of how in that at once sinister and grotesque connection they had felt notified in time. It was the extension of the programme and its still more prodigious publication during the quarter of a century of interval, it was the announced application of the extinguisher to the quite other, the really so contrasted genius the expression of which surrounded me in the manner I have glanced at, it was the extraordinary fact of a declared non-sufferance any longer, on Germany's part, of either of the obnoxious national forms disfiguring her westward horizon, and even though by her own allowance they had nothing intellectually or socially in common save that they were objectionable and, as an incident, crushable-it was this, I say, that gave one furiously to think, or rather, while one thanked one's stars for the luxury, furiously and all but unutterably to feel.

The beauty and the interest, the now more than ever copious and welcome expression, of the aspects nearest me found their value in their being so resistingly, just to that very degree of eccentricity, with that very density of home-grownness, what they were; in the same way as the character of the sister-land lately joined in sisterhood showed for exquisite because so ingrained and incorrigible, so beautifully all her own and inimitable on other ground. If it would have been hard really to give the measure of one's dismay at the awful proposition of a world squeezed together in the huge Prussian fist and with the variety and spontaneity of its parts oozing in a steady trickle, like the sacred blood of sacrifice, between those hideous knuckly fingers, so, none the less, every reason with which our preference for a better condition and a nobler fate could possibly bristle kept battering at my heart, kept in fact pushing into it, after the fashion of a crowd of the alarmed faithful at the door of a church. The effect was literally, yes, as of the occasion of some great religious service, with prostrations and exaltations, the light of a thousand candles and the sound of soaring choirs -all of which figured one's individual inward state as determined by the men

ace.

One could still note at the same

time, however, that this high pitch of private emotion was by itself far from meeting the case as the enemy presented it; what I wanted of course to do was to meet it with the last lucidity, the fullest support for particular defensive pleas or claims-and this even if what most underlay all such without exception came back to my actual vision, that and no more, of the general sense of the land. The vision was fed and fed to such a tune that in the quest for reasons, that is for the particulars of one's affection, the more detailed the better, the blades of grass, the outlines of leaves, the drift of clouds, the streaks of mortar between old bricks, not to speak of the call of child-voices muffled in the comforting air, became, as I have noted, with a hundred other like touches, casually felt, extraordinary admonitions and symbols, close links of a tangible chain. When once the question fairly hung there of the possibility, more showily set forth than it had up to then presumed to be, of a world without use for the tradition so embodied, an order substituting for this, by an unmannerly thrust, quite another and really, it would seem, quite a ridiculous, a crudely and clumsily improvised story, we might all have resembled together a group of children at their nurse's knee disconcerted by some tale that it isn't their habit to hear. We loved the old tale, or at least I did, exactly because I knew it; which leaves. me keen to make the point, none the less, that my appreciation of the case for world-variety found the deeply and blessedly familiar perfectly consistent with it. This came of what I "read into" the familiar; and of what I did so read, of what I kept reading through that uplifted time, these remarks were to have attempted a record that has reached its limit sooner than I had hoped.

I was not then to the manner born, but my apprehension of what it was on the part of others to be so had been confirmed and enriched by the long years, and I gave myself up to the general, the native image I thus circled around as to the dearest and most precious of all native images. That verily became at the crisis an occupation sublime; which was not after all so much an earnest study or fond arrangement of the mixed

aspects as a positive, a fairly sensual bask in their light, too kindled and too rich not to pour out by its own force. The strength and the copious play of the appearances acting in this collective fashion carried everything before them; no dark discrimination, no stiff little reserve that one might ever have made, stood up in the diffused day for a moment. It was in the opposite way, the most opposite possible, that one's intelligence worked, all along the line; so that with the warmth of the mere sensation that "they" were about as good, above all when it came to the stress, as could well be expected of people, there was the acute interest of the successive points at which one recognised why. This last, the satisfaction of the deepened intelligence, turned, I may frankly say, to a prolonged revel-"they" being the people about me and every comfort I had ever had of them smiling its individual smile straight at me and conducing to an effect of candor that is beyond any close notation. They didn't know how good they were, and their candor had a peculiar loveability of unconsciousness; one had more imagination at their service in this cause than they had in almost any cause of their own; it was wonderful, it was beautiful, it was inscrutable, that they could make one feel this and yet not feel with it that it at all practically diminished them. Of course if a shade should come on occasion to fall across the picture that shade would perhaps be the question whether. the most restless of the faculties mightn't on the whole too much fail them. It beautified life, I duly remembered, it promoted art, it inspired faith, it crowned conversation, but hadn't it - always always again under stress-still finer appli

