at when the little yellow woman from Asia had gathered
her baby to her breast the windows of her soul were opened to receive
the warmth of the yellow sunshine that poured in a flood from heaven?

The Hero of the Plague

I

On a sweltering July day a long and ungainly shadow, stretching thirty
feet upon the ground, crept noiselessly up an avenue leading to a
fashionable hotel at a great summer resort. The sun was setting, and
its slanting rays caused the shadow to assume the appearance of an
anamorphosis of ludicrous proportions. It was a timid shadow--perhaps a
shadow of strange and unnerving experiences.

The original of it was worthy of study. He was a short, stout,
stoop-shouldered man; his hair was ragged and dusty, his beard
straggling and scant. His visible clothing consisted of a slouch hat,
torn around the rim and covered with dust; a woollen shirt; a pair of
very badly soiled cotton trousers; suspenders made of rawhide strips,
fastened to his trousers with wooden pins, and the strangest of old
boots, which turned high up at the toes like canoes (being much too
long for his feet), and which had a rakish aspect.

The man's face was a protest against hilarity. Apparently he had all
the appurtenances of natural manhood, yet his whole expression would
have at once aroused sympathy, for it was a mixture of childishness,
confidence, timidity, humility, and honesty. His look was vague and
uncertain, and seemed to be searching hopelessly for a friend--for the
guidance of natures that were stronger and minds that were clearer. He
could not have been older than thirty-five years, and yet his hair and
beard were gray, and his face was lined with wrinkles. Occasionally he
would make a movement as if to ward off a sudden and vicious blow.

He carried a knotty stick, and his ample trousers-pockets were filled
to such an extent that they made him appear very wide in the hips and
very narrow in the shoulders. Their contents were a mystery. The
pockets at least produced the good effect of toning down the marvellous
ellipticity of his legs, and in doing this they performed a valuable
service.

"Hullo! who are you?" gruffly demanded a porter employed in the hotel,
as the disreputable-looking man was picking his way with great nicety
up the broad interior stairs, afraid that his dusty boots would deface
the polished brasses under foot.

"Baker," promptly replied the man, in a small, timid voice, coming to a
halt a