THE GREEK BOY.

"I'm lonely," said Tommy.

He looked up. Above him the grooved pillars of the great British Museum, seemed reaching endlessly skyward. Now and then an elderly gentleman with books under his arm hurried down the rain-washed steps out toward the iron grating of the gateway. A woman in long mackintosh gazed at Tommy a moment, hesitated, turned up the collar of her coat, shook out her umbrella and vanished in the drizzle. "I'm lonely," said Tommy.

Beyond the heavy doors there were rows and rows of statues, cases of books with strange coloured pictures of flowers and dragons and golden angels, - shelves of vases and tiny bronzes, and curious and marvellous weapons. Tommy liked the pictures of angels slaying dragons and the rooms filled with old armour and curved swords and the oddest kinds of helmets. But Uncle Harry had insisted upon taking him into a room where there were a lot of broken old stained marble things, "Most beautiful sculpture in the world," said uncle Harry, "Elgin marbles - look at that group now." Tommy saw only three heavily moulded women with their heads off. Why should people make such a fuss over things that were broken to pieces? "And the frieze," said uncle Harry, "went round the top of the Parthenon - the Temple you know - as decoration - splendid."

2

Tommy looked up in the dim light. There were groups of boys or young men carved on slabs of flat stone. Some of these were riding horseback, but they were stained and the horses' heads were broken. "Not worth much," thought Tommy. "They wear short skirts like a girl and their arms are thin."
He was glad when uncle Harry looked at his watch, "Have to hurry before bank closes. You wait outside or here? Outside? Very well - might feed the pigeons - seems to be a straggle of sunlight."

And sure enough, down the dim corridor, a slender ray filtered through the skylight. It touched the graceful figure of one of the Greek Boys on horseback. Tommy shrugged his shoulders as he turned away.

Outside, the sun, struggling through a watery sunset, caught light from the little pools in the uneven flagging of the pavement. From the far-reaching porticos and columned porches, the pigeons who found refuge there, came flying. They shook out their wings, preening their feathers in the meagre sun rays. Tommy crumbled the bun that uncle Harry's fore-thought had provided, and the pigeons grouped about him. "Coo, coo," they cried, and still more joined them from the refuge of the columns.

There was a sudden dash of rain. The pigeons vanished. Night seemed suddenly upon them.

Bench

3

Bench

Tommy crouched against one of the high reaching pillars. It seemed colder and much darker. He bit into the remnant of the pigeons' bun. It was dry and dull. "Like everything in this old city," thought Tommy, "like the statues in that room - broken and dry and dead." The wind caught him as it shivered through the corridors. "Wish I had never come to this old country," said Tommy, "where everything's dull and dead - dull as that old Museum."

There was strange murmurings in the wind, and something fluttered, seeming alive behind the pillars. "Guess I'd better go inside," thought Tommy, "there lights there - and wait."

He scrambled to his feet. The voices in the wind were growing louder. Tommy ran towards the door.

But only the columns opened out before him, reaching endlessly.

He sat down panting. "Dear me - dear me - wish Uncle Harry hadn't left me. I'm cold - dear me - I'm lonely."

"Why are you lonely?"

It was the white thing that had seemed alive and fluttering by the pillar. Tommy looked up. It was the Greek Boy - the one who but a moment since had been riding on the Parthenon frieze - who stood before him.

Tommy looked at the Greek Boy. He seemed more like a girl than ever now that he had got off his horse. His legs were

4

slim, and the white garment that was fluttering reached hardly to his knees. His feet were bare.

"Why are you cold?" asked the Greek Boy.

"Cold," grumbled Tommy, "isn't it enough to make anyone cold - rain and drizzle and being alone."

"Why are you alone?" questioned the Greek Boy.

Tommy looked at the Greek Boy. It seemed that never in his life had he been asked such foolish questions. "Why was he cold - why was he alone?" The answer seemed obvious enough. However he would try to explain to this bare-legged silly boy.

"I'm cold," said Tommy, "because there's rain and there's wind." He looked at the boy's bare legs and it occurred to him that the question was more than ever ludicrous, for if he, Tommy, were cold - what must this boy be with only half his clothes on. "Aren't you?"

"Why, no," said the boy, "but it's cold sometimes in winter when the river's frozen."

"Oh, yes," assented Tommy, "then - even with mufflers and your mittens - "

"I don't mean with clothes on," said the boy, "I mean bathing."

"Bathing?" questioned Tommy.

"Yes, bathing," answered the boy, "when the ice grazes your shoulder."

Tommy gasped. "You don't mean you go swimming then?"

5

"Don't you?"

Was this boy mad?

Tommy swallowed his astonishment. He would endeavour to answer the second question as simply as he could, and so avoid explaining in language he would be ashamed to use to his baby cousin, that sensible boys are not allowed swimming in the winter, and sometimes not even in Spring. "I'm lonely," Tommy broke away from the bathing subject, "because I'm away from my father and mother."

The boy looked at him. It seemed that his lips curled slightly. "Are not your father and mother the great State?" he said. "Were you not taken from them when you were a baby? and given to the elders of the council? Have you forgotten that you have many fathers - each wise man that can teach you - that your mother is your country?"

