. *Left Hind Tail, The. Pict. R. Feb. Redpate the Rookie. Col. July 21. War Trailer, The. Col. Sept. 15.

DIVINE, CHARLES. *Last Aristocrat, The. S. S. April. *Mrs. Smythe's Artistic Crisis. S. S. March.

DIX, BEULAH MARIE. (MRS. GEORGE H. FLEBBE.) (1876- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) **One Who Stayed, The. Harp. B. Sept.

DOBIE, CHARLES CALDWELL. (1881- .) (See 1916.) ***Empty Pistol, The. Harp. M. Dec. ***Gift, The. Harp. M. Aug. ***Laughter. Harp. M. April. ***Our Dog. Pict. R. Nov. *Sign Language, The. Harp. M. July. **Where the Road Forked. Harp. M. June.

DODGE, HENRY IRVING. (See 1916.) Skinner's Big Idea. S. E. P. Dec. 15.

DODGE, LOUIS. **Wilder's Ride. Scr. Dec.

DODGE, MABEL. ***Farmhands. Sev. A. Sept.

DORING, WINFIELD. Boy's Night, A. L. H. J. Jan.

DOTY, MADELEINE ZABRISKIE. (See 1915.) *Mutter, Die. (R.) C. O. May.

DOUGLAS, DAVID. (See 1915.) Casey Gets a Surprise. McC. Feb.

DOUNCE, HARRY ESTY. **Garden of Proserpine, The. Cen. Aug.

*DOYLE, SIR ARTHUR CONAN. (1859- .) (See 1916.) **His Last Bow. Col. Sept. 22.

*"DOYLE, LYNN." (LEWIS A. MONTGOMERY.) Compulsory Service in Ballygullion. Cen. April.

DRAPER, JOHN W. *Guilleford Errant. Colon. March.

DREISER, THEODORE. (1871- .) (See 1916.) *Married. Cos. Sept.

DRIGGS, LAURENCE LA TOURETTE. Battle Royal, The. Outl. Nov. 21. Bridge on the Oise, The. Outl. Oct. 31. My First Submarine. Outl. Nov. 7. Strafing Jack Johnson. Outl. Dec. 5. Zeppelin Raid over Paris, A. Outl. Oct. 17.

*DUDENEY, MRS. HENRY. (1866- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Feather-bed, The. Harp. M. Oct.

DUNCAN, NORMAN. (1871-1916.) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Little Nipper o' Hide-an'-Seek Harbor, A. Pict. R. May. *Mohammed of the Lion Heart. Del. Aug.

*DUNSANY, EDWARD JOHN MORETON DRAX PLUNKETT, 18TH BARON. (1878- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***East and West. (R.) Mir. Jan. 19. ***Gifts of the Gods, The. (R.) Mir. Oct. 5. ***How the Gods Avenged Meoul Ki Ning. S. S. Nov.

*DURING, STELLA M. Top Floor Front, The. I. S. M. Feb. 18.

*DUTTON, LOUISE ELIZABETH. (See 1915 and 1916.) Paradise Alley. Met. July. Poor Butterfly. S. E. P. Sept. 29. When the Half-Gods Go. S. E. P. July 14.

DWIGHT, H(ARRY) GRISWOLD. (1875- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Emperor of Elam, The. Cen. July.

DWYER, JAMES FRANCIS. (1874- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) **Land of the Pilgrims' Pride. Col. April 28.

DYER, WALTER ALDEN. (1878- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Annabel's Goose. Col. Dec. 15. Mission of McGregor, The. Col. Feb. 10.

DYKE, CATHERINE VAN. (See VAN DYKE, CATHERINE.)

DYKE, HENRY VAN. (See VAN DYKE, HENRY.)

E

EASTMAN, MAX. (1883- .) (See 1916.) **Lover of Animals, A. Masses. April.

EATON, JACQUETTE H., and CODY, ROSALIE M. *Thankful. Y. C. Nov. 22.

EATON, WALTER PRICHARD. (1878- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Altitude. E. W. Sept. 24. White-Topped Boots, The. E. W. May 21.

*ECHEGARAY, JOSE. *Birth of the Flowers, The. (R.) C. O. Jan.

EDGAR, RANDOLPH. (See 1916.) **Iron. Bel. May 26.

EDGELOW, THOMAS. (See 1916.) Whimsical Tenderness, A. Scr. April.

ELLERBE, ALMA ESTABROOK. (See 1915 under ESTABROOK, ALMA MARTIN.) *Brock. Touch. July.

ELLERBE, ROSE L. *Peasant's Revolt, A. Pear. Nov.

EVANS, IDA MAY. (See 1915 and 1916.) Brew of Ashes. McC. April. End of a Perfect Day, The. Col. Sept. 1. Great Little Old Understander, A. S. E. P. Oct. 20. Ideal of His Dreams, The. S. E. P. March 10. Kimonos and Pink Chiffon. McC. Dec. Leaves of Graft. S. E. P. April 7. Whither Thou Goest. S. E. P. May 26. You Never Can Tell What a Minister's Son Will Do. S. E. P. Aug. 25.

*"EYE-WITNESS." (See SWINTON, LIEUT.-COL. E. D.)

F

*FARJEON, J. JEFFERSON. *Sixpence. (R.) Mir. Dec. 14.

*FARNOL, JEFFERY. *Absentee, The. Wom. W. June.

FAWCETT, MARGARET. Pursuit of Peter, The. Met. June.

FERBER, EDNA. (1887- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) **Cheerful--By Request. Col. Nov. 24. ***Gay Old Dog, The. Met. Oct.

FERRIS, ELEANOR. (See 1915.) *Coup de Grace. Cen. Oct.

FERRIS, ELMER ELLSWORTH. (1861- .) (See 1915.) *Helping Out Olaf. Am. April.

FERRIS, WALTER. (See 1916.) Matter of Quality, A. Ev. Sept.

FINN, MARY M. Bentley's Adventure in New York. Am. Sept.

FLOWER, ELLIOTT. (1863- .) (See 1915.) *Point of View, The. Harp. M. Aug.

FOLSOM, ELIZABETH IRONS. (1876- .) (See 1916.) ***Kamerad. Touch. Oct. **When the Devil Drives. Pag. July-Aug.

