"Well--he did it, the fool. And when the broth was served, hell on earth broke loose. Everyone started calling his neighbor a Puritan, and cursing him for having banished Beauty from the earth. The Lord knows what they meant by that; I don't. Old friends fought like wildcats, shrieking 'Puritan' at each other. Luckily it only got to one table--but there are ten raving lunatics in the lockup tonight. "It's an awful thing. But thanks to the Lord, some good has come out of this evil: that medicine man, Mencken, was standing outside looking in at the rumpus, smiling to himself I guess. Well, somebody saw him and yelled, 'There's another of those damned Puritans!' and before he could get away five of them had jumped on him and beaten him to death. He deserved it, and it's a good joke on him that they killed him for being a Puritan." Priscilla could stand no more. She rose from her bed, rushed into the room, and faced the three Puritans. In the voice of Priscilla Kennicott but with the words of the medicine man she scourged them. "A good joke?" she began. "And that is what you Puritan gentlemen of God and volcanoes of Correct Thought snuffle over as a good joke? Well, with the highest respect to Professor Doctor Miles Standish, the Puritan Hearse-hound, and Professor Doctor Elder Brewster, the Plymouth Dr. Frank Crane--BLAA!" She shrieked this last in their faces and fell lifeless at their feet. She never recovered consciousness; an hour later she died. An overdose of the medicine had been too much for her weak heart. "Poor William," comforted Elder Brewster, "you must be brave. You will miss her sorely. But console yourself with the thought that it was for the best. Priscilla has gone where she will always be happy. She has at last found that bliss which she searched for in vain on earth." "Yes William," added Miles Standish. "Priscilla has now found eternal joy." VIII Heaven. Smug saints with ill-fitting halos and imitation wings, singing meaningless hymns which Priscilla had heard countless times before. Sleek prosaic angels flying aimlessly around playing stale songs on sickly yellow harps. Three of the harps badly out of tune; two strings missing on another. Moses, a Jew. Methuselah, another Jew. Old and unshaven. Priscilla threw herself on a cloud, sobbing. "Well, sister, what seems to be the matter here?" She looked up; she saw a sympathetic stranger looking down at her. "Because you know, sister," he went on, "if you don't like it here you can always go back any time you want to." "Do you mean to say," gasped Priscilla, "that I can return to earth?" "You certainly can," said the stranger. "I'm sort of manager here, and whenever you see any particular part of the earth you'd like to live in, you just let me know and I'll arrange it." He smiled and was gone. IX