Tommy straightened his shoulders. "What strange things this boy was saying.

"My mother," said Tommy, - a lump seemed rising in his throat - my mother is my very own mother. Why should she have given me to any old Elder when I was a baby? She loved me too much to give me away."

The boy looked at Tommy. Then he smiled. "Oh," he said, "I see. I had thought you one of the civilized peoples. But no, you are not a Spartan, nor yet are you of Athens. You must be a barbarian."

A barbarian! Barbarian? That meant a wild cruel person with his hair long. Something blazed in Tommy's cheeks, - his eyes flamed.

"I'd have you know," he said, "that my country's a great country - the most wonderful in the world. Barbarian - " involuntarily his fingers clenched - he raised his hands.

In a moment he was lying at the feet of the Greek boy. He couldn't tell how it had happened. There was a twist and a turn and a bare arm about his neck, and there he was.

"Strange wrestling they teach in your wonderful country," said the Greek boy.

Tommy scrambled to his feet. "Wrestling," he scorned, undaunted by his fall, "we have better things to learn in school than wrestling."

"What?" said the boy. He didn't say in words "You don't look as if they'd ever taught you anything," though his quiet curling lips said that and more. Tommy was strangely discom-forted.

"Why - why -" he said - then suddenly at random - "arithmetic and geography - the names of places and how people found out the earth was round - and - and -"

But Tommy's breach was filled in by the eager interruption of the Greek boy. His hand was raised - his lips no longer curling - his eyes alight and eager.

"The earth - the earth -" he questioned - "so often I have heard the Elders speaking but they could never prove it.

mark

There was rumour from some far city that the earth was round -
but it seemed only rumour. Are you from that city? Have you
heard the great philosophers? How - have they found a way
to prove it."

Far city? Philosophers?

"Why everyone at home knows that the earth is round,"
said Tommy, "I don't know what you mean when you say philoso-
phers."

The Greek boy's face looked like a little child's now -
so eager and appealing. "It _is_ a wonderful country," he said
"where everyone knows that," and again the humble question
"How?"

"Why, you see," said Tommy, taxing the inmost recesses
of his memory, "they knew because - because - why because if
you start at a certain place and follow the compass - "

"The compass?"

"Yes, a thing with a needle - a steel needle that always
points north."

"You are magicians?"

Tommy ignored the question. Fearing he might become
tangled in an explanation of the compass presently, he hurried
on. "So if you go north - or south - or any direction con-
tinually, you finally come back to the place from which you
started. And if the earth were flat, you'd go off the edge -
so you see it must be round."

["8", "mark", "Tommy was awed by the size of the man who was standing there. \"How big is he?\" the boy asked. \"He's about as big as I am.\" The boy smiled and said, \"Tommy, I think he's a big man.\" \"That's right,\" the boy said. \"But who is he?\" The boy said, \"I don't know.\" \"Well, I know he's a big man,\" the other boy said. \"Who is he?\" The other boy said, \"Tommy. I think he's a big man.\" \"Who is he?\" The first boy said, \"Tommy. I think he's a big man.\" \"Well, I know he's a big man,\" the other boy said.

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He was a great marksman with a gun and arrows, and he could throw a man like a stone and arrows. He was a great marksman with a gun and a knife, and he could throw a man like a stone and a knife. He was a great marksman with a gun and a knife, and he could throw a man like a stone and a knife. He was a great marksman with a gun and arrows, and he could throw a man like a stone and arrows. He was a great marksman with a gun and arrows, and he could throw a man like a stone and arrows. He was a great marksman with a gun and a knife, and he could throw a man like a stone and a knife. He was a great marksman with a gun and a knife, and he could throw a man like a stone and a knife. He was a great marksman with a gun and arrows, and he could throw a man like a stone and arrows. He was a great marksman with a gun and arrows, and he could throw a man like a stone and arrows. He was a great marksman with a gun and a knife, and he could throw a man like a stone and a knife. He was a great marksman with a gun and a knife, and he could throw a man like a stone and a knife. He was a great marksman with a gun and arrows, and he could throw a man like a stone and arrows. He was a great marksman with a gun and arrows, and he could throw a man like a stone and arrows. He was a great marksman with a gun and a knife, and he could throw a man like a stone and a knife. He was a great marksman with a gun and a knife, and he could throw a man like a stone and a knife. He was a great marksman with a gun and arrows, and he could throw a man like a stone and arrows. He was a great marksman with a gun and arrows, and he could throw a man like a stone and arrows. He was a great marksman with a gun and a knife, and he could throw a man like a stone and a knife. He was a great marksman with a gun and a knife, and he could throw a man like a stone and a knife. He was a great marksman with a gun and arrows, and he could throw a man like a stone and arrows. He was a great marksman with a gun and arrows, and he could throw a man like a stone and arrows. He was a great marksman with a gun and a knife, and he could throw a man like a stone and a knife. He was a great marksman with a gun and a knife, and he could throw a man like a stone and a knife. He was a great marksman with a gun and arrows, and he could throw a man like a stone and arrows. He was a great marksman with a gun and arrows, and he could throw a man like a stone and arrows. He was a great marksman with a gun and a knife, and he could throw a man like a stone and a knife. He was a great marksman with a gun and a knife, and he could throw a man like a stone and a knife. He was a great marksman with a gun and arrows, and he could throw a man like a stone and arrows. He was a great marksman with a gun and arrows, and he could throw a man like a stone and arrows. He was a great marksman with a gun and a knife

SYDNEY'S TRIUMPH.

