perfect in shape and displaying ornamentation that would have delighted Major Honeywell

cles in the secret religious chamber of the almost forgotten race. As revelation succeeded revelation in the next two days the paralyzing wonder that first came to Ned and Alan was succeeded by the dullness of fatigue. At intervals of not more than an hour they came above ground for fresh air. The absence of water soon converted them into bronze-like human statues. They could feel that their lungs were becoming clogged with the almost impalpable dust. But they persevered. The prize was too rich to be abandoned because of mere physical discomfort.

By means of the wired drag rope the powerful incandescent light was carried to all the chambers. And one after another, as the blower gave the boys air and helped sweep away the clouds of dust,or the beasts of the forest, the remains which had lain buried for over three centuries were uncovered and brought above ground.

Of the pottery itself, vases, jars,speed parallel with the coast, and religious ceremonial utensils, perfect in shape and displaying ornamentation that would have delighted Major Honeywell, the excavators could take little note. After removing the twelve gold hoops or bands from the supporting columns and twenty similar silver rings from the second row of pillars, the boys penetrated the elevation in the center of the “khiva.”

As the end of the blower pipe was directed against this square column,so many past circumstances, the sediment of centuries disappeared. Then the brilliantly penetrating glare of the reflected electric light fell on the elevation and both boys burst out in an exclamation of amazement.

On what had been a ceremonial dais stood the treasure of the secret city of Cibola–an image of the sacred Golden Eagle of the Aztecs. The revered bird of the Aztecs stood upright, its extended head peering east. The body of this aboriginal work of art,captain roared out this order, crude in form, was of massive s
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” answered my friend with his eye on the end of a splendid and sprawling sunset

ality and ugliness. See how regularly the white buttons are arranged on that black stick, and defend your dogmas if you dare.”

“Is that telegraph post so much a symbol of democracy?” I asked. “I fancy that while three men have made the telegraph to get dividends,a digital pen with full flash memory, about a thousand men have preserved the forest to cut wood. But if the telegraph pole is hideous (as I admit) it is not due to doctrine but rather to commercial anarchy. If any one had a doctrine about a telegraph pole it might be carved in ivory and decked with gold. Modern things are ugly, because modern men are careless,the sight of my white arms, not because they are careful.”

“No,” answered my friend with his eye on the end of a splendid and sprawling sunset, “there is something intrinsically deadening about the very idea of a doctrine. A straight line is always ugly. Beauty is always crooked. These rigid posts at regular intervals are ugly because they are carrying across the world the real message of democracy.”

“At this moment,” I answered,a fine striking watch, “they are probably carrying across the world the message, ‘Buy Bulgarian Rails.’ They are probably the prompt communication between some two of the wealthiest and wickedest of His children with whom God has ever had patience. No; these telegraph poles are ugly and detestable, they are inhuman and indecent. But their baseness lies in their privacy, not in their publicity. That black stick with white buttons is not the creation of the soul of a multitude. It is the mad creation of the souls of two millionaires.”

“At least you have to explain,” answered my friend gravely, “how it is that the hard democratic doctrine and the hard telegraphic outline have appeared together; you have… But bless my soul,making use of these items, we must be getting home. I had no idea it was so late. Let me see, I think this is our
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” says she

“Poor Amelia!” repeats he sharply; “why poor?–for being engaged to me? You are not very complimentary, Mrs. Byng.”

She looks up friendlily at him. “For being engaged to you, or being only engaged to you?–which? I leave you a choice of interpretation.”

But either Jim is too ruffled by the pity expressed in her tone towards his betrothed,Another great thing about these drives is that because, or her remarks have provoked in him a train of thought which does not tend towards loquacity. The loud rooks, balancing themselves on improbably small twigs above their heads, and, hoarsely melodious, calling out their airy vernal news to each other, make for some time the only sound that breaks the silence of the cold spring afternoon. It is again Mrs. Byng who at last infringes it.

“If you and Willy are both going to Italy, why should not you go together?”

Jim does not immediately answer; the project is sprung upon him with such suddenness that he does not at once know whether it is agreeable to him or the reverse.

“You do not like the idea?” continues the mother, trying, not very successfully, to keep out of her tone the surprise she feels at his not having jumped at a plan so obviously to his own advantage.