FORD, SEWELL. (1868- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) All the Way with Anna. E. W. Nov. 12. And Wilt Thou, Torchy? E. W. Jan. 15. At the Turn with Wilfred. E. W. Nov. 19. Back with Clara Belle. E. W. July 9. Carry-On for Clara, A. E. W. Oct. 22. Even Break with Bradley, An. E. W. Jan. 29. Flicketty One Looks On, A. E. W. Jan. 1. Little Sully's Double Play. E. W. June 11. On the Gate with Waldo. E. W. Aug. 6. Qualifying Turn for Torchy, A. E. W. April 30. Recruit for the Eight-Three, A. E. W. May 28. Ringer from Bedelia, A. E. W. Aug. 20. Showing Up Brick Hartley. E. W. Feb. 26. Switching Arts on Leon. E. W. May 14. Time Out for Joan. E. W. March 26. Torchy and Vee on the Way. E. W. Feb. 12. Torchy in the Gazinkus Class. E. W. June 25. Vee Goes Over the Top. E. W. Dec. 10. Vee with Variations. E. W. March 12. When Torchy Got the Call. E. W. July 23. Where Herm Belonged to Be. E. W. April 16.

FOSTER, MAXIMILIAN. (1872- .) (See 1915.) Dollar Bill, The. S. E. P. June 16. Fifi. S. E. P. July 7. Last Throw, The. S. E. P. Feb. 24. *Wraiths. S. E. P. April 7.

FOX, EDWARD LYELL. (1887- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) *Man and the Other Man, The. I. S. M. March 18.

FOX, JOHN (WILLIAM), JR. (1863- .) *Angel from Viper, The. Scr. May. *Battle-Prayer of Parson Small, The. Scr. April. *Compact of Christopher, The. Scr. Feb. *Courtship of Allaphair, The. Scr. Jan. *Goddess of Happy Valley, The. Scr. Oct. **Lord's Own Level, The. Scr. March. *Marquise of Queensberry, The. Scr. Sept. *Pope of the Big Sandy, The. Scr. June.

FOX, PAUL HERVEY. **Remembered Hour, The. Bel. June 2.

FRANK, WALDO. (1890- .) (See 1916.) ***Bread-Crumbs. Sev. A. May. ***Candles of Romance, The. S. S. Feb. ***Rudd. Sev. A. Aug.

FREEMAN, MARY E. WILKINS-. (1862- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Boomerang, The. Pict. R. March. Both Cheeks. S. E. P. Nov. 17. ***Cloak Also, The. Harp. M. March. **Cross Purposes. (R.) I. S. M. Nov. 25. *Liar, The. Harp. M. Nov. ***Ring with the Green Stone, The. Harp. M. Feb. *Thanksgiving Crossroads. W. H. C. Nov.

*FREKSA, FRIEDRICH. (1882- .) *"Le Chatelet de Madame." N. Y. Trib. Jan. 14.

FUESSLE, NEWTON A. (See 1915 and 1916.) Legal Mind, The. Mir. Nov. 23.

FULLERTON, HUGH STEWART. (See 1916.) Bingles and Black Magic. Met. May. Old Ambish, The. Am. July. Runarounds, The. Col. April 14. Severe Attack of the Gerties, A. Am. Oct. Taking a Reef in Tadpole. Am. April. World Series--Mex., A. Col. Oct. 13.

FUTRELLE, (L.) MAY (PEEL). (MRS. JACQUES FUTRELLE.) (1876- .) (See 1915.) Late Betsy Baker, The. Ev. May.

G

GALE, ANNIE G. Out of Tophet. Sun. July.

GALE, ZONA. (1874- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) *Arpeggio Courts. Harp. M. Dec. Deal, The. E. W. Jan. 1. *When They Knew the Real Each Other. L. H. J. May.

*GALSWORTHY, JOHN. (1867- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Defeat. Scr. Aug. ***Flotsam and Jetsam. Scr. Dec. ***Juryman, The. G. H. Sept.

GAMBIER, KENYON. Huge Black One-Eyed Man, The. S. E. P. June 23-30.

GANOE, WILLIAM ADDLEMAN. *Ruggs--R. O. T. C. Atl. Dec.

GARRETT, GARET. (1878- .) Gold Token, The. S. E. P. Jan. 6.

GATES, ELEANOR. (MRS. FREDERICK FERDINAND MOORE.) (1875- .) Tomboy. S. E. P. Jan. 27. **Waiting Soul, The. Harp. B. June.

GATLIN, DANA. (See 1915 and 1916.) (See also GATLIN, DANA, and HATELY, ARTHUR.) Full Measure of Devotion, The. McC. Nov. In a Japanese Garden. McC. Jan. Let's See What Happens Next! McC. Sept. Lovers and Lovers. Col. March 3. Orchids. McC. Dec. Rosemary's Great Wish. Am. April. *Spring Mischief. Met. April. Where Youth Is Also. Col. March 31. Wild Roses. McC. June.

GATLIN, DANA, and HATELY, ARTHUR. "Divided We Fall." McC. July.

GAUNT, MARY. Cyclone, The. For. March-April.

GEER, CORNELIA THROOP. ***Pearls Before Swine. Atl. Oct.

*GEORGE, W. L. (1882- .) ***Interlude. Harp. M. Feb. **Water. (R.) Mir. Dec. 7.

GEROULD, KATHARINE FULLERTON. (1879- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***East of Eden. Harp. M. Dec. ***Hand of Jim Fane, The. Harp. M. Aug. ***Knight's Move, The. Atl. Feb. ***Wax Doll, The. Scr. May. ***What They Seem. Harp. M. Sept.

GERRISH, JOSETTE. Would-Be Free Lance, The. Met. May.

GERRY, MARGARITA SPALDING. (1870- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Berenice's First Dance. L. H. J. April. Flag Factory, The. L. H. J. Oct. Her Record. Pict. R. Feb. *Midwinter-Night's Dream, A. Harp. M. Dec.

*GIBBON, PERCEVAL. (1879- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) **Plain German. S. E. P. Sept. 29.

*GIBSON, WILFRID WILSON. ***News, The. Poetry. Jan.

GIESY, J. U. Strategy of Desperation, The. Del. Nov.

GIFFORD, FRANKLIN KENT. (1861- .) Along Came George. L. H. J. March.

GILL, AUSTIN. (See 1916.) Introducing the Auto to Adder Gulch. Col. Jan. 6.

GILLMORE, INEZ HAYNES. (See IRWIN, INEZ HAYNES.)

GLASGOW, ELLEN (ANDERSON GHOLSON.) (1874- .) (See 1916.) ***Dare's Gift. Harp. M. Feb.-March.

