and leaf,
and sleeping flower. That soft, vibrating radiance seemed to have woven
all into one mysterious whole, stilling disharmony, so that each little
separate shape had no meaning to itself.

Bianca looked long at the rain of moonlight falling on the earth's
carpet, like a covering shower of blossom which bees have sucked and
spilled. Then, below her, out through candescent space, she saw a shadow
dart forth along the grass, and to her fright a voice rose, tremulous and
clear, seeming to seek enfranchisement beyond the barrier of the dark
trees: "My brain is clouded. Great Universe! I cannot write! I can no
longer discover to my brothers that they are one. I am not worthy to
stay here. Let me pass into You, and die!"

Bianca saw her father's fragile arms stretch out into the night through
the sleeves of his white garment, as though expecting to be received at
once into the Universal Brotherhood of the thin air.

There ensued a moment, when, by magic, every little dissonance in all the
town seemed blended into a harmony of silence, as it might be the very
death of self upon the earth.

Then, breaking that trance, Mr. Stone's voice rose again, trembling out
into the night, as though blown through a reed.

"Brothers!" he said.

Behind the screen of lilac bushes at the gate Bianca saw the dark helmet
of a policeman. He stood there staring steadily in the direction of that
voice. Raising his lantern, he flashed it into every corner of the
garden, searching for those who had been addressed. Satisfied,
apparently, that no one was there, he moved it to right and left, lowered
it to the level of his breast, and walked slowly on.

THE END.

THE PATRICIAN

By John Galsworthy

CHAPTER I

Light, entering the vast room--a room so high that its carved ceiling
refused itself to exact scrutiny--travelled, with the wistful, cold
curiosity of the dawn, over a fantastic storehouse of Time. Light,
unaccompanied by the prejudice of human eyes, made strange revelation of
incongruities, as though illuminating the dispassionate march of history.

For in this dining hall--one of the finest in England--the Caradoc family
had for centuries assembled the trophies and records of their existence.
Round about this dining hall they had built and pulled down and restored,
until the rest of Monkland Court presented some aspect of homogeneity.
Here alone they had left virgin the work of the old quasi-monas