By

EDITH GRAY.

"I'm sure I wish I knew what's wrong with Betty Lyon?"

Sydney Westbrook twisted one slim ankle above the other clasped her hands, elf-like about her knees and waited in the "Winter dusk for her friend to answer."

But Olive Davis flung from her desk a "Wait a minute, Sydney," her pen poised above her paper, as she reached for the Latin Dictionary.

But "The twilight will interrupt in a minute if I don't, Olivia," the other continued undiscouraged, "so be a dear and listen - there, don't look so grieved."

For the other had turned with a shrug and a resentful little catch of her under lip, "O, Sydney, do be good, just for once."

"No, not once, nor twice," said Sydney. "Anyway this is good - good for your soul as well as Betty Lyon's, so listen - and remember 'it's going to hurt me more than it does you'".

"Bother!"

"Bother" is neither lady-like or scholastic. Do be consistent, Olive, you won't find 'bother' in the dictionary - Latin or Greek - not bother nor Greek - not bother, I mean as -

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2

as exclamation!

"Well?"

"Well - this Betty, I said, Betty Lyon! You know as well as I that all the girls are wild about her - "crush" wild, box of flowers wild, candy wild, notes in study hours wild - and if it weren't Betty, I wouldn't care."

"Well, why do you care?"

"Just like you - I care because - well, because it might spoil her in the end, and I care for her, Betty. You don't, but you would if you knew what was inside all that fluffiness - just as she would care for you."

"Never."

"If she knew that your old cross-patch outside covered a heart - "

"Are you coming to the point or not - for it not - "

"Oh, wait, wait, put down that lexicon - it's too dark anyway - "

"Will you hand me the matches?"

"I won't."

The others sighed in exaggerated play of resignation and turned to face her friend.

"Again, well I"

"I care for Betty Lyon if you don't, and I have a mission in life and my mission is this: First, to find out just where Betty fails us, second, to go to work, systematically to

3

"I no longer love as

"I live"

I live as I want to. I want to live, but I can't. I live."

"I live" - means I live and die. I live as

I live and die as I want to. I live, but I can't. I live."

"I am so happy I am alive."

"I am so sad I can't live."

"I live - I am sad - I want to die."

I am sad not to die. I live and die in my own way.

"I want not to live and die as I want to."

"I love"

"I love" - means I love and die.

"I don't love"

"I don't love" - means I don't love and die.

"I want not to love and die."

"I want not to live and die."

"I want not to live and die."

"I'm not I."

I'm not alive to do what I want to do.

"I'm not alive to do what I want to do."

"I live, die."

I live and die. I'm not alive to do what I want to do.

I die not to live. I live and die as I want to.

I die not to live. I live, but I can't. I die."

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correct above-mentioned failing."

"Very good, but please explain just where my part (I
having no earthly interest in Betty's failings nor the ocrec-
tion of them) comes in?"

"Your part is this, my Portia, of upright judge."

"I?"

"You."

"You want Betty Lyon's faults?"

"I do."

"But I've never looked at the creature, except when she
got in my way and then only long enough to scare her out of it."

"Exactly."

"But I did see this - she is entirely too pretty."

"Nothing on the good, good earth was ever too pretty."

"Too - fluffy - I think's the word you used - too ex-
travagantly pretty - too obviously pretty. She never pays any-
one the compliment of discovering the thing for one's self,
she flings it at you - therefore I reject it."

"Very good - to the point as well, but all that I knew
before, and that is <u>not</u> the canker in the rosebud. Are you
serious?"

"Are you serious?"

"Never more so in my life."

"Well, if Betty were a Greek verb, I'd be serious too, but
she isn't - she's too fluffy and too -"

"But never mind the fluffiness (you seem very proud of

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that word, now that you have discovered its innate value) if
she were a Greek verb, what then?

"I'd say - subjects, the college, underclass-men and
instructors - object, none at all. You can't have a decent
verb without an object you know, nor a - "

"Oh, very clever indeed, but, my dear Olive, there are
some things in the world fully as important as Greek verbs,
and suppose you make it your object to find out what."

"Betty Lyon, for instance?"

"Yes, Betty Lyon, You _will_ look at her, really look at her
and tell me what's wrong?"

"If you'll let me alone - I will."

"You'll, look to-morrow?"

"To-morrow, next day, and the day after next day."

"I really have your promise?"

"My promise. - - - Where are the matches?"

And Olive kept her promise, she followed the " creature"
about and found her, much to her own amazement, as full of
possibilities as the subtlest of Greek verbs or the most in-
volved of Latin phrases. "And she's more than pretty," she
found herself exclaiming as she paused one afternoon on the way
to the Library at the edge of the hockey field. For there was
Betty Lyon the centre of things as always to be sure, but
with the fluffiness of necessity abandoned for a short skirt

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and a straight lined jersey.

