own. When you've been a god and come to be a souvenir of ruins and dead
things--" the man paused for a moment, then with the ghost of a laugh
went on, "--it makes you see things differently. In the twisted squint
of his small clay face one reads slight regard for mere systems and
codes."

He paused so long that she prompted him in a voice that threatened to
become unsteady. "Tell me more about him. What is his godship's name?"

"He looked so protestingly wise," Benton went on, "that I named him
Jonesy. I liked that name because it fitted him so badly. Jonesy is not
conventional in his ideas, but his morals are sound. He has seen
religions and civilizations and dynasties flourish and decay, and it has
all given him a certain perspective on life. He has occasionally given
me good council."

He paused again, but, noting that the singing voices were drawing
nearer, he continued more rapidly.

"In Alaska I used to lie flat on my cot before a great open fire and his
god-ship would perch cross-legged on my chest. When I breathed, he
seemed to shake his fat sides and laugh. When a pagan god from Peru
laughs at you in a Yukon cabin, the situation calls for attention. I
gave attention.

"Jonesy said that the major human motives sweep in deep channels,
full-tide ahead. He said you might in some degree regulate their floods
by rearing abutments, but that when you try to build a dam to stop the
Amazon you are dealing with folly. He argued that when one sets out to
dam up the tides set flowing back in the tributaries of the heart it is
written that one must fail. That is the gospel according to Jonesy."

He turned his face to the front and shot the canoe forward. There was
silence except for the quiet dipping of their paddles, the dripping of
the water from the lifted blades, and the song drifting down river.
Finally Benton added:

"I don't know what he will say to you, but perhaps he will give you good
advice--on those matters which the centuries can't change."

Cara's voice came soft, with a hint of repressed tears. "He has already
given me good advice, dear--" she said, "good advice that I can't
follow."

CHAPTER V

IT IS DECIDED TO MASQUERADE

The first day of quail-shooting found Van Bristow's guests afield.

Separated from the others, Benton and Cara came upon a small grove, like
an oasis in the stretching acres of stubble. Under a scarlet maple that
reared itself skyward all aflame, and shielded by a fe