llow bay off a desert island marked with a cross on
the captain's chart, and unmarked upon all other charts of the same
waters. All around lay the tranquil spaces of a desolate ocean, and on
the island the thatched roof of a solitary hut showed among the palms.
The captain went ashore by himself, and presently, after a little lapse
of time, he returned.

"It is finished," he announced briefly; "the great work is finished. I
think it must have been completed several weeks ago. He must have died
several weeks ago, possibly soon after my last call."

He held out a sheet of paper on which was written one word, "Beloved."

A THING OF BEAUTY[19]

[Note 19: Copyright, 1919, by The American Hebrew. Copyright, 1920,
by Elias Lieberman.]

BY ELIAS LIEBERMAN

From _The American Hebrew_

Simonoff told it to me over the coffee cups. It was the twilight hour on
Second avenue and we were enjoying a late afternoon chat. The gates of
the human dam, shut all day long, had been opened and the rushing,
swirling stream of men and women beat past us relentlessly--past the
door of the Cafe Cosmos open to the sights and sounds of the street.

Every person in that human torrent seemed eager to reach a haven of
rest. Not that their faces looked tired or haggard. But each gave the
impression that something had been worn off in a subtle, persistent
process--a certain newness, freshness, gloss, call it what you will.
Shadows of men and women they were in the twilight as they scurried
past. And yet the rhythm of their footsteps beat upon the ear as
steadily as the roar of many waters.

"The ghosts are having a holiday," said Simonoff.

His voice was barely audible in the hum of conversation. Simonoff was
one of those rare teachers on the lower East Side who neither taught
night school nor practised law after his daily duties were over. His
passion was to understand his fellow men--to help them, if
possible--although, for a reformer, he was given entirely too much to
dreaming. His cafe bills for a year, when added together, made a
surprisingly large total. But then Simonoff never bothered with useless
mathematics.

A hand organ outside was droning the "Miserere." Children of the
tenements, like moths drawn to globes of brilliant light on midsummer
nights, hovered about the organ and danced. There was a capricious
abandon about their movements which fascinated Simonoff. He had a way of
running his slender fingers through his wavy