Olive's eyes followed her in her quick, lythe motions, and as the girl paused but a few yards from her, her hands clasped, staff-like above her hockey-stick she saw the little head clearly outlined against the winter cedar, perfect and flawless in outline, the hair bound this time, in ruthless eliminations of puffs, tight about the head and fastened with a severe band of black. Olive gazed again. "She looks Greek," she said, and that was the most that Olive could say.

Sydney spoke no word but watched the progress of things with witch-like glee, "Why, they'll really begin to like each other in time," she said. And it was then that she spoke to Betty.

"Betty let me in."

"I can't - I'm busy."

"Nonsense, I never heard of such a thing, what is the matter?"

"Studying!"

"Don't believe it."

"Will you let me alone?"

"No - I have a favour."

"Oh, come in."

Sydney faced the girl in the little circle cast by the green globe of the desk light. About her were tropheys of hockey and basket ball victories, the mantel was littered with

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6

an unruly assortment of photographs, - girls in gymnasium suits, girls in cap and gown, irreproachably costumed girls from "home". On the little side-table a great bunch of American beauty roses drooped disconsolately - a fencing foil and a broken Lacrosse stick were flung abandoned in the corner, - the floor was littered with scraps of tissue paper, green, blue and yellow.

"Mercy, what in the world? I never saw your room look worse and that's saying a good deal - nor you! What have you done with yourself? You look tired to death - and don't you know it's long after lights-out hours, You'll have the proctor down upon you in a moment. What are you studying for, anyway?"

"To keep in college - that's all. I've rather enjoyed myself here and hate to leave before my time. I got a note from the office yesterday - 'Miss Lyon is notified that on receipt of another condition she will be, according to Rule Seven of the Faculty Regulations, requested to leave college after the mid-year examination.' You know Rule Seven. I used to in my Freshman days. So be a dear and in the language of the elite 'clear out'."

"My dear Betty, go to bed now and get up early in the morning, There's no use in trying to study four hours at a stretch."

"That's just the point, I've only begun to study, you see, "
"I see - what?"

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"Well, I'd promised those Freshmans to help them with
favours for the Junior reception, and - "

"And so you've been sitting here wasting your time?"

"I can't call it wasted, they were nice girls."

"Oh, Betty, you're incorrigible."

"Do go."

"When's the exam?"

"Day after to-morrow."

"What is it?"

"Greek."

"Phew!"

"Just so."

"I tell you - Olive Davis will help you."

"Oh, go away with your fairy tales, I'd as soon think of
borrowing money from a rich relation as asking her for help.
She's all right as your friend, but what's the use of coming
to college if you go about with your nose in the air, never
interested in any class affairs or team work."

"Someone has to take the prizes."

"Right-O! Good-night."

"I'll speak to Olive."

"You'll do nothing of the kind."

"Good-night."

But Sydney did speak to Olive and that very evening. She
met her at the door, apologising to the Procter for the late-

8

ness of the hour. Sydney interrupted with a "There, Miss Lee, I knew she'd get into trouble if I left her, do forgive - just this once. It's so near the mid-years". And the tall angular graduate student of Philology passed down the hall with a mutter of "regulations" as Sydney closed the door.

"Olive."

"Yes, Sydney."

"Will you do me a favour?"

"Another?"

"What was the last?"

"Have you forgotten Betty Lyon?"

Sydney started as if she had been caught in some sly bit of mischief: "Are you a mind reader?" she said.

"Why?"

"This too was about Betty Lyon. What was the last?"

"Don't you remember you wanted me to find out what was wrong with her and I tried to, and you never asked me what?"

"Well, what was wrong with her?"

"Well - er - I can't say that there was anything really wrong with her - the fault was I suppose with me. Her face in repose is really - - "

"Intelligent?"

"You're making fun, Sydney, but I don't care, I mean - intellectual."

"Very good. Will you help her cram for Greek B. to-morrow?

"I did not mean to be unkind, but I was..."

"- but, no, I meant not to annoy you."

"Somebody said that I was a brat."

"- and so I said, 'Brat, you shall be a brat.'"

"- and so I said, 'I am your servant.'"

"- and so I said, 'I am your master.'"

"- and so I said, 'I make you my master.'"

"- and so I said, 'I will be your master.'"

["8", "I did not say that I did not know. I did not say that I

(4)

mark

The green lion and the green lady jumped from the desk on to
the floor and turned to look at the goblin. The twisty goblin
grew larger and larger and finally jumped from the desk edge too.
Then they all three stared. It was the lion who broke the silence.

"I thought - " he began.

But the goblin interrupted him.

"You thought and the green lady thought and every one else
here thought that I only come to life on Christmas Eve. That's
all true enough except when people begin thinking very, very un-
Christmas thoughts any time a month before Christmas. This is the
here
25th of November. It will snow to-night. And you sit wishing the
most un-Christmas thoughts I ever heard."

They all looked frightened, the fat clock and the green lion
and the green lady and the little dusty hearth-brush that had been
about to wish it was dead.

