peace, but he brought them death.
Sredni Vashtar the Beautiful.

And then of a sudden he stopped his chanting and drew closer to the
window-pane. The door of the shed still stood ajar as it had been
left, and the minutes were slipping by. They were long minutes, but
they slipped by nevertheless. He watched the starlings running and
flying in little parties across the lawn; he counted them over and over
again, with one eye always on that swinging door. A sour-faced maid
came in to lay the table for tea, and still Conradin stood and waited
and watched. Hope had crept by inches into his heart, and now a look
of triumph began to blaze in his eyes that had only known the wistful
patience of defeat. Under his breath, with a furtive exultation, he
began once again the paean of victory and devastation. And presently
his eyes were rewarded: out through that doorway came a long, low,
yellow-and-brown beast, with eyes a-blink at the waning daylight, and
dark wet stains around the fur of jaws and throat. Conradin dropped on
his knees. The great polecat-ferret made its way down to a small brook
at the foot of the garden, drank for a moment, then crossed a little
plank bridge and was lost to sight in the bushes. Such was the passing
of Sredni Vashtar.

"Tea is ready," said the sour-faced maid; "where is the mistress?"

"She went down to the shed some time ago," said Conradin.

And while the maid went to summon her mistress to tea, Conradin fished
a toasting-fork out of the sideboard drawer and proceeded to toast
himself a piece of bread. And during the toasting of it and the
buttering of it with much butter and the slow enjoyment of eating it,
Conradin listened to the noises and silences which fell in quick spasms
beyond the dining-room door. The loud foolish screaming of the maid,
the answering chorus of wondering ejaculations from the kitchen region,
the scuttering footsteps and hurried embassies for outside help, and
then, after a lull, the scared sobbings and the shuffling tread of
those who bore a heavy burden into the house.

"Whoever will break it to the poor child? I couldn't for the life of
me!" exclaimed a shrill voice. And while they debated the matter among
themselves, Conradin made himself another piece of toast.

ADRIAN

A CHAPTER IN ACCLIMATIZATION

His baptismal register spoke of him pessimistically as John Henry, but
he had left that behind with the other maladies of infancy, and his