ent outer envelope I could see, as I held
it to the light, its framework, fine as the thread-like bones of a fish,
its elastic chords, its quivering diaphragms, and all the delicate
organs of its inner life. It seemed as if I could feel the palpitations
of its heart as I breathed upon it. For how many days and months had I
been working on this subtle invention--working, and thinking, and
dreaming! Here it lay, perfect, finished, ready to tell me more than any
man ever has known--a thing almost of life, and ready to be brought to
life by the voice of man or beast or bird, or perhaps of any living
thing. Could I have the heart to destroy it? Could I have the heart to
turn my back upon the gate of the world of wonders which was just
opening to me?

"'Yes,' said I to myself; 'I have the heart to do anything that will
prevent my losing the love of Mary Armat.'

"Then an evil thought came to me, and tempted me: 'If you choose you can
hear the monkeys talk and have Mary too. Everything you want is in your
own hands. Don't put that little machine back into the tube. Lock it up
safely out of sight, and then go to Mary with your instrument, and you
can talk into it and she can listen, and she may talk and you may
listen. Yes, you may have your Mary--and she need never know that you
understand what the monkeys may say to you, or what she has said to
you.'

"I am proud that I entertained this evil thought for but a very short
time. I turned upon it and stormed at it. 'No!' I exclaimed. 'I shall
never win Mary by cheating her! Whether I get her or not, I will be
worthy of her.'

"Then there came another thought, apparently innocent and certainly
persuasive. 'Do not destroy the translatophone. Then, if things do not
turn out well between you and Mary, you will still have the monkeys.'

"'No,' I said to myself; 'I must have Mary. I will have nothing to fall
back upon. I will allow nothing to exist that might draw me back.'

"There was another thing I might do: I might take my translatophone to
her, and explain everything. But would there be any possibility, even if
she did not fly from me in shame and never see me again, that I could
make her believe in a love which had been so spurred on, even aroused,
as she might well imagine mine had been? No; that would never do. Apart
from anything else, it would be impossible for me to be so cruel as to
let Mary know I had understood the Burmese words she had spoken to me.

"I looked at