"I - I - " began the green lion, "really - "

"Yes really! I agree - outrageous performance! You who came
from that dingy little shop shelf, where that dingy little shop-
keeper put you just before you weren't real onyx or jade or whatever
it was. You who were rescued by the spectacled lady who finds stor-
ies in lions even if they aren't of jade, and were brought here to
live on her desk where it's warm and light and beautiful. And all
you're asked to do for sunlight and för firelight is to keep the
papers quiet. And then you wish there were no draught. And if

(5)

there were no draught, there would be no use for you and - "
always

"Oh don't," said the green lady. She had been very fond of
the lion on the desk. And then she was older and had lived in the
room longer and she felt responsible. "Don't! It was really my
fault."

"That doesn't alter it in the least," said the twisty goblin.
Then his twisty finger pointed and his twisty voice grew sterner.
"You! Oh green lady - " and he stopped. "And she brings you
flowers to talk to."

"Don't, don't," said the green lady. "I remember now, yes -
yes - she is very good - the lady who makes stories and wears
spectacles - very good. Blue flowers they were once, long ago,
on the sill - little ones from the woods. Oh don't dear goblin!
I am very sorry! "

"And only last Christmas," said the goblin she pinned some
holly to you. I am very much afraid" and the goblin shook his head -
that yours my dear was the most un-Christmas wish."

The green lady bowed her head for she knew what the goblin
meant when he said that hers was the most un-Christmas wish.
"Goblin," she said, "I know that you have power at Christmas time
to order away to attics and to darkness the thing most discontented,
whose thoughts are most un-Christmas. I remember the snarly paper-
knife last year, and before that the cross rug that caught people
and was glad to see them fall. "But don't - don't send me away."
Then suddenly her pleading face grew hopeful and, "It was the clock
she said, the clock who began it. He's been wishing he might stop -

(7)

"You - wished - you - were - *grown up*?"

There was a sound of sudden roaring in his ears. Everything seemed turning about him, faster and faster, faster even than the fat clock's ticking. The green lion's mouth opened as if to swallow him and the goblin's twisty fingers reached to snatch him. But in the dimness the green lady's hand reached outward.

"John Aimes - 'he opened his eyes. It wasn't the green lady. The green curtain was fluttering in the draught from the open doorway - it was only Miss Long who stood there."

"Why John, you've been asleep and it's dark and the wind's howling. There's a storm coming. You'd better hurry home."

"They're scraps in the corner," said John Aimes.

"But 'brush them up to-morrow,'" said Miss Long, and John Aimes clattered down the stairway.

Outside the first flakes touched the pavement.

"I wish," said John Aimes, "I wish that I may *never* grown up."

He lifted his face to the soft things that fell and turned and drifted. And about the street lamp the wind caught and whirled them, star on star.

THE STRANGE EXPERIENCE.

"It's a strange experience, Margaret dear," wrote Mary Temple from London to her friend at home, "it's a strange experience, this, being in a great city alone, and a terrifying one enough. The people in the house are kind to be sure, but they're so - English. You know what I mean! They're not homefolk and I'm lonely."

Mary Temple sealed the envelope with a defiant little toss of her head. "I know I'll regret having whined like this," she said, "in a minute. But I'm going to mail the letter anyway. Margaret will make allowances for the first week or so, and I am lonely!"

She pushed back her chair and faced the mirror, "You poor white, scared thing," she apostrophized the face in the glass, "you're here all winter, so you might as well get used to it, and not look so appealingly pathetic. So put on your bonnet and veil - there's a dear - and go and see some sights!"

The girl felt in the wardrobe for her jacket and indifferently pinned on her hat, then she turned to the window "If it would only rain or shine, I don't care which," she said, "This eternal half-way mist is so terribly depressing." She found her umbrella and slammed the door. The little maid on her knees on the first landing looked up with a start, but Mary passed her

with a barely civil good-morning. "There's nothing like a
boarding house for losing one's manners," she said as she
fumbled with the front door. "Not that I ever had any to begin
with - but now - " The thing that dimmed her eyes was not the
mist. However, she straightened her shoulders and, in a manner
almost militant, jerked on her gloves.

Planning is one thing and carrying out one's plans, another thing altogether. So Mary Temple had found, when, after a year of scrimping and deft management at home, she had succeeded in saving enough money for a year's stay abroad. But her friend, Margaret Allison, whom she had joined in London, and who had expected tojoin the military service, had received an urgent letter from an uncle at home but a few weeks previous. And "I must go," Margaret had pleaded, "You see, Polly dear, that I must go. He's mother's only brother, and all that's left of the family. I haven't seen him for years, and I am sure that he's crabbed enough. Don't think that I want to leave you - " A clutching at her throat had interrupted Margaret at this point and Mary had come to the rescue. "Of course go - I'll be happy here, working and studying and planning for your return. You will come back in the spring, won't you? And a winter is only a winter."

The first eager flash of renunciation is a comparatively
easy thing as many a saint has found. It is the after-math,
the settling down to humdrum routine, that so often causes the
question "What does it all mean, and why?" So Mary questioned,

her head bent against the onslaught of the wind "Why? Why?"

