relished the honor of being president in his turn. It was while he was telling this that we saw before us three paths, the middle one and the one to the right going up through the dark woods, the one to the left merely skirting the woods and keeping out in the light. “Let’s see, it’s the left you want, isn’t it?” he asked. “No, it’s the right,” I replied. “I think she said the left,” he cautioned. “Well, anyhow here’s a sign post. You lift me up and I’ll read what it says.” It wasn’t visible from the ground. I caught him about the legs and hoisted him aloft and he peered closely at all three signs. He was a dapper, light little man. “You’re right,” he said. We shook hands and wished each other luck. He struck off back along the road he had come in the fog and I mounted musingly through the woods. It was dark and delightfully odorous, the fog in the trees, struck by the moonlight, looking like moving sheeted ghosts. I went on gaily expecting to hear a screech owl but not one sounded. After perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes of walking I came out into the open road and then I found that I really did not know where Bridgely Level was after all. There was no sign. I went from house to house in the moonlight--it was after midnight--rousing drowsy Englishmen who courteously gave me directions and facing yowling dogs who stood in the open roadway and barked. I had to push one barking guardian out of the way with my hands. All was silent as a church yard. Finally I came to a family of Americans who were newly locating for the winter not far from Bridgely Level and they put me right. I recall the comment of the woman who opened the door: “You’re an American, aren’t you?” and the interest she took in being sure that I would find my way. When I finally reached my door I paused in the garden to survey the fog-lined valley from which came the distant bark of a dog. CHAPTER XIII LILLY: A GIRL OF THE STREETS I stood one evening in Piccadilly, at the dinner hour, staring into the bright shop windows. London’s display of haberdashery and gold and silver ornaments interests me intensely. It was drizzling and I had no umbrella; yet that situation soon ceases to annoy one in England. I walked on into Regent Street and stopped under an arc light to watch the home-surging crowds--the clerks, men and women, the boys and girls. The thought was with me as I walked in the rain, “Where shall I dine? How shall I do it?” I wandered through New Bond Street; and looking idly at the dark stores, as I came back along Piccadilly, I saw two girls, arm in arm, pass by. One of them looked over her shoulder at me and smiled. She was of medium size and simply dressed. She was pretty in the fresh English way, with large, too innocent eyes. The girls paused before a shop window and as I stopped beside them and looked at the girl who had smiled, she edged over toward me and I spoke to her.