Everyman's Land

light than shines from the mirror of my conscience. If Jim hadn't loved me, it would be less shameful to trade on the tr

s as though I were "betting on a certainty," because there's nobody alive who c

. He was a miner once, he has told Brian and me. Mrs. Beckett was a district school teacher in the Far West, where his fortune began. They married while he was still a poor man. But that's by the way! I want to tell you now of his present, not of his past: and the working out of our futu

ett says he's saved them from themselves, and given them an incentive to live. It was only yesterday that the

y, above all in places he knew and loved. They can identify these by the letters he wrote home from France before the war. His mother has kept every one. Through a presentiment of his death

ne, ignorant of French as they are. But this is their generous way of making us feel indispensable! They tell us we are needed to "see them through"; that without our help and advice they would be lost. Every word of kindne

that they've a rendezvous with him at "his chateau," when they reach the journey's end. They owe this happiness not to me, but to Brian. As for him, he has the a

eyes. I shall see the country in all its beauty as it was before the war. And who knows but I shall find my d

Afterward-when the tour is over-he thinks that "some other scheme will open." I think so too. The Becketts will propose it, to keep us

ons"! This morning the formal request was made to the French authorities, and sent to head

's father and mother, or-shall I take the

ve been out, alone-to decide. Padre,

mebody who would tell me what to do. Paris in the autumn twilight was a dream of beauty. Suddenly the dream seemed to open, and draw me in. Some one far away, whom I had known and loved, was dreaming me! What I should decide about th

d to be sacred to private autos and gay little taxis bound for theatres and operas and balls. For every girl, or woman, or child, who passed, there were at least ten soldiers: French soldiers in bleu horizon, Serbians in gray, Britis

accident if I stage-managed it well. The Becketts would be angels to Brian when I was gone! But the dreamer of the dream would not let me stir hand

ownward, long and straight, like first-communion veils. Distant trees and shrubs and statues began to retreat into the dusk, as if withdrawing from the sight of fevered human-folk to rest. Violet shadows rose in a tide, and poured through the g

e. The transparen

aning, it was so strong and real. It has made me change my mind about-the