She turned down Regent Street, crossed at Oxford Circus, threading her way through autobus and cab. Then straight on towards Trafalgar Square where, at the steps of the National Gallery, she paused. The mist had deepened over the Square but the great shaft of Nelson's monument still shot upward, clear and sword-like, and the two fountains played silver in the greyness. "It's beautiful," said Mary Temple, in the shelter of the columned porch, "beautiful enough. I can see that it's beautiful but I can't feel it. It's impossible to feel anything when one's alone - without a friend in London."

She hesitated a moment at the doorway. "No - the pictures are all reminiscent of Margaret. I couldn't bear it to-day. How Margaret loved the little Holbein Duchess and the Rembrandt Rabbi. No, I can't bear it to-day. I'll try St. James' Park. Perhaps the gulls on the pond will comfort me."

Mary Temple turned down the Gallery steps toward the stone-railed stairway of the Square. Half listlessly she paused by one of the fountain basins and pulled off her glove. She touched the water tentatively. Then she drew forth her as hand, a small voice at her elbow cautioned "Hi, there's Mauritan now! Don't you go for to upset him!"

Mary turned with a start,-she looked about, but no one seemed in sight. Then, crouched grotesquely on the opposite side of the basin, a small head, a shock of brown hair and a

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grimy finger pointing.

"There he is! Don't you go to upset him! He's Mauritania
and mine - my ship he is!"

Mary Temple shivered. She discovered that her hand was
cold - numb from the dripping water, and she drew on her glove.
Then she took another look at the goblin-like figure and turned
revolted. But she stopped suddenly. For a sudden wind swerved
folded
the / yellow paper boat - the one spot of colour in the grey -
a
and with one last valiant swing and a half circle that almost
righted her again, Mauritania succumbed to the elements, ignobly,
and capsized.

"What a shame," Margaret surprised herself exclaiming. "I'm
so very sorry -" and she found herself facing the boy.

"It don't matter," he answered her. "They're easy enough
to make - boats are. I don't find no trouble making them, only
it uses the paper, and I don't like using it till I know it
by heart. I knew that by heart, I did. That on the boat there,
but the other, I've only read twice."

"The other - what other?"

"This here." He jerked a shabby paper from his pocket.
"This here - about Dick and the Tiger hunt, and the fights,
and the slaves in India."

Mary Temple took the paper he presented. She opened it
gingerly. Then she quivered back "You don't read *this*," she
said.

"Don't I? You just look a-here. This here part's just
fine. You read this," and he re-presented while the grimy
finger pointed.

"Oh, why, why?" said Mary. "This ... How old are you?"

"Fourteen, - left school last year - have a good job -
five shillings a week."

"What do you do with your money?"

"Oh - give it to Mim."

"Why aren't you working now?"

He gives me two hours to take these to the houses, my
master do" - he pointed to the bulky package at his feet -
"don't take me more than an hour and a half, so I've time on
the way you see."

"I see." She stood wondering, did Mary Temple, wondering
how into this dignified Square, with the classic porch beyond,
and the old steeple of St. Martin's in the foreground, this
thing had found its way. She had heard of London and its slums.
She had meant to visit them some day. Coldly and calculatingly
she had planned it. "It would be of interest, socially." And
now this thing stood fronting her, still gloating on his paper.

"Why don't you read - books. Are there no libraries?"

"Oh, yes - but you must live in a place a year if you
wants the books. Mim and me never stays long enough."

"I see ...."

Mary straightened her shoulders. Her lips tightened and
her chin grew square. She had heard of people starving, such

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as this - but not for books. The thing was more terrible than
she had dreamed, - now that it faced her - not the marching army
and the banner of the "unemployed," but the small thing,
fourteen, and grasping a yellow paper.

"Good-morning, Miss," he turned to go - and "thank you,
Miss." For unconsciously Mary Temple's hand, seeking her
purse, had found some pennies for him. Then all alive -
"O wait," she said, and fumbled for her note-book.

"I want your name, and where you live, and where your
shop is," she demanded eagerly, and he wrote clearly enough:
"18 Amwell Street, Clerkenwell, and Borox and Bion, St. John's
Street."

"Are you ever in the shop?"

"Always at five, Miss."

"Good-bye, then."

"Good-bye."

Mary turned, the blood surging in her cheeks, towards
Charing Cross. She passed the book-shops where she and Mar-
garet had so often studied over rare manuscripts and first
additions, on toward more prosperous sections. There by a
window where Kate Greenaway's children danced under apple trees,
and Kingsley's heroes manned the noble Argos, she paused. She
entered the shop and asked for books. "Boys books," she said,
"old and new. - Yes, I'll look over the shelves myself."

THE GIFT OF AGATHA WARE.

"And what are you going to give poor Irene?"

Agatha Ware looked up from her Browning. She rather prided
herself on her modern tastes as contrasted with her sister's love
of Byron. However, she had not turned a page for some five
minutes and her thoughts were other than of Pippa and her singing.

