an and a faint.

"I said I would tell it! Help me!" she said.

In some fashion they worked her heavy bulk out of its crazy wrappings
and into a bed. John arrived, to help them. Morning peered timidly over
the eastern hills, as if fearful of beholding what the night had
wrought. In its smiling calm the noise of the storm was already done
away. But the storm in the troubled mind raged on.

For days it raged, in fever and delirium. Then they buried the rude
minister of justice in the place where she commanded--under the pile of
broken stones and bricks among the trees in the hollow. And it is said
that the inquisitive villagers who had a part in the simple ceremonies
stirred about till they made the discovery of two skeletons under the
ruins. And to this day there are persons in Bustlebury with a belief
that at night, or in a storm, they sometimes hear a long-drawn cry
issuing from that lonely little hollow.

THE INTERVAL [17]

[Note 17: Copyright 1917, by The Boston Transcript Co. Copyright,
1918, by Vincent O' Sullivan.]

BY VINCENT O'SULLIVAN

From _The Boston Evening Transcript_

Mrs. Wilton passed through a little alley leading from one of the gates
which are around Regent's Park, and came out on the wide and quiet
street. She walked along slowly, peering anxiously from side to side so
as not to overlook the number. She pulled her furs closer round her;
after her years in India this London damp seemed very harsh. Still, it
was not a fog to-day. A dense haze, gray and tinged ruddy, lay between
the houses, sometimes blowing with a little wet kiss against the face.
Mrs. Wilton's hair and eyelashes and her furs were powdered with tiny
drops. But there was nothing in the weather to blur the sight; she could
see the faces of people some distance off and read the signs on the
shops.

Before the door of a dealer in antiques and second-hand furniture she
paused and looked through the shabby uncleaned window at an unassorted
heap of things, many of them of great value. She read the Polish name
fastened on the pane in white letters.

"Yes; this is the place."

She opened the door, which met her entrance with an ill-tempered jangle.
From somewhere in the black depths of the shop the dealer came forward.
He had a clammy white face, with a sparse black beard, and wore a skull
cap and spectacles. Mrs. Wilton spoke to him in a low voice.

A look of complicity, of cunning, perhaps of irony, passed through the
d