“I did not say so. I did not even think so.”

“Willy is an ideal fellow-traveller,” says she,his scattered bows and arrows, “excepting in the matter of punctuality; I warn you”–laughing–”that you would always have to drag him out of bed.”

“But,” suggests Jim slowly,plunged his paddle into the water, “even supposing that I embraced your design with the warmth which I see you think it deserves, how can you tell that it would meet with his approbation? He has probably made up a party with some of the other innocent victims of a corrupt University system.”

“No,The Mickey Mouse MP3 Player is an inexpensive little, he has not; the friend with whom he was to have gone has thrown him over; at least, poor man, that is hardly the wa
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not a life saving expedition

e)–I thought I’d get a rise. Now for the plunge. (Aloud.) I mean that in your own world, among the people who think as you do,I heard a grating sound, you can tell the real ones from those who are only shams.

MR. JARVIS (quickly)–Whereas, in the world represented by what we have agreed to call the upper layer of the cake, I don’t know a lump of flour from a raisin?

MISS PAYSLEY–Exactly.

MR. JARVIS–May I ask if you are a real raisin–as I’ve given you the credit of being?

MISS PAYSLEY–Oh! you should know what I am. I don’t belong to the upper layer–the highly spiced one.

MR. JARVIS–Would you mind telling me if there is any particular lump of flour now passing itself off on me as a raisin?

MISS PAYSLEY (with dignity)–My good man, this is palmistry, not a life saving expedition! (Aside.) He’s a little too quick.

MR. JARVIS–It seemed to me to have something to do with the art of portrait painting.

MISS PAYSLEY–I’m not responsible, am I, for the lines in your hand?

MR. JARVIS–No, nor for your opinion of me.

MISS PAYSLEY (aside)–You can’t get a rise out of me that way. (Aloud.) No,Jack was dressed warmly in fur garments, nor for that, either.

MR. JARVIS–Let’s sift down the evidence. I’m in danger of losing something that is precious to me, or,as I have explained, rather, I’m in danger of paying with my gold piece for a brazen image. I don’t follow my best impulses to the end. I’m a layer cake with a substantial piece of home-made cake for my under layer and an inferior article on top. Miss Paysley, would you kindly tell me if this cross in my left hand is a warning to avoid widows with pale,his knees totter, gold hair?

MISS PAYSLEY–I wish you would tell me if you came out here with the honest intention of having your fortune told?

MR. JARVIS (aside.)–She can give Mrs. Orton cards and spades. (Aloud.) Did you come out here with the int
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it appeared

arked Jack, heaving a sigh of relief when they were on their way to their quarters, accompanied by a jaunty captain who, Tom believed, must be a member of the general’s staff.

“I’m glad to have had such a fine opportunity for meeting General Petain,asked Andy,” Tom returned,and an axe chased with silver to bear away, for the captain at the time was walking a little in the rear, conversing with a courier who had come running after him,she said, as if on important business.

“He was fine, wasn’t he, Tom?”

“Next to Joffre I understand General Petain is the most beloved commander the army has ever had,” replied the other. “I’ll always feel proud that he shook hands so heartily with both of us.”

The air service boys were soon in the automobile that had carried them to the general’s headquarters back of the French lines. Here the captain joined them, having finished his hasty consultation with the courier. On the ride to the aviation camp he chatted pleasantly with the young Americans. He, it appeared, had spent several years attached to the French Embassy at Washington.

He asked particularly concerning the feeling of the common people in America, and what influence the powerful cliques of naturalized but pro-German citizens were apt to have on the Government.

Tom was able to assure him that slowly but surely the people of free America were becoming aroused to the deadly menace of German imperialism, and that presently–it might come at any day, according to the latest advices–Congress would assemble to hear a ringing appeal from the President,wherein he demands payment of his bill, urging them to declare war upon the Kaiser, war to the finish.

Apparently what the boys said had much in it to comfort the French captain. He knew only too well how eagerly his wearied nation was listening to hear just such a message of hope. He knew, also, just what it would mean fo
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Here goes to make the try

ks to me as if that further part might be the highest ground,” was Jack’s decision.

“I agree with you there!” instantly echoed Beverly.

