other evening Mrs. B., as I shall call her, came to a little dance in a gown that looked like a spider's web be-diamonded with dew. It was bewitching. Turning to her husband in my presence, she said: "Now, Edward, you must admit this is becoming."

Looking at her with a curl of his lip, he answered:

"There are some women who, in the eyes of their husbands, could wear no gowns so becoming as their shrouds."

A quotation from a man's lips is often a better description of him than pages of written matter. So now you know him.

I saw her again at golf the next morning. She is as refreshing in the morning as she is ravishing at night. She told me she had had "a ride, a cold bath, and a breakfast, and she felt like health personified." Now, you old West Braintree misogynist, let me

tell you. She may have had her ride, she may have had her breakfast, but she never could have had a cold bath, for the reflecting water would have turned warm at her approach.

Enough, you think me crazy—well, I

am.

Yours,

DOUGLAS.

EIGHTH LETTER

West Braintree.

DEAR DOUGLAS:

I have your letter from Aiken - and a pain in my back. Both remind me forcibly

that there is much to be said for Haeckel's theory that we are only ephemerides, after all. He holds that we are made literally from the dust of the earth. If he knew you, he would preserve you in alcohol, as proof of it. Flesh we are, and flesh we must gloat over; dust we are, and to dust we must return, sing you. I wonder if your gay humour is not a cloak for something bitter. When ambitious men, or able men, have a cover put on them that prevents their going up, they spread out instead. The

more one spreads, the thinner one gets, until we become what is known as superficialsuperficial in our likes, in our dislikes, in our work, in our loyalties even, until it seems easy to break through anywhere, so thin are all the barriers. My dear boy, you don't want to become like that! I call you "boy," for any man is a boy who remains as inconsequential as you are.

A minister came to see me the other day. He had been at one time over a large and prominent city church. There was a quarrel, backbiting, recriminations, and he was shouldered out. He is now in a small country church. He whined and criticised, and deplored his fate to me. Poor me! Of my troubles not a word, of his a sea of words. Of the miseries of others no thought; with his own his brain was reeking. Now when God Almighty whips a

man, He does it because he goes too slow, and ought to go faster; or because he goes too fast, and should not; but in any case, the whipping comes because the lashed one deserves it, and when I get mine, I go whimpering to no man — I hope you do not. The Reverend Mr. X. had his poor little ecclesiastical house of, cards pulled down, he must perforce shed his tears upon every brother man's waistcoat.

His ambition flattened out and become thin, he becomes sour. Your ambitions flattened out a little, and you become gaily indifferent. Neither is good or manly. Though I admit, strictly to you, that I always prefer the methods of the world in such matters to the methods of the religious. Lying here, I think a deal of matters that others pass by, because so much of their time goes in action. I often wonder at the