GLASPELL, SUSAN (KEATING.) (MRS. GEORGE CRAM COOK.) (1882- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Everything You Want to Plant. E. W. Aug. 13. ***Hearing Ear, The. Harp. M. Jan. ***Jury of Her Peers, A. E. W. March 5. ***Matter of Gesture, A. McC. Aug.

GLEASON, ARTHUR HUNTINGTON. (1878- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) **Irishman, The. Cen. Oct.

GOETSCHIUS, MARIE LOUISE. (See VAN SAANEN, MARIE LOUISE.)

GOLDEN, HARRY. End of the Argument, The. Sun. July.

GOLDMAN, RAYMOND LESLIE. Smell of the Sawdust, The. Col. Sept. 15.

GORDON, ARMISTEAD CHURCHILL. (1855- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***His Father's Flag. Scr. Oct. **Pharzy. Scr. March.

GRAEVE, OSCAR. (1884-). (See 1915 and 1916.) *Kamp. McC. May.

GRANICH, IRWIN. (See 1916.) **God Is Love. Masses. Aug.

GRANT, ETHEL WATTS-MUMFORD. (See MUMFORD, ETHEL WATTS.)

GRAY, DAVID. (1870- .) (See 1915.) Felix. S. E. P. Feb. 17. Way a Man Marries, The. Pict. R. July.

GREENE, FREDERICK STUART. (1870- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Bunker Mouse, The. Cen. March. ***"Molly McGuire, Fourteen." Cen. Sept. ***Ticket to North Carolina, A. (R.) I. S. M. April 15. **"Vengeance Is Mine!" McC. Sept.

GREENMAN, FRANCES. Impossible Angela. L. H. J. June. Impossible Angela Discovers That a Pretty Girl is Visiting the Jaspers. L. H. J. Aug.

GRIMES, KATHARINE ATHERTON. **Return of Michael Voiret, The. So. Wo. M. April.

GRUNBERG, ALFRED. Maizie, the Magazine Eater. Met. Jan.

GUILD, ALEXA. Farleigh's Farewell. I. S. M. April 15.

*GULL, CYRIL ARTHUR EDWARD RANGER. (See "THORNE, GUY.")

GURLITZ, AMY LANDON. **Eagle's Nest, The. Ev. May.

H

HAINES, DONAL HAMILTON. (1886- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) *Heels of Achilles, The. Bel. March 10. *Old Man Who was Always There, The. Bel. Nov. 17.

HALE, LOUISE CLOSSER. (1872- .) (See 1915.) Measure of a Man, The. Ev. Dec. *Parties of Maygie, The. Del. Dec. *Soldier of the Footlights, A. McC. Feb.

"HALL, HOLWORTHY." (HAROLD EVERETT PORTER.) (1887- .) (_See 1915 and 1916._) Between Friends. Ev. Sept. "Consolation." Cen. June. Diplomat, The. E. W. Jan. 8. Dormie One. Ev. Feb. Grim Visage, The. McC. Oct. Iberia. S. E. P. March 31. "If You Don't Mind My Telling You." Cen. Jan. Last Round, The. Col. May 12. Man-Killer, The. S. E. P. March 10. Mouse-Traps. McC. Feb. Not a Chance in a Thousand. E. W. Dec. 24. Out in the Open Air. Ev. June. Persons of Rank. McC. Nov. Stingy! S. E. P. May 5. Straight from Headquarters. Dec. Sunset. S. E. P. Oct. 6. Turn About. E. W. Sept. 10. Wild Bill from Texas, Pict. R. Oct.

HALL, MAY EMERY. Countess' Reincarnation, The. Del. April.

HALL, WILBUR JAY. (See 1915 and 1916.) Elijah and the Widow's Cruiser. Col. Jan. 6. Matter of Pressure, A. S. E. P. April 14. Maxim--Caveat Emptor, The. S. E. P. Sept. 22. Pronounced Cwix-ot-ic. Ev. Dec. Typical Westerner, A. Sun. Aug.

HALLET, RICHARD MATTHEWS. (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Rainbow Pete. Pict. R. Oct.

HALSEY, FREDERICK. Up--Through the Garden. Am. May.

*HAMILTON, COSMO. (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Ladder Leaning on a Cloud, The. Del. July. *"Steady" Hardy's Christmas Present. G. H. Dec.

HAMILTON, GERTRUDE BROOKE. (See 1915 and 1916.) *Bonnie McGlint, Late of Broadway. Pict. R. May. Hot Coals. E. W. March 26. *Sons of God, The. G. H. Dec. Wax Beauty, The. E. W. Dec. 17.

*HANNAY, CANON JAMES O. (See "BIRMINGHAM, GEORGE A.")

HARGER, CHARLES MOREAU. (1863- .) (See 1916.) Workman No. 5,484. Outl. Oct. 10.

*HARKER, L(IZZIE) ALLEN. (1863- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) *Misfit, A. Scr. Dec.

HARPER, RALPH M. How the Rector Recovered. Outl. Aug. 8.

HARRIS, CORRA (MAY WHITE). (MRS. L. H. HARRIS.) (1869- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Her Last Affair. S. E. P. Sept. 1. ***Other Soldiers in France, The. S. E. P. Nov. 3. Windmills of Love, The. Pict. R. Nov.

HARRIS, KENNETT. (See 1915 and 1916.) Crop Failure in Sullivan, A. S. E. P. April 7. Jai Alai. Pict. R. April. Talismans. S. E. P. May 5. Vendetta of Bogue Grenouille, The. S. E. P. July 7.

HARTMAN, LEE FOSTER. (1879- .) (See 1915.) *Consul at Paraminta, The. E. W. April 2. ***Frazee. Harp. M. Nov.

HASKELL, ELIZABETH LOUISE. *On Duty. Harp. M. May.

HATELY, ARTHUR. (See GATLIN, DANA, and HATELY, ARTHUR.)

HAWES, CHARLES BOARDMAN. (See 1916.) Off Pernambuco. Bel. July 21. **On a Spring Tide. Bel. Sept. 29. *Patriots. Bel. June 9. *Thanks to the Cape Cod Finn. B. C. May. **"Within That Zone." B. E. T. Feb. 7.

HAWKES, CLARENCE. (1869- .) (See 1916.) *Angela. (R.) C. O. April.

*"HAY, IAN." (JOHN HAY BEITH.) (1876- .) (See 1915.) Noncombatant, The. S. E. P. March 24. *Petit Jean. Ev. April.