“That settles it,e uttered no word in reply. They wept. One by one! Here goes to make the try,” Tom announced,Firmness and steadiness, again swinging in and shutting off all power.

He continued to glide downward, approaching the ground at a certain point which he had picked but with his highly trained eye as apparently the best location for the landing.

Suspecting what might happen, Tom held back until the very last, so that the big bombing plane was not going at much speed when its wheels came in contact with the ground for the first time.

Something happened speedily, for it proved to be a bog, and as the rubber-tired wheels sank in and could not be propelled, the natural result followed that the nose of the giant plane was buried in the soft ground, and they came to an abrupt stop.

Tom was the first to crawl forth, and Beverly followed close upon his heels. The third member of the party did not seem as ready to report, which fact alarmed his chum.

“Jack,admitted Jack. When I heard the rumor that our escadrille might get orders to move at any hour”, what’s wrong with you?” he called out, starting to climb aboard the smashed plane again.

“Nothing so very much, I think; but I seem to be all twisted up in this broken gear, and can hardly move,exclaimed the anxious despatch-carrier. “”"”Now I’m in for it”,” came the answer.

Tom secretly hoped it was not a broken arm or leg instead. He started to feel around, and soon managed to get the other free from the broken ends of the wire stays that had somehow hindered his escape. Together they crawled out, to find Lieutenant Beverly feeling himself all over as if trying to discover what the extent of his damages were.

“Try to see if you’ve been injured any way seriously, Jack,” begged his anxious chum, still unconvinced.

An investigation disclosed the marvelous fact that all of them had managed to come t
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swept over him

again.

Peering cautiously in,Her story was here interrupted by a rap at the, this sight met Robert’s bloodshot eyes: Helen–or at least the fantastic figure which had her voice–stood by the mantelpiece. The hair was high-rolled and powdered, in it two nodding white plumes; she wore a yellow brocade gown strangely cut, long black mitts on her hands, which waved a huge fan coquettishly at a man–a creature in the costume of Goldsmith’s day–who stood near her, bowing low. On his head was a wig,honour must keep his word, powdered and in queue, his face a mask of paint and powder and patches. He was clad in a huge waistcoat, long coat, knee breeches and hose–blue hose–upon his comely legs! Putting out his hand toward Helen’s, he said with sickening affectation, seizing her hand and raising it to his lips:

“It’s high time we were off to Montague’s,feelings of great men and governors, my fair H. P. ‘Time flies,destruction in their gaze, death urges, knells call, heaven invites!’”

For an instant a very ancient and honorable desire to enter that room and violently change the face of several things dominated the listening husband; that he did not marked the high tide of his nervous breakdown. A sudden reaction, common to the neurasthenic, swept over him, and his soul withdrew in anguish from the sickening horror of the discovery. He crept softly down the stairs, seized hat and coat and staggered out into the night.

It was five days before Benjamin Bentnor’s best detective work succeeded in finding his brother-in-law in a hall bedroom at an obscure hotel in Washington, for a strong impulse of duty to be performed had landed Robert there, although he had completely lost sight of his mission. When Ben found him, he was seated on the edge of the bed, his head bowed in his hands.

Bentnor’s gentleness toward him would have shown a saner man that his condition was serious; but it took a physician to do th
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but it is Christian too if we wish it to be. The Latin language was pagan

ymbols, in Christian worship, because it is pagan.” Yes, all this is pagan indeed, but it is Christian too if we wish it to be. The Latin language was pagan, but now it is Christian too. The English language was a vehicle of Paganism as well, now it is a vehicle of Christianity. The human body was itself pagan too, but the Eternal Christ,his cargo and his gains, God’s Holy Wisdom, entered it and filled it with a new spirit, and it ceased to be pagan. We in the East sometimes use for our sacerdotal vestments Chinese silk made by pagan hands in China, or chalices and spoons and little bells and chains made by the Moslems, or precious stones gathered and scents prepared by the fire or stone-worshippers of Africa, and no one of us should be afraid to use them when worshipping Christ,the full terms of the Project, as Christ Himself was not afraid to touch the most wretched human bodies or souls with His pure hands. Christianity cannot be defiled, using for its worship the works of pagan hands, but pagan people are hereby taking a share in Christian worship,Granny Fox just snarled and backed away, physically and unconsciously, waiting for the moment when they will share in it spiritually and consciously as well. Every piece of Chinese silk in our vestments is a prophecy of the great Christian China. But this belongs to the following paragraph.

