ill totter, Taylor, and your kingdoms become
as dust. I have warned you."

"That's right, sir; and now you must come with me."

"Boy," said the man generously, "keep your liberty. By grace of
Providence, all men in authority are fools. We shall meet again under
the light of the moon."

With dreamy eyes the boy watched the departure of his companion. He
had become almost invisible along the road when, miraculously as it
seemed, the light of the moon broke through the trees by the wayside
and lit up his figure. For a moment it fell upon his head like a
halo, and touched the knapsack of dreams with glory. Then all was
lost in the blackness of night.

As he turned homeward the boy felt a cold wind upon his cheek. It was
the first breath of dawn.

The Coffin Merchant

I

London on a November Sunday inspired Eustace Reynolds with a
melancholy too insistent to be ignored and too causeless to be
enjoyed. The grey sky overhead between the house-tops, the cold wind
round every street-corner, the sad faces of the men and women on the
pavements, combined to create an atmosphere of ineloquent misery.
Eustace was sensitive to impressions, and in spite of a
half-conscious effort to remain a dispassionate spectator of the
world's melancholy, he felt the chill of the aimless day creeping
over his spirit. Why was there no sun, no warmth, no laughter on the
earth? What had become of all the children who keep laughter like a
mask on the faces of disillusioned men? The wind blew down
Southampton Street, and chilled Eustace to a shiver that passed away
in a shudder of disgust at the sombre colour of life. A windy Sunday
in London before the lamps are lit, tempts a man to believe in the
nobility of work.

At the corner by Charing Cross Telegraph Office a man thrust a
handbill under his eyes, but he shook his head impatiently. The
blueness of the fingers that offered him the paper was alone
sufficient to make him disinclined to remove his hands from his
pockets even for an instant. But, the man would not be dismissed so
lightly.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, following him, "you have not looked to
see what my bills are."

"Whatever they are I do not want them."

"That's where you are wrong, sir," the man said earnestly. "You will
never find life interesting if you do not lie in wait for the
unexpected. As a matter of fact, I believe that my bill contains
exactly what you do want."

Eustac