cations than these, and mightn't it in a word, taking the right direction, peculiarly conduce to virtue? Wouldn't it indeed be indispensable to virtue of the highest strain? Never mind, at any rate so my emotion replied; with it or without it we seemed to be taking the right direction; moreover the next-best thing to the imagination people may have, if they can, is the quantity of it they may set going in others, and which, imperfectly aware, they are just exposed to from such others and must make the best of: their advantage becoming simply that it works, for the connection, all in their favour. That of the associated outsider the order of whose feelings, for the occasion, I have doubtless not given a wholly lucid sketch of, cultivated its opportunity week after week at such a rate that, technical alien as he was, the privilege of the great partaking, of shared instincts and ideals, of a communion of race and tongue, temper and tradition, put on before all the blest appearances a splendor to which I hoped that so long as I might yet live my eyes would never grow dim. And the great intensity, the melting together of the spiritual sources so loosed in a really intoxicating draught, was when I shifted my watch from near east to far west and caught the enemy, who seemed ubiquitous, in the long-observed effort that most fastened on him the insolence of his dream and the depth of his delusion. There in the west were those of my own fond fellowship, the other, the ready and rallying partakers, and it was on the treasure of our whole unquenchable association that in the riot of his ignorance, this at least apparently armor-proof, he had laid his unholy hands.

PRING winds, spring rains, in the air a fragrance of springs long past, unforgotten, young-say, a fragrance of super-springs! Arpeggio Shadd walked down Cook Street. Becker & Broom displayed in their window spring overcoats. Close to the glass leaned a colored print of a haberdasher's heaven -six Apollos, in garments creased and seamed and pressed by a law, if not moral, then infinitely compelling. With them, in bright relief, a heavenly maid, rose-pink, trim, trig, chic-and so on, down the lilting list. And one was handing her down white steps to a white boat, while a white swan drooped a languid eye. Arpeggio paused, studied this picture, sighed, sniffed the spring wind, entered Becker & Broom's, and bought a light spring overcoat.

. .

"I'll wear it," he said. . . . "What? No. Do the old one up and I'll tote it along. . . What? . . . Shucks, no. No need to deliver 'way out to my place."

Wearing the new overcoat and carrying the goodly bulk of the old, he emerged upon the sidewalk. And there she was!

She had stepped from a car at the curb a car not so new or so recently painted as to cry out a passionate prosperity, nor yet so dingy as to confess its owner's mute anxieties. It was a well

bred car, unsensational, perfectly groomed, inconspicuous until you looked, and then revealing itself conspicuously faultless. In a word, it was like the lady from its depths emerging.

"Isn't it Mr. Shadd?" she asked.

It was fortunate that it was Mr. Shadd, because if it had not been, Arpeggio would have claimed it.

"Sure," said he, blankly-but with a pleased, pleased blankness.

"Edith Granger," she said, and he was aware of a white glove.

Arpeggio brought his right hand about his bundle, so that the bundle lay at ease upon his chest. Then he remembered.

"Guess you'd better not shake," said he. "I been sharpenin' my lead-pencil. Your glove looks awful clean."

She did not laugh. A thousand blessings on the woman who does not necessarily laugh. Or do I mean unnecessarily?

"You're very thoughtful," she said, only. "And I hear you're town commissioner. Won't you come to see me some time? We're here for the summer.'

Late that night Arpeggio was still awake, defining to himself what he might have said. What a doorway for grace, for ease, for the quick flush of pleasure, the eager, grateful, gracious flowing word! And how had he used that moment? He had answered the lady:

Sure."