HECHT, BEN. (See 1915.) *Sort of a Story, A. All. Dec. 22. **Unlovely Sin, The. S. S. July. *Woman with the Odd Neck, The. B. C. Nov.

*HEINE, ANSELMA. ***Vision, The. Strat. J. Jan.

HEMENWAY, HETTY LAWRENCE. (MRS. AUGUSTE RICHARD.) **Adolescence. Cen. June. ***Four Days. Atl. May.

HENDRYX, JAMES B. *In the Outland. Ev. Oct.

HENSCHEN, SIGMUND. **Christmas in the Trenches. I. S. M. Dec. 23.

HEPBURN, ELIZABETH NEWPORT. (See 1916.) *Elm Tree Ghosts, The. McCall. Dec.

HERGESHEIMER, JOSEPH. (1880- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Asphodel. S. E. P. Aug. 4. Epheimer. S. E. P. Feb. 3. **Tol'able David. S. E. P. July 14.

HERRICK, ELIZABETH. (See 1915.) **After All. Scr. Feb. *Canker at the Root, The. Sn. St. Jan. 18.

HERSEY, HAROLD. **Dead Book, The. Le Dernier Cri. Feb.-March.

HIGGINS, AILEEN CLEVELAND. (MRS. JOHN ARCHIBALD SINCLAIR.) (1882- .) (See 1916.) *'Dopters, The. Bel. Sept. 8.

HIGGINS, JOHN. *Man Who Was Ninety-Nine, The. Mir. Sept. 14.

HILLHOUSE, A. K. *Sheba. Sn. St. Nov. 4.

HINKLEY, LAURA L. *Magic of Dreams, The. W. H. C. Feb.

HOLLINGSWORTH, CEYLON. (See 1915 and 1916.) *Strong Medicine. Col. Dec. 1.

HOOPER, SAMUEL DIKE. Nemesis, The. Sun. June.

HOPPER, JAMES MARIE. (1876- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) *Enter Charity. Col. July 21. **Last Make-Believe, The. Col. June 9. *Rice, The. Col. June 30. Weight Above the Eyes. Col. Nov. 10. **Within the Swirl. S. E. P. July 7.

HORNE, MARGARET VARNEY VAN. (See VAN HORNE, MARGARET VARNEY.)

HOTCHKISS, CHAUNCEY CRAFTS. (1852- .) Taking of Spitzendorf. I. S. M. Nov. 11. Test, The. I. S. M. Sept. 16. Unexpected, The. I. S. M. Oct. 14.

HOUGH, EMERSON. (1857- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) *Claxton, O. C. Sun. Dec.

*HOUSMAN, LAURENCE. (1865- .) ***Inside-out. Cen. Aug.

HOUSTON, MARGARET BELLE. White Diane, The. Met. April.

HOWE, EDGAR WATSON. (1854- .) **Stubborn Woman, The. (R.) C. O. March.

HOWELLS, WILLIAM DEAN. (1837- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) **Tale Untold, A. Atl. Aug.

HOWLAND, ARTHUR HOAG. *Governor and the Poet, The. For. Sept.

HOYT, CHARLES A. *Goddess of the Griddle, The. Y. C. Nov. 29.

HUBBARD, GEORGE, and THOMPSON, LILLIAN BENNET-. (See also THOMPSON, LILLIAN BENNET-.) *Coward, The. Sn. St. Nov. 4.

HUBBARD, PHILIP E. None But the Brave. S. E. P. Jan. 20. Very Temporary Captain McLean. S. E. P. Feb. 3-10.

HUGHES, ELIZABETH BURGESS. (See 1915.) Floods of Valpre. Sn. St. Jan. 18.

HUGHES, RUPERT. (1872- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) **Oompah Oompah, The. Hear. Nov.

HULL, ALEXANDER. **New Generation Shall Rise, A. E. W. Nov. 19.

HULL, GEORGE CHARLES. *"Breathes There the Man--." Scr. July. Through the Eyes of Mary Ellen. Scr. March.

HULL, HELEN R. (See 1915 and 1916.) **Blight. Touch. May. *Fire, The. Cen. Nov. **Groping. Sev. A. Feb. **"Till Death--." Masses. Jan.

HUNEKER, JAMES GIBBONS. (1860- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) **Modern Montsalvat, A. S. S. Feb.

HUNT, EDWARD EYRE. (See 1916.) **Flemish Tale, A. Outl. April 4. ***Ghosts. N. Rep. Jan. 13. **In the Street of the Spy. Outl. Oct. 10. **Microcosm. Outl. Aug. 8. **Pensioners, The. Outl. Feb. 7. ***Saint Dympna's Miracle. Atl. May. C. O. July. **White Island, The. Outl. Jan. 17.

HURST, FANNIE. (1889- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Get Ready the Wreaths. Cos. Sept. *Golden Fleece. Cos. July. **Oats for the Woman. Cos. June. *On the Heights. Cos. Dec. **Sieve of Fulfilment. Cos. Oct. ***Solitary Reaper. Cos. May. **Would You? Met. May. *Wrong Pew, The. S. E. P. Jan. 6.

HUTCHISON, PERCY ADAMS. (See 1915.) ***Journey's End. Harp. M. Sept.

I

IRWIN, INEZ HAYNES (GILLMORE). (1873- .) (See 1916, and also 1915 under GILLMORE, INEZ HAYNES.) When Mother and Father Got Going. L. H. J. May.

IRWIN, WALLACE. (1875- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Ah-Lee-Bung. Del. July. All Front and No Back. S. E. P. Oct. 13. Echo, The. S. E. P. Jan. 27. Eternal Youth. S. E. P. July 21. **Hole-in-the-Ground. Col. Oct. 27. Monkey on a Stick. S. E. P. Dec. 29. *Old Red Rambler. S. E. P. June 16. One of Ten Million. McC. Dec. Peaches and Cream. S. E. P. Nov. 10. Silence. Harp. M. July. Starch and Gasolene. Harp. M. Jan. **Wings. Col. April 7.

IRWIN, WILL(IAM HENRY). (1873- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Evening in Society, An. S. E. P. April 28.

J

*JACOBS, W(ILLIAM) W(YMARK). (1863- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) *Convert, The. Hear. Sept. *Substitute, The. Hear. Dec.

*JAMESON, ELAINE MARY. (See 1915 and 1916.) Return of Sanderson, The. Del. May.

JENKINS, NATHALIE. *Winter's Tale, A. So. Wo. M. Jan.

JOHNSON, ALVIN SAUNDERS. (1874- .) (See 1916.) *Lynching in Bass County. N. Rep. Aug. 18. *Place in the Sun, A. N. Rep. Nov. 17.

