We descend the elevator into an elegant room of many windows and drapery, seat ourselves beside one, high and wide. The scene outside is exquisite. Some fur-clad people are on the ice around a fire cooking. A ship in the distance is ice locked. But there is no ice in this neighborhood. “How do you like the picture?” asked Serpenta eagerly. “O, the window is a picture; it is fine,” I reply enlightened. “Is it like your people that go in ships?” “They must be the last explorers whom Savant found. How I wish I could rescue them and bring them into Arc.” “Did you say this is a library, where are the books?” She presses on the picture frame; it changes as a part advances, opens and is a book. The back was part of the picture. It is Savant’s story in pictured writing and quite enlists my sympathy. Seeing me tearful she takes me outside and leaves me in a shrubbery plot, while I attempt to compose my features. Hearing a sob from someone else close by, I am upset again and weep in sympathy. I peer through the low-lying branches and see Robet in a mossy nook, giving way to hysterical bitterness, her hands over her face. Now, two other hands pull them away to give her view of the laughing face of Show Off. She pushes him off spitefully. Partly losing his balance, he settles back on his heels, still laughing, seeing which with her toe she completes his overthrow and leaves him in the moss as she continues unconstrained her grief. Show Off picks himself up sobered and looks around for other occupation. I do also view the surroundings. I perceive this building is over the river. Before I salute Robet, she arises and stamps away. Passing my retreat I hear her moan: “You are lost, O my darling.” Something drops gently upon my hand. I look down to see a round button-like object attached to a line that goes up above. I raise it, when the string sways out from the tree, free from aught else but the sky. I feel in my hand a signal, which I recognize. By my knowledge of Arc as a “hello,” which I answer back. Then comes a communication: “I am away up in the sky. Who are you?” Thinking some trick is being played on me I answer: “Robet.” Ting a ling ling. They are happy. (Can it be the Traveler?) Hoping so, I telephone on the line, in Robet’s voice: “It is my darling!” I hear back: “It is sounding from the clouds in accents of her voice. O, clouds, speak again.” “When will my darling come again?” “Do you want me, dear? I will wander no more. But it is fine up here. I go like light. Thoughts cannot travel faster.” “My darling is like a spirit of air for speed.” “I will speed to you, dear.” “His daughter pines for him.” “Not her.” “My heart is full of love. This winter I will marry him and journey with him in the famous sky. Here are ten thousand kisses to last till winter shall bring him home.” “My coach frets to be going. But this winter it shall stop for a season.” The button darts upward.