raged at
this he persisted:

"I thought Gardner was 'doing' the concert for Cal?"

"Oh! you know Cal!" she put a pen in her mouth, "he hates Wagner;
perhaps he thinks Mr. Gardner needs company once in a while."

"Perhaps he does," gravely soliloquized Jetsam.

"How many performances of Tristan does this make, Mr. Jetsam?"

"I'm sure I don't know--I am never much on statistics."

When she was told the correct number the scratching of pens went on and
the smoke grew denser. Messenger after messenger was dismissed with
precious critical freightage, and soon Tekla had finished, envious eyes
watching her all the while. Every man there wished that his wife were as
clever and helpful as Mrs. Calcraft.

Driving home she forgot all about the shabby cab having memories only
for the garden scene, its musical enchantments. The spell of them lay
thick upon her as she was undressed by Magda. When the lights were out,
she asked Magda if Mr. Calcraft still slept.

"No, ma'am; after drinking the beer he went out."

"Oh! he went out after all, did he?" responded Tekla in a sleepy voice
and immediately passed into happy dreams....

It was sullen afternoon when she stood in her room regarding with
instant joy a large bunch of roses. Calcraft came in without slamming
the doors as usual. She turned a shining face to him. He looked
factitiously fresh, with a Turkish bath freshness, his linen was
spotless, and in his hand he held a newspaper.

"That was a fine, dark potion you brewed for me last night, Sieglinde!"
he mournfully began. "No wonder your Tristan sang so well in the
_Watchman_ this morning!" The youthful candors of her Swedish blue eyes
with their tinted lashes evoked his sulky admiration.

"I knew, Cal, that you would do the young man justice for his
magnificent performance," she replied, her cheeks beginning to echo the
hues of the roses she held; her fingers had just closed over an angular
bit of paper buried in the heart of the flowers....

For answer, Calcraft ironically hummed the Pity motif from "Die Walkuere"
and went out of the house, the doors closing gently after him to the
familiar rhythm of that sadly duped warrior, Hunding.

THE CORRIDOR OF TIME

Ah! to see behind me no longer on the Lake of Eternity the
implacable Wake of Time.--EPHRAIM MIKAEL.

When Cintras was twenty he planned an appeal to eternity. He knew "Emaux
et Camees" as pious folk their Bible; he felt that naught endured