JOHNSON, BURGES. (1877- .) (See 1916.) Unmelancholy Dane, An. Pict. R. Sept.

JOHNSON, FANNY KEMBLE. (See 1916.) (FANNY KEMBLE COSTELLO.) *Idyl of Uncle Paley, The. Harp. M. March. *Magic Casements. Cen. Oct. *New Lamps for Old. Cen. July. *On the Altar of Friendship. Cen. Feb. ***Strange-Looking Man, The. Pag. Dec.

JOHNSON, GLADYS E. Two-Bit Seats. Am. July.

JOHNSTON, CALVIN. (See 1915.) *Playgrounds Dim. S. E. P. Aug. 25.

JOHNSTON, CHARLES. (1867- .) (See 1915.) How Liberty Came to Ivan Ivanovitch. Col. Dec. 22.

JOHNSTON, ERLE. *Man with Eyes in His Back, The. Cen. Sept. *Square Edge and Sound. Cen. Nov.

JOHNSTON, HUBERT MCBEAN. Honest Value. Am. July.

JONES, (E.) CLEMENT. (1890- .) ***Sea-Turn, The. Sev. A. Oct.

JONES, FRANK GOEWEY. (See 1915 and 1916.) *Christmas "Bunk," The. L. H. J. Dec. Divided Spoils. McC. Sept. Nine Points of the Law. Col. Oct. 13. Suspense Account, The. E. W. Sept. 3. Wall Street Puzzle, A. S. E. P. May 26. Warm Dollars. S. E. P. Feb. 17.

JONES, JOHNSON. Great American Spoof Snake, The. Bel. Nov. 3.

JONES, THANE MILLER. Invaders of Sanctuary. S. E. P. Sept. 8. N. Brown. S. E. P. Aug. 18.

JORDAN, ELIZABETH (GARVER). (1867- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Mollycoddle, The. E. W. June 4. What Everyone Else Knew. L. H. J. April. Young Ellsworth's Hat Size. S. E. P. June 16.

*JOY, MAURICE. *Twenty-Four Hours. S. S. Sept.

JULIUS, EMANUEL HALDIMAN-. "Young Man, You're Raving." Pag. Jan.

K

KAHLER, HUGH. *Unforbidden. S. S. Sept.

KAUFFMAN, REGINALD WRIGHT. (1877- .) (See 1916.) **Bounty-Jumper, The. Bel. Feb. 10. ***Lonely House, The. S. S. Feb.

KELLAND, CLARENCE BUDINGTON. (1881- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) *Leak, The. E. W. July 9. *Mountain Comes to Scattergood, The. S. E. P. Nov. 24. Omitted Question, The. E. W. Feb. 19. Options. S. E. P. March 24. *Practice Makes Cock-Sure. E. W. Aug. 27. Saving It For Dad. S. E. P. Jan. 20. Scattergood Baines-Invader. S. E. P. June 30. Scattergood Kicks Up the Dust. S. E. P. Oct. 13. Speaking of Souls. E. W. Aug. 6.

KELLER, LUCY STONE. Hail to the Conqueror. Del. Jan.

KELLEY, LEON. All Under One Roof. McC. Oct. Four Cylinders and Twelve. McC. Aug.

KELLY, KATE. Emancipation of Galatea, The. S. E. P. March 3.

KENAMORE, CLAIR. *Sonora Nights' Entertainments. Bookman. July.

KENNON, HARRY B. (See 1915 and 1916.) Back from the Border. Mir. May 4. Crumbs of Conservation. Mir. Dec. 28. Fifty-Twelve. Mir. Sept. 21. Girl Who Talked Out Loud, The. L. H. J. Nov. Gold Tooth. Mir. May 18. **Hell's Legacy. Mir. Aug. 24. Mrs. Chichester's Confession. Mir. June 1. Poppy Seed. Mir. March 16. Rice and Old Shoes. Mir. Nov. 16. *Scum. Mir. April 6. Three Modern Musketeers. Mir. Dec. 14.

KENT, EILEEN. *Moon Madness. Masses. May.

KENTON, EDNA. *Black Flies. Sn. St. Dec. 18.

KENYON, CAMILLA E. L. Pocketville Bride, The. Sun. Oct. Runaways, The. Sun. May. Treasure from the Sea. Sun. Sept. Tuesday. Sun. April.

KERR, SOPHIE. (1880- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Bitterest Pill, The. McC. Jan. *Clock That Went Backward, The. W. H. C. July. "Governor Putty." McC. Feb. High Explosive. McC. June. Marriage By Capture. E. W. May 7. *Monsieur Rienzi Takes a Hand. Am. June. *Orchard, The. Col. Dec. 15. Over-Reached. McC. Nov.

KILBOURNE, FANNIE. (See 1915.) *Betty Bell and Love. Wom. W. Oct. Bluffer, The. Del. March.

KILTY, MACK. Taotaomona, The. Bel. Sept. 1.

*KIPLING, RUDYARD. (1865- .) (See 1915.) *Regulus. Met. April.

KIRK, R. G. *Glenmere White Monarch and the Gas-House Pup. S. E. P. March 17. *Zanoza. S. E. P. Oct. 27.

KLAHR, EVELYN GILL. (See 1915.) She of the U. J. L. H. J. Sept. *Souvenirs of Letty Loomis. Harp. M. March.

KLINE, BURTON. (1877- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Caller in the Night, The. Strat. J. Dec. **Point of Collision, The. S. S. Nov.

KNIGHT, LEAVITT ASHLEY. (See 1915 and 1916.) *Village Orator, The. Am. March.

KNIGHT, REYNOLDS. (See 1915 and 1916.) *Clay. Mid. April.

KOBBE, GUSTAV. (1857- .) Clothes. (R.) Mir. Jan. 12.

*KORZENIOWSKI, JOSEPH CONRAD. (See "CONRAD, JOSEPH.")

KRYSTO, CHRISTINA. (1887- .) ***Babanchik. Atl. April.

KUMMER, FREDERIC ARNOLD. (See 1915 and 1916.) Madman, The. Pict. R. Feb.-March.

KYNE, PETER BERNARD. (1880- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Cappy Ricks Takes On the Kaiser. S. E. P. Sept. 8. Cappy Ricks, Wheat Baron. S. E. P. Feb. 17. Circumventing Wilhelm. S. E. P. April 21. Floating the Dundee Lassie. Col. Feb. 17. For Revenue Only. S. E. P. June 9. Over and Back. Col. March 10. *Saint Patrick's Day in the Morning. S. E. P. May 19. Salt of the Earth. S. E. P. Feb. 3. Swanker, The. Sun. Oct.

