sonous fibres. But there was never doubt. For myself I have long
forgotten the meaning of that word in anything that is of real value.

Do not let it be thought that the treasure is reserved for the few or
those of special gifts. And it is as free to the West as to the East
though I own it lies nearer to the surface in the Orient where the
spiritual genius of the people makes it possible and the greater and
more faithful teachers are found. It is not without meaning that all the
faiths of the world have dawned in those sunrise skies. Yet it is within
reach of all and asks only recognition, for the universe has been the
mine of its jewels--

"Median gold it holds, and silver from Atropatene, Ruby and
emerald from Hindustan, and Bactrian agate, Bright with beryl
and pearl, sardonyx and sapphire."--
and more that cannot be uttered--
the Lights and Perfections.

So for all seekers I pray this prayer--beautiful in its sonorous Latin,
but noble in all the tongues;

"Supplico tibi, Pater et Dux--I pray Thee, Guide of our vision, that
we may remember the nobleness with which Thou hast endowed us, and that
Thou wouldest be always on our right and on our left in the motion of
our wills, that we may be purged from the contagion of the body and the
affections of the brute and overcome and rule them. And I pray also
that Thou wouldest drive away the blinding darkness from the eyes of our
souls that we may know well what is to be held for divine and what for
mortal."

"The nobleness with which Thou hast endowed us-" this, and not the
cry of the miserable sinner whose very repentance is no virtue but the
consequence of failure and weakness is the strong music to which we must
march.

And the way is open to the mountains.

THE INTERPRETER A ROMANCE OF THE EAST

I

There are strange things in this story, but, so far as I understand
them, I tell the truth. If you measure the East with a Western foot-rule
you will say, "Impossible." I should have said it myself.

Of myself I will say as little as I can, for this story is of Vanna
Loring. I am an incident only, though I did not know that at first.

My name is Stephen Clifden, and I was eight-and-thirty; plenty of money,
sound in wind and limb. I had been by way of being a writer before the
war, the hobby of a rich man; but if I picked up anything in the welter
in France, it was that real work is the only salvation this mad world
has to offer; so I meant to