flatteries. The tower which he had built up with his ideals, and in which he had intrenched himself, was in danger of being undermined and toppled into ruins, burying his soul beneath the debris. When seated on the deck, the rose petals dropped into his hand as he tore open Cassandra’s letter. Some, ere he could catch them, were caught up and blown away into the sea.

He held them and inhaled their sweetness, and everything seemed to find its true value and proportion and to fall into its right place. Again on the mountain top, with Cassandra at his side, he viewed in a perspective of varying gradations his life, his aims, and his possessions.

The personality of his young wife, of late a vague thing to him, distant and fair, and haloed about with sweet memories dimly discerned like a