L

LAIT, JACK. (JACQUIN L.) (1882- .) (See 1916.) *Clause for Santa Claus, A. Milestones. Dec. If a Party Meet a Party. (R.) Mir. Jan. 26. *Jersey Lil. Am. June. Toilers in the Night. Am. Nov.

LANE, GEORGE C. *Jones of the Iron Grip. Y. C. Dec. 20.

LARDNER, RING W. (See 1915 and 1916.) Ball-a-Hole. S. E. P. May 12. Facts, The. Met. Jan. Friendly Game, A. S. E. P. May 5. Hold-Out, The. S. E. P. March 24. Three Without, Doubled. S. E. P. Jan. 13. Tour Y-10. Met. Feb. Yellow Kid, The. S. E. P. June 23.

"LA RUE, EDGAR." (See MASTERS, EDGAR LEE.)

*LAWRENCE, D. H. (See 1915.) ***England My England. Met. April. ***Mortal Coil, The. Sev. A. July. ***Thimble, The. Sev. A. March.

LAZAR, MAURICE. Boarder, The. Masses. Feb. *Habit. Touch. July.

LEA, FANNIE HEASLIP. (MRS. H. P. AGEE.) (1884- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Big Things. McC. May. Lone Wolf, The. Harp. M. Aug. On the Spring Idea. E. W. April 9. Opened by Censor 1762. Del. Sept.

*LE BRAZ, ANATOLE. (1859- .) ***Christmas Treasure, The. So. Wo. M. Dec. **Frame, The. Outl. Feb. 21.

LEE, JENNETTE (BARBOUR PERRY). (1860- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***John Fairchild's Mirror. Cen. April. Miss Somebody's Chair. L. H. J. June. Three Boats that the Two Men Saw, The. L. H. J. Aug. *Two Doctors, The. L. H. J. July.

*LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD. (1866- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Bugler of the Immortals, The. Del. July.

LERNER, MARY. (See 1915 and 1916.) *Forsaking All Others. Col. May 26. ***Little Selves. (R.) I. S. M. May 13. *Sixteen. McCall. March. **Wages of Virtue. All. Feb. 3.

*LEV, BERNARD. ***Bert, the Scamp. Strat. J. Dec. ***Marfa's Assumption. Strat. J. Dec.

*LEVEL, MAURICE. *After the War. N. Y. Trib. Oct. 7. *At the Movies. N. Y. Trib. Dec. 9. **Great Scene, The. B. Her. Dec. 2.

LEVERAGE, HENRY. *Last Link, The. Sh. St. April. *Passage for Archangel, A. Sh. St. Feb. *Salt of the Sea. Sh. St. May.

LEVISON, ERIC. (See COHEN, OCTAVUS ROY, and LEVISON, ERIC.)

LEWARS, ELSIE SINGMASTER. (See SINGMASTER, ELSIE.)

LEWIS, ADDISON. (1889- .) **Black Disc, The. Mir. Oct. 26. "Elevator Stops At All Floors." Mir. Dec. 7. *End of the Lane, The. Mir. Feb. 2. *New Silhouette, The. Mir. Nov. 2. *9:15, The. Mir. Nov. 16. **Rejected, The. Mir. Oct. 12. **Sign Painter, The. Mir. Oct. 5. **Spite. Mir. Oct. 19. ***When Did You Write Your Mother Last? Mir. Nov. 9.

LEWIS, AUSTIN. (See 1916.) Contra Bonos Mores. Masses. Sept. Lucky Sweasy! Masses. Jan.

LEWIS, SINCLAIR. (1885- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Black Snow and Orange Sky. Met. Oct. *For the Zelda Bunch. McC. Oct. Hobohemia. S. E. P. April 7. Joy-Joy. S. E. P. Oct. 20. Poinsettia Widow, The. Met. March. *Scarlet Sign, The. Met. June. Snappy Display. Met. Aug. Twenty-Four Hours in June. S. E. P. Feb. 17. Whisperer, The. S. E. P. Aug. 11. Woman By Candlelight, A. S. E. P. July 28. **Young Man Axelbrod. Cen. June.

*LIDDELL, SCOTLAND. **Olitchka. (R.) C. O. Nov.

LIGHTON, LOUIS DURYEA. (See LIGHTON, WILLIAM RHEEM, and LIGHTON, LOUIS DURYEA.)

LIGHTON, WILLIAM RHEEM. (1866- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) (See also LIGHTON, WILLIAM RHEEM, and LIGHTON, LOUIS DURYEA.) Billy Fortune and the Hard Proposition. E. W. May 14. Judge Jerry and the Eternal Feminine. Pict. R. July.

LIGHTON, WILLIAM RHEEM (1866- .), and LIGHTON, LOUIS DURYEA. (_See 1916._) *Billy Fortune and That Dead Broke Feeling. Pict. R. May. Billy Fortune and the Spice of Life. Pict. R. March. Man Without a Character, The. Sun. May.

LINDAS, B. F. (See 1916.) *Dago, The. Mir. Jan. 19.

LOAN, CHARLES E. VAN. (See VAN LOAN, CHARLES E.)

LONDON, JACK. (1876-1916.) (See 1915 and 1916.) *Grit of Women, The. (R.) I. S. M. Jan. 7. ***Like Argus of the Ancient Time. Hear. March. *Thousand Deaths, A. (R.) B. C. Jan LONG, LILY AUGUSTA. "To Love, Honor, and Obey." Harp. M. May.

LOON, HENDRIK WILLEM VAN. (See VAN LOON, HENDRIK WILLEM.)

"LOPEZ, INEZ." (MRS. OCTAVUS ROY COHEN.) **Answer, The. B. E. T. May 5.

LOWE, CORINNE. Flavius Best, Pinxit. S. E. P. Sept 29-Oct. 6. Slicker, The. S. E. P. Nov. 17.

LUDWIG, FRANCES A. Square Pegs in Round Holes. Am. Dec.

LUND, ADELAIDE. *Pay-Roll Clerk, The. Atl. Aug.

LYNCH, J. BERNARD. *Making Good on the Props. Hear. Feb.

LYNN, MARGARET. (See 1915.) **Mr. Fannet and the Afterglow. Atl. Nov.