"I?" she questioned. She had started when her sister spoke
as if caught in some sudden bit of treachery; then, as if she had
not been thinking of Irene all along, she added in semblance of
surprise: "Irene?"

"Yes, Irene" repeated Esther Ware, ignorant of Agatha's little
deception, "Irene. Do come away from the ultra-commonplaces of
that bourgeois Browning and attend to this matter of presents.
Of course Marion is easy enough to choose for, I'm going to get her
a new muff and boa. The black fox that Uncle Peter gave her last
year is very handsome, to be sure. But I wanted Peter all along
to select grey squirrel."

"I thought you were speaking of Irene"

"Do wait, Agatha. As I was saying, the grey will be so much
prettier with her hat - the new one I mean, trimmed with violets.
Then for lace - I think I'll look over Mother's old point to-morrow.
Marion's blue velvet - "

"I thought you said this was Irene's present, why in the
world - "

(2)

Agatha Ware paused for lack of invectives suitably violent.
Esther, however, took advantage of the hesitation and continued:

"I know just what you're going to say, that I am always
fostering and coddling Marion's vanities - which isn't so. It's
only suitable and decent that Marion should look her best these
holidays - she's to sing at the Orpheum Concert and there's Julia
coming."

Esther Ware cherished in her inmost heart a vision of the
rich eccentric Julia Van Alten, her second cousin and more close-
ly akin to the two girls Irene and Marion Lanesbrook, descending
as in a cloud of glory upon the Lanesbrook home this Christmas-
time, and in one of her impulsive moods carrying off Marion as
might a fairy-godmother, to travel or to study somewhere in a
larger City. Agatha surmised the vision.

"You needn't think Julia's going to take to Marion", she
ejaculated, as if Esther had been thinking it all aloud. "She's
too fastidious."

"You never will appreciate dear Marion's voice" snapped
Esther.

"Perhaps not", said Agatha drily. She picked up her Browning
and presently made great show of turning the pages, but behind the
green-bound covers her thoughts were of Irene.

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mark

(3)

Within her something had suddenly rebelled. Why did they all continually, and herself among them, ignore Irene Lanesbrook. Poor Irene, as all the cousins called her, with her stooping shoulders and her ungainly motions; someone had once suggested that Irene's lack of grace was due to an over-development of intellect. Relatives, even the most critical, are always glad for an excuse for an ugly duckling. It was Uncle Peter, acting on the suggestion, who had offered to see her through College and everyone began to hope great things of poor Irene. But through some trick of the Inconstant Fates, Irene's preliminary examination had proved almost a total failure.

There were upward lifts of eyebrows then, and much discussion over tinkling teacups, and in the end the verdict was unanimous- "Poor Irene, it's such a disappointment, I don't think she'll try again, but perhaps it's just as well; she can keep house now - and Marion can have more time for her music."

Poor Irene indeed. At the last moment, due to overstrain, insufficient nourishment and late hours, her nerves had played her false. Her instructors at the Preparatory School had urged her to continue her work. It happened sometimes that an oversensitive girl, no matter how brilliant she might chance to be, failed, contrary to all expectations. It was a common thing. But Irene had no heart to listen. She locked herself in her room that night, her eyes red-ringed with weeping, but when she appeared promptly at eight o'clock in the morning, her lips were firm

mark

(4)
enough and her voice steady.

"I suppose I'd better take the keys, Marion", she said.
"I'm older, and Cousin Esther Ware says you have so many dis-
tractions from your music."

So a year - two years, and Irene's shoulders stooped and
her youth went clothed in grey. "Grey is so suitable", Esther
Ware used to remark, "and it contrasts so charmingly with
Marion's dresses."

Agatha Ware put down her book. She put it down so
violently that the candelabra jingled and the mandarin went
nodding. Something had occurred to her, and suddenly.

"Dear me", said Esther Ware. "What _is_ the matter? You
don't mean to say you're going out - not to the City, Agatha?"

"Yes, to the City", said Agatha. "It gets dusk so early,
it's not as late as it looks, and the shops - "

"The shops?"

"I'm going to get Irene's present."

"Oh, that checked silk for Irene's workbag. I think I _will_ give her a workbag, will you - "

But Agatha Ware had slammed the door.

"Blind", she said as she hailed a bus at the corner. "We're all of us blind and stupid."

Agatha Ware, contrary to the Ware Sisters precedent in the
selecting of gifts, turned away from the old-fashioned districts
termed in Esther's words, genteel, passed the allurements of her
own pet bookstore where faded parchments and old editions proved

(5)

temptation usually disastrous to her slender income, passed even the harbour of last resort, where the reduced but elegant Mrs. Lee-Brown sold pincushions and pintrays, pinholders, and all the thousand useful things with which we are familiar-passed even the conciliatory Department Stores on the edge of fashion, on boldly into Fashion's heart itself - "Marion always urged our shopping here", said Agatha Ware," and I'll do it to-night in spite of Marion."

Agatha Ware paid the driver. With head high, disdaining to ask directions she walked at random towards a brilliantly lighted doorway. A boy, resplendent in green and many buttons, swung open the plate glass from within, as Agatha's black glove reached outwards. "I wish I'd worn my grey suede" she thought suddenly, but she swept through with an air of complete self-possession. She wished however that she could hide behind the bank of palms at the doorway when the suave, frock-coated floor-walker accosted her. "And what can we do for you, Madam?"

