The enclosure falls into the lap of the wan one. A short note in a stranger hand—that unruly curl she cut for him the day he went—an old letter of her own, beginning with a love word. The note tells a brief story ending in death. There is nothing more. These are the tidings. This is the answer to their prayers. Yet still they sit there—like ghosts—until their stony eyes are fixed—until the smile on the simple face passes into eternal calm—until the rushlight dies, and pitying darkness falls. When the fickle northern summer comes again it lingers wonderingly about the idle cottage doors, fixed close in the ice, pausing at one with the reverence which befits the unclosing of a tomb. It stays for but a little day, then flies before the conquering ice and comes no more. Yet, that tomb, far out toward the eternal ice cap, where the cottage is in the embrace of the ice, was “made in America,” the land of the brave and the home of the free—while the gentlemen of the bar and the benchers laughed, and in that city whose proudest boast is of the sublime quality of its justice—because a judge was impatient for his dinner—because a prosecuting officer would play golf. Was it wrong? And who will right the wrong? And where will it be righted? Is there a forum for such causes as these? And who will be punished for it? The judge—the jury—the district attorney—all of them? GUILE I CHILLY WISDOM “Guile,” said John Estover, savagely, to his wife, “is as communicable as—as—tuberculosis!” “Yes, John,” sighed his wife. “And when there is a predisposition to it—segregation is absolutely imperative.” “Yes—yes! But I confessed _my_ frivolities before the Great Meeting, and they prayed for me in our silent fashion—and said: Go in peace! Does thee remember?” Estover’s face relaxed a trifle. “I meant our child.” “We were bride and groom then, John,” his little wife whispered, on seeing his softening. She did not see, though, that he had at once forbidden the softness to his face, and went on. “You didn’t care then that I was French and had a most unquakerish name—” “Say ‘thee,’ please, Ann (her name was Jeanne), and when thee thinks ‘Quaker’ say Friend.” “Yes, John.” It is true that the smiles the thought of her bridehood brought had gone from her face with the sigh which followed. But another smile was there—for him. For she knew perfectly what was beneath this ecclesiastical chill. The very man who had been her bridegroom, and had never been anything else. “Some people blame it on heredity—their poor parents; some upon temperament. But it is neither thee nor me now. I think it is nothing but temptation—the getting into contact with evil—just as that is necessary to contract tuberculosis.” “But, John,” smiled the wife, “_I_ was a wicked little girl when thee found me in Paris—” “And saved thee!” thundered John.