M

MABIE, LOUISE KENNEDY. (See 1915.) Efficient Mrs. Broderick, The. L. H. J. Feb.

MCCASLAND, VINE. **Spring Rains. Mir. May 25.

MCCLURE, JOHN. (See 1916.) **King of Sorrows, The. S. S. Nov.

MCCONNELL, SARAH WARDER. Influence, The. Ev. Oct.

MCCOURT, EDNA WAHLERT. (See 1915.) *David's Birthright. Sev. A. Jan.

MCCOY, WILLIAM M. *Little Red Decides. Am. Dec. *Rough Hands--But Gentle Hearts. Am. Nov. Scum of the Earth. Col. Sept. 8.

MACFARLANE, PETER CLARK. (1871- .) **Deacon Falls, The. S. E. P. Nov. 10. Great Are Simple, The. S. E. P. Sept. 1. Live and Let Live! S. E. P. Sept. 22.

MACGOWAN, ALICE. (1858- .) (See 1916.) Golden Hope, The. E. W. June 4.

MACGRATH, HAROLD. (1871- .) (See 1915.) *Seas That Mourn, The. Col. Oct. 6.

*MACHARD, ALFRED. *Repatriation. N. Y. Trib. Dec. 16.

*MACHEN, ARTHUR. (1863- .) ***Coming of the Terror, The. Cen. Oct.

MACKENZIE, CAMERON. (1882- .) (See 1916.) Firm, The. S. E. P. Oct. 6. Main-Chance Lady, The. S. E. P. Feb. 10. Thing, The. McC. Jan.

MCLAURIN, KATE L. (See 1916.) *"Sleep of the Spinning Top, The." (R.) C. O. Aug.

MACMANUS, SEUMAS. (1870- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) **Fluttering Wisp, The. Del. Dec. **Lord Mayor of Buffalo, The. Del. Oct. ***Mad Man, the Dead Man, and the Devil, The. Pict. R. April.

MACNICHOL, KENNETH. *Long Live Liberty! Col. June 2.

*MADEIROS E ALBUQUERQUE, JOSE DE. (1867- .) ***Vengeance of Felix, The. Strat. J. Dec.

*MADRUS, LUCIE DELARUE-. (See DELARUE-MADRUS, LUCIE.)

MANNING, MARIE. (MRS. HERMAN E. GASCH.) (See 1915 and 1916.) No Clue. McC. June. Seventeen-Year Locusts, The. Pict. R. June.

MARKS, JEANNETTE. (1875- .) (See 1916.) Golden Door, The. Bel. April 7.

MARQUIS, DON (ROBERT PERRY). (1878- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) *Being a Public Character. Am. Sept.

MARRIOTT, CRITTENDEN. (1867- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) God's Messenger. E. W. July 16.

MARSH, GEORGE T. (See 1915 and 1916.) **For the Great Father. Scr. March. **Out of the Mist. Cen. April. *Valley of the Windigo, The. Scr. June.

MARSHALL, EDISON. (See 1916.) Chicago Charlie Lancelot. Am. Sept. ***Man That Was in Him, The. Am. Aug. *Vagabond or Gentleman? Am. June.

MARSHALL, RACHAEL, and TERRELL, MAVERICK. Heroizing of Amos Chubby, The. Pict. R. Aug.

MARTIN, KATHARINE. *Celebrating Father. L. H. J. Nov.

*MASON, ALFRED EDWARD WOODLEY. (1865- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) *Silver Ship, The. Met. Jan.

MASON, GRACE SARTWELL. (1877- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) For I'm To Be Queen of the May. E. W. April 30. *Jessie Passes. E. W. Feb. 5. Potato Soldier, The. E. W. Nov. 12. Summer Wives. Met. Nov. *Woman Who Was a Shadow, The. Met. Aug.

MASTERS, EDGAR LEE. ("EDGAR LA RUE.") (1868- .) ***Boyhood Friends. Yale. Jan. ***Widow La Rue. Mir. Jan. 19.

*MAXWELL, WILLIAM BABINGTON. *Woman's Portion, The. Ev. Dec.

MAY, NOBLE. *Mabel Plays the Game. Am. Feb.

MEAKER, S. D. Man's Own Wife, A. Scr. April.

MELLETT, BERTHE KNATVOLD. (See 1915 and 1916.) Kolinsky. Col. March 10.

MERCHANT, ABBY. **Presentiment, The. Harp. M. July.

METCALF, THOMAS NEWELL. Martin's Chickens. Cen. Nov.

MEYER, ERNEST L. Non Compos Mentis. (R.) Mir. Feb. 16.

MILES, EMMA BELL. (See 1915.) *Destroying Angel, The. So. Wo. M. May.

*MILLE, PIERRE. (1864- .) *How They Do It. N. Y. Trib. July 8. *Man Who Was Afraid, The. N. Y. Trib. June 24. *Soldier Who Conquered Sleep, The. N. Y. Trib. March 11.

MILLER, HELEN TOPPING. (See 1915 and 1916.) From Wimbleton to Wambleton. Del. March.

MINNIGERODE, MEADE. (See 1916.) Macaroons. S. E. P. Feb. 24.

MINUIT, PETER. *Class of 19--, The. Sev. A. June. Modern Accident, A. Sev. A. April.

MITCHELL, MARY ESTHER. (See 1915 and 1916.) **Miss Barcy's Waterloo. Harp. M. Oct. **Smaller Craft, The. Harp. M. March. *Strike in the Mines, A. Harp. M. Nov. *"Then Came David." Harp. M. Sept.

MITCHELL, RUTH COMFORT. (See 1916.) **Call, The. Mir. March 30. N. Y. Trib. April 15. Glory Girl, The. Cen. Dec. *Jane Meets an Extremely Civil Engineer. Cen. Sept. Jane Puts It Over. Cen. Jan. *Let Nothing You Dismay! Mir. Dec. 21.

*MONTGOMERY, LEWIS A. (See "DOYLE, LYNN.")

MOORE, MRS. FREDERICK FERDINAND. (See GATES, ELEANOR.)

MOORE, JAMES MERRIAM. *On an Old Army Post. Atl. July.

*MORDAUNT, ELINOR. (See 1915.) ***Gold Fish, The. Met. Feb.

MORLEY, CHRISTOPHER. *Question of Plumage, A. Bel. Jan. 20. **Revenge. B. E. T. Feb. 28. **Rhubarb. Col. Dec. 29.

