ld's soul to wander in, that, sane as we may be, stolid as we may
try to be, we think in imagery, and the figure of little feet setting
off on the far track to the end of things, hunting God, wrings our
heart-strings and makes our throats grip and our eyelids quiver.

"And then a child dying, leaving this good world of ours, seems to have
had so small a chance for itself. There is something in all of us
struggling against oblivion, striving vainly to make some real impress
on the current of time, and a child, dying, can only clutch the hands
about it and go down--forever. It seems so merciless, so unfair. Perhaps
that is why, all over the world, the little graves are cared for best.
It is to the little graves that we turn in our keenest anguish and not
to the larger mounds; to the little graves that our hearts are drawn in
our hours of triumph. And so the child, though dead, lives its appointed
time and dies only in the fullness of its years. The little shoes, the
little dresses, the 'little tin soldiers covered with rust,' and the
memories sweeter than dreams of a honeymoon, these are life's
immortelles that never fade. And though men and women come and go upon
the earth, though civilisations may wither and pass, these little images
remain; and the sun and the stars, which see men come and go, may see
these little idols before which every creature bows, and the sun and
stars, knowing no time, may think these children's relics are also
eternal.

"It is a desperately lonely home, that Yengst home, with the little girl
gone away on a long journey; but how tight and close other fathers and
mothers hugged their little ones last night when their hearts came back
from the house of sorrow. And the little ones, feeling no fear,
unconscious of the pang of terror that was shooting through the souls
about them--the children played on, and maybe, before dropping to sleep,
wondered a little at anxious looks they saw in grown-up eyes.

"This is the faith of a little child, curious but implicit, in the
goodness of those things outside one's self. And 'of such is the Kingdom
of Heaven.'"

A day or so after the wedding someone said to him: "Mehronay, sometimes
your pieces make me cry," and he replied with all the fine sincerity of
his heart showing in his eyes: "Yes--and if you only knew how they make
me cry! Sometimes when I have written one like--like that--I go to my
bed and sob like a child." He turned and walked away, but he cam