"I'd like to see some - " Agatha looked about. Her heart suddenly misgave her. So this was a Jewellery Store - of all unfeasible places. But bound to brave it out, she added quickly: "Some bracelets."

"This way, Madam."

Agatha found herself sitting on a highlegged chair facing the counter. A small man with eager eyes faced her deferentially.

"Ah, bracelets, any particular style" he questioned?

"Wouldn't Esther be shocked", thought Agatha Ware. We all

Mark

(6)

hate jewellery. It's so vain, and so - vulgar."

But again, as but a half hour since over the pages of
Browning, the wave of rebellion caught her. She saw the young
shoulders stooping, in their grey.

"The best", she said.

Agatha took the thing seriously. It seemed that Fate, or
Providence, or something of the kind, had led her here. She had
come on an impulse. She would see it through on an impulse.
However, behind the impulse, Agatha watched and wondered.

She passed by the gem-set atrocities. Though untrained in
the selection of trinkets, Agatha's taste was flawless. "No-one
would insult even Marion with such a barbarity," But suddenly
she caught her breath. "How beautiful", she exclaimed, "How
beautiful!"

The eager little man had placed before her a tray of plain
gold circlets, some flat, some round. It was a flat one engraved
with a tiny wreath of ivy and frail tendrils that Agatha's black-
gloved fingers touched so timorously. She didn't ask the price.
The price doesn't matter, she thought recklessly. "I'll take it".
she said.

Agatha hurried from the Store, the little blue-lined box
dutched in her fingers.

"Did you get Irene's present?" questioned Esther Ware at supper.

"I did", said Agatha.

mark

(7)

But Esther Ware questioned no further. She had learned from of old that when Agatha's lips came shut, and her chin flung forward, there was nothing to be gained. "Do pass me the muffins and jam", said Esther Ware.

On the 24th of December, Agatha Ware lifted the knocker on the door of the house where her schoolgirl chum, her cousin Cecily Ware, had lived, borne her two children, mourned for their father and shortly died.

Irene opened the door herself. Old Katie was upstairs fastening Marion's dress.

"A Merry Christmas!" said Irene, "Cousin Agatha."

Agatha Ware faced Irene in the hallway. "You don't look very merry," she said. The light fell wan from the upper window, filtering through the old red cedar, pale and ghostlike. It touched the grey shoulders of Irene, and intensified the shadows under the grey eyes.

"Do come in, Cousin Agatha," said Irene. "The light here is enough to make anyone look mournful - and it's cold."

Agatha in the living-room sat tense on the edge of her chair. "Room looks nice", she said, "expecting your cousin Julia?"

"This evening" said Irene, "any moment."

Then Agatha stood. "I'm not staying" she said, "Irene. I won't keep you." Her eyes softened as her chin grew firmer

(8)

"But I've brought you your present to-night."

"Thank you, Cousin Agatha". There was no enthusiasm in the voice, though the words were punctiliously polite.

"You needn't thank me that way, Irene, it's not a workbag."

"Nor a gold thimble?" The girl's lips were smiling.

Agatha wondered when she had seen her smile, a real smile, untainted. Not for some time - not since she was a very little girl. Her breath caught. "Blind", she whispered.

"Close your eyes, Irene." The words were spoken tenderly. "Pretend - pretend you're - very little. Don't open them till I'm gone. Good-bye."

Irene Ware Lanesbrook heard the front door slam as she looked at the circlet on her wrist.

She fell on her eyes then, suddenly weak and broken, her head cushioned on the little low chair, where Cecily Lanesbrook used to sit and fondle with frail hands her frailer baby. "Oh, Mother, Mother", she sobbed. "Then I am something, not just Irene who has failed."

"Emptyhead" said Julia Van Alton, "empty-headed," She was calling on her cousins Agatha and Esther. "and vain."

Esther's face was crimson. "But Marion's voice -"

"Sings like a machine", said Julia Van Alton.

She rose to go. "I might as well tell you, Cousin Esther, what I think. I think it's ridiculous those two girls living

mark

mark

(9)

alone that way. Now, why don't you take Marion, since you are so
fond of her? and I'll take Irene. I'll take Irene any way.
Smart girl - clever - knows her languages - up in history - looks
peaked, though. Travel will set her up."

"It was all the bracelt" Irene wrote a month later from
Gibraltar. I would have been as quiet as a mouse - and she
hates quiet people. But it clung to my wrist and its tendrils
were about my heart, and I said that night at supper - 'I'm not
a failure'. Marion looked so surprised; it was some question
about the French Revolution. I corrected Cousin Julia, much to
Marion's horror, but I thought what difference does it make, I
know I'm right. Cousin Julia said afterwards she admired my
spirit. My spirit! We talked a great deal after that. She
had read almost all the books that I had. But if I hadn't had
the bracelt I would have been afraid of her. She hates timid
people."

"Kindest remembrance to Cousin Esther. And love to you,
dear Agatha Ware."