MOROSO, JOHN ANTONIO. (1874- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) *Dad. Am. May. *Light in the Window, The. Wom. W. Feb. *Maggie. I. S. M. Oct. 28. Mister Jones. I. S. M. March 4. *Poor 'Toinette. Del. Oct. *Shoes that Danced, The. Met. Dec. *Uncle Jules. Del. April.

MORRIS, GOUVERNEUR. (1876- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) **"Death in Both Pockets." Harp. B. Sept. *Doing Her Bit. S. E. P. Sept. 22. *Honor Thy Father. Harp. B. Oct. *Mary May and Miss Phyllis. Harp. B. Nov. Senator in Pelham Bay Park, A. Col. Dec. 8.

MORTON, JOHNSON. Henrietta Intervenes. Harp. M. Sept. ***Understudy, The. Harp. M. Aug.

*MUENZER, KURT. (1879- .) "Weltfried." N. Y. Trib. Jan. 21.

MUILENBURG, WALTER J. (See 1915 and 1916.) ***At the End of the Road. (R.) I. S. M. May 27. *Thanksgiving Lost and Found. To-day. Nov.

MUIR, BLISS. Wedding Dress, The. Met. July.

MUIR, WARD. **Unflawed Friendship, The. S. S. Jan.

MUMFORD, ETHEL WATTS. (MRS. ETHEL WATTS-MUMFORD GRANT.) (1878- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) **Bounty. G. H. May. Opal Morning, The. McC. April. *Second Sight of Hepsey McLean, The. Col. July 28.

N

"NADIR, A. A." (See ABDULLAH, ACHMED)

NAFE, GERTRUDE. (1883- .) ***One Hundred Dollars. Cen. Feb.

NEIDIG, WILLIAM JONATHAN. (1870- .) (See 1916.) *Camel from Home, The. Harp. M. Oct. Gunman, The. S. E. P. March 10. *Hair of the Dog, The. S. E. P. Dec. 15.

*NETTO, COELHO. (1864- .) ***Pigeons, The. Strat. J. Dec.

NICHOLSON, MEREDITH. (1866- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Doubtful Dollars. S. E. P. Jan. 13. ***Heart of Life, The. Scr. Dec. Made in Mazooma. Met. Feb.

NORRIS, KATHLEEN. (1880- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Children, The. Pict. R. Jan.

NORTON, ROY. (1869-1917.) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Aunt Seliny. Pict. R. April. **Fine Old Fool, The. L. H. J. July.

O

O'BRIEN, HOWARD VINCENT. Eight Minutes from the Station. L. H. J. Jan.

O'BRIEN, SEUMAS. (1880- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) **Bargain of Bargains, A. I. S. M. Feb. 4. ***Murder? I. S. M. Dec. 9.

O'HARA, FRANK HURBURT. (See 1915 and 1916.) Green Silk Dress, The. E. W. Jan. 22. Sham Girl, The. E. W. April 23.

O'HIGGINS, HARVEY J. (1876- .) (See 1915.) **Benjamin McNeil Murdock. S. E. P. Sept. 8. **From the Life: Sir Watson Tyler. Cen. March. ***From the Life: Thomas Wales Warren. Cen. April. **Jane Shore. Cen. July.

*OKUNEV, J. *Flanking Movement, A. Rus. R. Jan.

OLIVER, JENNIE HARRIS. *Devil's Whirlpool, The. Del. Aug. *Rusty. Del. Nov.

O'NEILL, EUGENE G. **Tomorrow. Sev. A. June.

*OPOTAWSHU, JOSEPH K. (See 1916.) **Cabalist, The. Pag. April-May. **New-World Idyll. Pag. Oct.-Nov. **Night in the Forest, A. Pag. April-May.

*OPPENHEIM, EDWARD PHILLIPS. (1866- .) (See 1916.) Bride's Necklace, The. (R.) I. S. M. Feb. 4. *Cunning of Harvey Grimm, The. Harp. B. Dec. Sad Faced Hermit, The. (R.) I. S. M. Sept. 30. Unlucky Rehearsal, An. I. S. M. Jan. 7.

O'REILLY, EDWARD S. (See 1916.) **Dead or Alive. Col. Sept. 29. Dominant Male, The. Pict. R. Dec. Soothing the Savage Breast. Pict. R. Nov. Two-Cylinder Lochinvar, A. Pict. R. Oct.

OSBORNE, (SAMUEL) DUFFIELD. (1858- .) (See 1915.) **Dark Places. Art W. Oct.

OSBORNE, WILLIAM HAMILTON. (1873- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Clandestine Career, A. S. E. P. April 14. **Knife, The. Bel. May 12. Kotow de Luxe. S. E. P. Nov. 3. *Signor. Sn. St. March 4.

OSBOURNE, LLOYD. (1868- .) (See 1915.) Marrying Money. S. E. P. Oct. 6. *Out of the Mist. S. E. P. Dec. 1.

OSTRANDER, ISABEL. (See 1915 and 1916.) Eye for an Eye, An. I. S. M. April 29. Followers of the Star. I. S. M. Dec. 23. Ransom, The. I. S. M. April 1. Winged Clue, The. I. S. M. May 27.

O'SULLIVAN, VINCENT. (1872- .) (See 1916.) ***Interval, The. B. E. T. Sept. 8.

OXFORD, JOHN BARTON. *Importance of Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, The. Am. Oct.

P

PAIN, WELLESLEY. Beginner's Luck. (R.) Mir. Sept. 7.

PAINE, ALBERT BIGELOW. (1861- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Excursion in Memory, An. Harp. M. March.

PALMER, HELEN. Old Diggums. Bel. Jan. 6.

PALMER, VANCE. (See 1915 and 1916.) Island of the Dead, The. Bel. Oct. 13. Love and the Lotus. Sun. May. Rajah and the Rolling Stone, The. Bel. Dec. 8. Will to Live, The. Bel. Jan. 13.

PANGBORN, GEORGIA WOOD. (1872- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) ***Bixby's Bridge. Harp. M. March. *Twilight Gardener, The. Touch. June.

PATTEE, LOUEEN. Muted Message, A. Outl. Feb. 14.

PATTULLO, GEORGE. (1879- .) (See 1915 and 1916.) Being Nice to Nellie. S. E. P. Jan. 27. First Aid to M'sieu Hicks. S. E. P. Oct. 20. Going After the Inner Meaning. S. E. P. Aug. 11. Half a Man. S. E. P. Feb. 3. Little Sunbeam. E. W. June 18. Never Again! S. E. P. March 24. *Wrong Road, The. S. E. P. Jan. 6.