And what a lady! He visioned her as she had stood before him on Cook Street, beneath the early awnings of Becker & Broom. Oh, fair! He saw her moving in a bewilderment of exquisitely fitting broadcloth, of little imperious hat, of snowy glove. Her look, her bow, her air-what memories they made. And he was to go to see her. . . "Sure." He writhed.

Goin' to wear your new overcoat for every day?" his mother inquired, mildly, next morning, as he was departing.

"I dun'no' as I mind if I do, seein' you name it, mother," he answered, in jocund vein.

She went to the door and looked after him and his new coat.

"Seemed like Arpeggio didn't act like himself," she thought. "I hope he ain't comin' down with somethin'.'

The junior commissioner, it was true, did give signs that day of coming down

with something. It was not only that he was inattentive at the commissioners' daily meeting. He was often that. Stack Mayhew and Dodd Purcell, the other two commissioners, had to keep all tallies while Arpeggio merely scrutinized the general score. But now and again that morning, in his abstractions, Arpeggio smiled; and once or twice he shut his teeth and pointed his eyes as at some spasm of memory; and sometimes his lips moved, as if he were rehearsing speech.

"Hain't it? Hain't it? Hain't it?" Stack demanded of him, voice and irritation mounting.

"Hain't what?" Arpeggio rejoined, dreamily.

"Time-to-start- the sprinklin' cart!" Stack emitted. "What's the matter with you? Got the pip?"

"Who? Me?" said Arpeggio. "Shut up. I didn't know I was in the room. Say! Either of you fellows heard who's come home to the Grangers'?"

Dodd Purcell lifted his head and told, with the importance, masked as casualness, of the born gossip.

"Mis' T. M. Granger and her darter," said he. "They aim to pass the summer to home. Somebody had ought to get 'em for subscriptions to the band concerts."

"Yah!" said Stack. "I hear the darter's set on gettin' a public liberary for Banning doorin' the summer. We hain't no time to fool with liberaries-not now.'

"Is she?" said Arpeggio. "Is she?" And stroked his hair, which was trained straight back from brow to crown. "Is she?" said he, fatuously.

"The question is," said Stack, "who's goin' to run it, now Stover's bust his leg."

"I don't think," Arpeggio offered, mildly "I don't think Miss Granger would like that. With or without legs, Stover's no man to run a liberary."

"For the love of mud!" Stack Mayhew thundered. "Run the sprinkler!"

"Oh yes. Mud. To be sure. Mud," said Arpeggio, and looked out the window.

This thought of a library gave Arpeggio a center for his vague, new energy. As a matter of course, he was passively nterested. He had a vast reverence for

books, though he read but few. Occasionally he bought a book, but he rarely read even that. "I get 'em to have around," he said once, "but readin's a chore." Now, however, he became actively interested. What kind of a town was this not to have a library?

Three days later, at two in the afternoon, Arpeggio appeared at his home. His mother was not there, the house stood pleasantly open to the sun, his doves were pecking on the door-stone. Arpeggio carried a bundle which he opened on the dining-room table: A new light felt hat; a cravat, red on one side, black on the other; a little pin-the head of a deer, in gold. In his sloping-roofed bedroom, the open window filled with budding maple boughs, Arpeggio spent an hour in bathing and dressing. Some time after three he went forth. The day was warm, but he carried his light spring overcoat. Gloves he could not quite assume, but he had them in his pocket. "All the feel of 'em and none of the nuisance," he thought. He wore his cravat red side out.

Yes! Afternoon was the time to make this call. this call. If he went in the evening, Miss Granger might believe that something was meant.

The house of the Grangers was a midVictorian brick. Or it was a Grant-andHayes brick? Why predicate all these American doings of the poor Victoria? It had finials galore; iron endowments tipped the ridge-pole; there was a cupola. The veranda, originally a name, had been widened and had become a place, with ways of willow and cretonne, of flower-boxes and little wind harps. It was like a beautiful modern jabot on the breast of an old belle. Arpeggio rang and trembled. Why in thunder had he come? Should he ring again, or thank Heaven and run away?

