y to itself, but as a portion of the
universal Ego. All important good resolutions of character are brought
about at these crises of life; and thus it is our sense of self which
debases and keeps us debased."

Poe and Gaston were great friends. The living man knew that had he known
Poe in the body he would have feared and detested him, but there was no
doubt he had left trails of glory in his wake, for the comfort of
struggling humanity, if only one could lose sight of the man, in the
spiritual effulgence of his genius.

Gaston, in his detached life, practised many arts upon his individuality
and character. He had time and to spare to "abandon the body," and he
was growing more and more confident, that in these self-imposed crises
he was gaining not only strength, but a keen and absorbing interest in
others. If the sense of self debased, then this detachment was his great
salvation.

The rings of smoke curled upward, lost shape and formed a haze of
blueness. The heat became intense, and the noises of the summer night
magnified. The windows and doors were set wide, Gaston's wood-trained
senses were alert even in this abstraction.

"What next?" That was the question. He had just come through a conflict
with flying colours. He was flushed with victory, but the after details
annoyed him. With the waning enthusiasm of achievement, from his point
of vantage of abandonment, he was trying to see beyond this confident
hour--see into the plain common days when a sense of self would control
him, tempt him, lure, and perhaps, betray him. What then?

The realization of Joyce Birkdale's womanhood a time back had shaken him
almost as much as it had the girl herself.

It had all been so peaceful, so elemental and satisfying before: that
companionship with the little lonely, aspiring, neglected child. She was
so responsive and joyous; so eager to learn, so childishly interested in
the fairy tales of another sort of existence that he kept from decay by
repeating to her. And then that sudden, upleaping flame in the
purple-black eyes. The fierce rush of hot, live blood to the pale face.
The grip of those small work-stained hands as they sought dumbly to stay
the trembling until he had taken them into his firm control.

Well, confronted by the blinding flash, he had acted the man. That was
good. He had not acted thoughtlessly, either. He had sent the quivering
little thing away quietly, and with no sense of bitterness, until he had