er face.

"Good-night, everybody," she was saying.

"Well, we've printed a paper this week, anyhow," said Nort.

Anthy laughed: she had a fine clear laugh, not loud, but sweet, the
kind of a laugh one remembers long afterward.

"Hold on, Miss Doane," said Nort, starting up suddenly, as if the
thought had just occurred to him, "I'm going with you."

He jumped for his coat. Anthy remained, still without moving, at the
door. I chanced to glance at Fergus and saw him bite down on his pipe--
I saw the scowl that darkened his face.

So they went out together. A moment later I went out, too, and as I
crossed the street on my way toward home I heard Anthy's voice through
the night air, no words, just the inflection I had come to know so well,
and then Nort's laugh. I stopped and looked back at the printing-office,
half hidden in the shadows of its garden. A dim light still burned in
the window. I saw Fergus come out and look down the street in the
direction that Nort and Anthy had gone, look thus for some time, and go
in again. And so I turned again homeward for my lonely walk under the
stars.

Life has been good to me, and as I look back upon it no one thing seems
more precious than the thought that I have been much trusted with deep
things in the lives of other men and women. Next to living great things
for one's self (we learn by and by to put that aside) it is wonderful to
be _lived through_. It is wonderful to know a human soul, and ask
nothing of it, nothing at all, save its utter confidence.

I know what took place that night when Nort first walked home with Anthy
almost as well as though I had been with them. And I know how Fergus
felt, Fergus who had known Anthy's father, who had seen Anthy grow up
from a slim, eager, somewhat dreamy child to the woman she was now.

What do you suppose Nort and Anthy talked about? About themselves? Not a
bit of it! They began by talking about the _Star_ and the poems they had
just printed and how Hempfield would like them. And Nort, taking fire
from the spontaneous combustion of his own ideas, began to talk as only
Nort can talk. He painted a renewed country journalism in glowing
language--a powerful engine of public opinion emanating from the country
and expressing the mind, the heart, the very soul, of the people of the
land. (Nort had never before in his life spent two consecutive months
in the country!) Great writers should contribute to its columns--yes, by
George, great