The door was opened by Something Pink. She was little and breathless, with that charming breathlessness which some women have in their leisure.

"How j' do?" she said.

"Is Miss Granger in?" Arpeggio put it earnestly. He was eagerness, tenseness, expectation incarnate. He was bright-eyed, he was ready. The next moment he had drooped to the lightly given blow:

"No, she hain't." Incredible. Arpeggio stared. Not in? After all the trouble to which he had been to bathe and bedizen? In this utterly unforeseen catastrophe, what course was open to him? He gazed the length of the veranda and took his resolution.

"I'll wait," he said, and went down in a willow chair.

The Something Pink hesitated for a breath, then leaned her plump little body past the casement and examined Arpeggio. Not an agent. A real nice. gentleman, though queer. Obviously a gentleman whose mind was made up. She considered the case. She was in the house alone. Well, then, leave him wait. She retired, closed and bolted the door. Safety for her and his own devices for him.

The day was sultry, a daring leap of May into the provinces of summer. Arpeggio, in his eagerness, had walked rapidly; he was very warm. He laid his overcoat on a swing, added his hat, slipped down in his chair to ruminate on the delights of library planning, and fell asleep. The drowsy air drew him deep along the paths he chose. In half an hour, That Which Was Pink, bethinking herself of him, tiptoed to the parlor window, peered through the lace curtains, and looked far down Arpeggio's throat. She drew herself up, her eyes snapped; she marched to the door, unbolted it with a noise, and confronted Arpeggio. rousing. For who could be afraid of a gentleman asleep?

"Now, then," she said, crisply, "I'd like to know where you think you are?" "Bless me!" said Arpeggio, vaguely, "bless me! Don't," he appealed to her, "tell me I was asleep.' He colored grievously. "Has Miss Granger come in?"-his tone pleaded for a negative.

"Well, I should think she ain't. If she is, I dun'no' what I'd get."

What a universe! what a universe! So complex that a gentleman cannot even take a siesta without involving a lady whom he has never before seen. Arpeggio studied this lady.

"Are you the help?" he inquired, delicately.

"Help yourself!" She flashed it back. "I'm a trained one-from a agency."

For some unknown cause, Arpeggio brought out his rare, his beguiling smile, and smiled it, and continued to regard her.

"Perhaps," he said, "I'd better tell you who I am. I'm Shadd, one of the Banning commissioners. I called to see your mistress on the idear of a new town liberary."

That got her. A commissioner. That was something like a policeman. A new town library. That was something remote, glittering, beyond the ken of her. She was silent, and her look changed. Beneath that change Arpeggio throve. He became indulgent, saw what a pretty little thing she was-neat, flaxen, and oh, so pink-cheek and mouth and frock. "What's your name?" he inquired. "Mamie," she replied, respectfully, as one who might know what it is to say "sir.

"Mamie," said Arpeggio, and looked across the young green of the lawn, where shadows lay waving under the young green of the branches. A warm wind bore something that smells the way perfume ought to smell, and doesn't. "Mamie," said Arpeggio, "sit down. I want to talk to you.'

She obeyed, all her indignant demeanor softened to passivity.

"Do you like to read?" Arpeggio wished to know.

Mamie stiffened. He wanted to do her good!

66

When I do," she said, "I get a book and read it-on my own."

"Precisely," Arpeggio approved her. "But that book-where do you get it?" Mamie was put to it. Where, in fact, did she get it?

"Off'n Miss Granger," she mumbled. "Precisely," Arpeggio pursued. "And if Miss Granger had no books, you would have no book. That's what I come to see you about. This here town has got to have a liberary."

"That's what Miss Granger told her ma," said Mamie.

"Precisely," said Arpeggio for the third time, and smiled so enchantingly that Mamie smiled back. Then Arpeggio closed his sociological investigations and said, gently-and for no reasonunless it was the young greenness of May, "Mamie, where do you live?"