And lays in the hands that are empty
The tremulous Star of Love.

MARGARET PEDLER.

NOTE:--Musical setting by Adrian Butt. Published by Edward Schuberth &
Co., 11 East 22nd Street, New York.

THE MOON OUT OF REACH

CHAPTER I

THE SHINING SHIP

She was kneeling on the hearthrug, grasping the poker firmly in one hand.
Now and again she gave the fire a truculent prod with it as though to
emphasise her remarks.

"'Ask and ye shall receive'! . . . '_Tout vient a point a celui qui sait
attendre_'! Where on earth is there any foundation for such optimism,
I'd like to know?"

A sleek brown head bent determinedly above some sewing lifted itself, and
a pair of amused eyes rested on the speaker.

"Really, Nan, you mustn't confound French proverbs with quotations from
the Scriptures. They're not at all the same thing."

"Those two run on parallel lines, anyway. When I was a kiddie I used to
pray--I've prayed for hours, and it wasn't through any lack of faith that
my prayers weren't answered. On the contrary, I was enormously
astonished to find how entirely the Almighty had overlooked my request
for a white pony like the one at the circus."

"Well, then, my dear, try to solace yourself with the fact that
'everything comes at last to him who knows how to wait.'"

"But it doesn't!"

Penelope Craig reflected a moment.

"Do you--know--how to wait?" she demanded, with a significant little
accent on the word "know."

"I've waited in vain. No white pony has ever come, and if it trotted in
now--why, I don't want one any longer. I tell you, Penny"--tapping an
emphatic forefinger on the other's knee--"you never get your wishes until
you've out-grown them."

"You've reached the mature age of three-and-twenty"--drily. "It's a
trifle early to be so definite."

"Not a bit! I want my wishes _now_, while I'm young and can enjoy
them--lots of money, and amusement, and happiness! They'll be no good to
me when I'm seventy or so!"

"Even at seventy," remarked Penelope sagely, "wealth is better than
poverty--much. And I can imagine amusement and happiness being quite
desirable even at three score years and ten."

Nan Davenant grimaced.

"Philosophers," she observed, "are a highly irritating species."

"But what do you want, my dear? You're always kicking against the pricks.
What do you really _want_?"

The coals slipped with a grumble in the grate and a blue flame shot up
the chimney. Nan