n sight of the familiar little farm-house and turned in
slowly at the break between the trees. It was growing dark now, but
the odor of tobacco was on the air, and looking closely, he could
catch the gleam from a glowing pipe-bowl in the doorway. He passed his
hand across his brow, almost doubting--it was all so like--before--

A light step came tapping quickly down the pathway toward him. "Guy!"
a voice called softly. "Guy, is that you?"

The voice was quite near him now, and he stopped short, a big maple
above him.

"Yes, Faith."

She came up close, peering into the shadow.

"Guy--" she repeated, "Guy, where are you?"

He reached out and clasped her hand; then again, and took both hands.
Her breath came quickly. Slowly his arm slipped about her waist, she
struggling a little against her own will; then her head fell forward
on his breast, and he could feel her whole body tremble.

The man looked out through the rifts in the half-naked trees; into the
sky, clear and sparkling beyond; on his face an expression of sadness,
of joy, of abandon--all blended indescribably.

Two soft arms crept gently about his neck, and a mass of fluffy hair
caressed his face.

"Oh! Guy! Guy!" sobbed the girl, "it's wicked, I know, but I'm so
glad--so glad--"

THE DOMINANT IMPULSE

I

Calmar Bye was a writer. That is to say, writing was his vocation and
his recreation as well.

As yet, unfortunately, he had been unable to find publishers; but for
that deficiency no reasonable person could hold him responsible. He
had tried them all--and repeatedly. A certain expressman now smiled
when he saw the long, slim figure approaching with a package under his
arm, which from frequent reappearances had become easily recognizable;
but as a person becomes accustomed to a physical deformity, Calmar Bye
had ceased to notice banter.

Of but one thing in his life he was positively certain; and that was
if Nature had fashioned him for any purpose in particular, it was to
do the very thing he was doing now. The reason for this certainty was
that he could do nothing else with even moderate satisfaction. He had
tried, frequently, to break away, and had even succeeded for a month
at a time in an endeavor to avoid writing a word; but inevitably there
came a relapse and a more desperate debauch in literature. Try as he
might he could not avoid the temptation. An incident, a trifle out of
the ordinary in his commonplace life, a sudden thr