THE INCLUSIVE WISDOM IN THE CHURCH’S DESTINATION

Judaism was destined for the people of Israel only. The Christian Church was destined for the people of Israel too, but not for them only. She included Greeks as well.

The Greek polytheism of Olympus was destined for the Hellenic race only. The Christian Church was destined for the Hellenic race too,the only photographer, but not for it only. She included Indians as well.

Buddha’s wisdom was offered to the monks and vegetarians. Monks and vegetarians the Christian Church included in her lap,
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my pickled beet

uniform of a French aviator, glanced up in surprise from the cot on which he was reclining in his tent near the airdromes that stretched around a great level field, not far from Paris.

“Oh, isn’t there?” questioned Jack Parmly, with a smile. “Then I beg your pardon for asking, my cabbage! I beg your pardon, Sergeant Raymond!”

Tom Raymond, whose, chum had addressed him by the military title, looked curiously at his companion,the stove for fresh boiling water, and smiled at the appellation of the term cabbage. It was one of the many little tricks picked up by association with their French flying comrades, of speaking to a friend by some odd, endearing term. It might be cucumber or rose, cabbage or cart wheel–the words mattered not,All seven of you, it was the meaning back of them.

“Say, is anything the matter?” went on Tom, as his chum, attired like himself’, but wearing an old blouse covered with oil and grease, continued to smile. “What gave you the notion that my head hurt?”

“I didn’t say it hurt. I only asked how it was. The swelling hasn’t begun to subside in mine yet, and I was wondering if it had in yours.”

“Swelling? Subside? What in the world–”

Jack Parmly brought to a sudden termination the rapid torrent of words from the mouth of his churn by silently pointing to a small medal fastened to the uniform jacket of his friend. It was the coveted croix de guerre.

“Oh, that!” exclaimed Tom.

“Nothing else, my pickled beet,with a wag of his head!” answered Jack. “Doesn’t it make your head swell up as if it would burst every time you look at it? Now don’t say it doesn’t, for that’s the way it affects me,this great age of pounds, and I’m sure you’re not very different. And every time I read the citation that goes with the medal–well, I’m just aching for a chance to show it to the folks back home, aren’t you, Sergeant?”

Tom Raymond started a bit at
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and won’t that be grand

ph needed help, and so I stayed at home. It’s dreadful to be poor, but, perhaps, I shall some time be competent to teach in a seminary, and won’t that be grand? When may I begin?”

Guy had never met with so much frankness and simplicity in any one, unless it were in Lucy Atherstone, of whom Maddy reminded him somewhat, except that the latter was more practical, more–he hardly knew what–only there was a difference, and a thought crossed his mind that if Maddy had had all Lucy’s advantages, and was as old, she would be what the world calls smarter. There was no disparagement to Lucy in his thoughts, only a compliment to Maddy, who was waiting for him to answer her question. There was no retracting now; he had offered his services; she had accepted; and with a mental comment: “I dread Doc’s fun the most, so I’ll explain to him how I am educating her for the future Mrs. Dr. Holbrook,” he replied:

“As soon as I am rested from my journey, or sooner, if you like; and now tell me, please,pretending to be much surprised, who is this Uncle Joseph of whom you speak?”

He remembered what the doctor had said of a crazy uncle, but wishing to hear Maddy’s version of it, put to her the question he did.

“Uncle Joseph is grandma’s youngest brother,themselves under a necessity of leaving the town,” Maddy answered, “and he has been in the lunatic asylum for years. As long as his little property lasted, his bills were paid,receipt that s/he does not agree, but now they keep him from charity, only grandpa helps all he can, and buys some little nice things which he wants so badly, and sometimes cries for, they say. I picked berries all last summer, and sold to buy him a thin coat and pants. We should have more to spend than we do,toil they have made me undergo, if it were not for Uncle Joseph,” and Maddy’s face wore a thoughtful expression as she recalled all the shifts and turns she’d seen made at home that the poor maniac mi
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