The man dropped his head into his hands and sat absolutely still. Lowndes watched the river growing grayer and grayer, and listened to the lapping of the water against the lumber, remembering that one of the poets had said it was a risky business tampering with souls, and matter enough to save one’s own. The reflection made him feel a little faint. What if Witherle had a right to that life in spite of everything--that life for which he had given all? Witherle lifted his head at last. “You are sure my wife was broken up over it?” he demanded, despairingly. “Sure.” Witherle cast one longing glance across the darkening river to the black outlines of the barge. There, ah, even there, the breath of life was sweet upon his lips, and toil was good, and existence was worth while. “I thought no soul in the world had a claim on me. Curse duty! The life of a rat in a cage!” he cried. “Oh, Lord, I haven’t the head nor the heart for it!” The words were bitter, but his voice broke with compliance. He rose to his feet and stretched out his arms with a fierce gesture, then dropped them heavily by his side. “Come on,” he said. Lowndes, watching him with that curious, heart-sickening sympathy growing upon him, was aware that he had seen the end of a soul’s revolt. Rightly or wrongly, Witherle’s freedom was over. SERENE’S RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE; AN INLAND STORY Serene and young Jessup, the school-teacher, were leaning over the front gate together in the warm summer dusk. “See them sparkin’ out there?” inquired Serene’s father, standing at the door with his hands in his pockets, and peering out speculatively. “Now, father, when you know that ain’t Serene’s line.” It was Mrs. Sayles who spoke. Perhaps there was the echo of a faint regret in her voice, for she wished to see her daughter “respectit like the lave”; but “sparkin’” had never been Serene’s line. “Serene wouldn’t know how,” said her big brother. “There’s other things that’s a worse waste o’ time,” observed Mr. Sayles, meditatively, “and one on ’em’s ’Doniram Jessup’s ever-lastin’ talk-talk-talkin’ to no puppus. He’s none so smart if he does teach school. He’d do better on the farm with his father.” “He’s more’n three hundred dollars ahead, and goin’ to strike out for himself, he says,” observed the big brother, admiringly. “Huh! My son, I’ve seen smart young men strike out for themselves ’fore ever you was born, and I’ve seen their fathers swim out after ’em--and sink,” said Mr. Sayles, oracularly. Outside the June twilight was deepening, but Serene and the school-teacher still leaned tranquilly over the picket-gate. The fragrance of the lemon-lilies that grew along the fence was in the air, and over Serene’s left shoulder, if she had turned to look, she would have seen the slight yellow crescent of the new moon sliding down behind the trees.