ht big dogs were leaping at the
ends of their chains. They were tied to trees or to small kennels at
the foot of trees. And, God be thanked! Sheila let fall her
stone--they were _all_ tied.

The door at the end of the nearest wing of the house opened and Miss
Blake stood on the threshold and held up her hands. At sight of her the
dogs stopped their howling instantly and cringed on their bellies or sat
yawning on their bushy haunches. Miss Blake's resonant, deep voice seemed
to pounce upon Sheila above the chatter of the stream which, running
about three sides of the glade, was now, at the silence of the dogs,
incessantly audible.

"Well, if it isn't the little barmaid!" cried Miss Blake, and advanced,
wiping her hand on a white apron tied absurdly over the corduroy
trousers and cowboy boots. "Well, if you aren't as welcome as the
flowers in May! So you thought you'd leave the street-lamps and come
take a look at the stars?"

They met and Sheila took the strong, square hand. She was afflicted by a
sudden dizziness.

"That's it," she faltered; "this time I thought I'd try--the stars."

With that she fell against Miss Blake and felt, just before she dropped
into blackness, that she had been saved by firm arms from falling to
the ground.

CHAPTER IV

BEASTS

The city rippled into light. It bloomed, blossom on blossom, like some
enchanted jungle under the heavy summer sky. Dickie sat on a bench in
Washington Square. He sat forward, his hands hanging between his knees,
his lips parted, and he watched the night. It seemed to him that it was
filled with the clamor of iron-throated beasts running to and fro after
their prey. The heat was a humid, solid, breathless weight--a heat
unknown to Millings. Dickie wore his threadbare blue serge suit. It felt
like a garment of lead.

There were other people on the benches--limp and sodden outlines. Dickie
had glanced at them and had glanced away. He did not want to think that
he looked like one of these--half-crushed insects,--bruised into
immobility. A bus swept round the corner and moved with a sort of
topheavy, tipsy dignity under the white arch. It was loaded with
humanity, its top black with heads. "It ain't a crowd," thought Dickie;
"it's a swarm." His eyes followed the ragged sky-line. "Why is it so
horrible?" he asked himself--"horrible and beautiful and sort of
poisonous--it plumb scares a fellow--" A diminished moon, battered and
dim like a trodden silver c