It happened that he ran in the direction of the river. He had left the road now, and was following a muddy track that led through some grimy, desolate market-gardens. All around him there was horror. It screamed in the screaming wind with a voice that was half human; it took shape in the darkness, and lean, white arms, convulsively active, seemed to be snatching at him as he passed; the pattering of blown leaves was changed by it into the pattering of something ghastly, coming very quickly after him. For one second he paused on the river’s brink; and then, pressing both his hands tightly over his eyes, he flung himself into the water. And the river went on unconcerned, and the laws of Nature did not deviate from their regular course. So the boy was drowned. It was a pity; for he was in some ways a lovable boy, and there were possibilities in him. * * * * * Bill’s aunt was putting the untidy bedroom straight when his mother, opening her eyes and turning a little on the bed, said, in a low, tired voice-- “I want Bill. Wheer’s Bill?” “I sent ’im out, dearie; ’e’ll be back d’rectly. Don’t you worry yourself about Bill. Why, that drattid lamp’s a-shinin’ strite onto your eyes. I’ll turn it down.” There was a moment’s pause, while the vehement woman--quiet enough now--arranged the lamp and took her place by the bedside. She smoothed the young mother’s faded hair with one hand. “Go to sleep, dearie,” she said. Then she began to sing in a hushed, quavering voice. It was a favourite hymn, and for devotional purposes she rarely used more than one vowel-sound-- “Urbud wuth me! Fust fulls thur uvvun-tud.” THE GIRL AND THE BEETLE. _A STORY OF HERE AND HEREAFTER._ On the brushwood and groups of trees that here and there broke the monotony of the flat and sandy common were the marks of autumn. The wind was soft and mild, and the leaves fell gently, and the white clouds sailed away into the distance steadily and unquestioningly. Far off the glint of sunlight fell on the narrow, sluggish river. Winds and leaves, clouds and river--all were going home, with a calm meekness that aggravated the dying beetle. It was a good day to die on, and the beetle knew it; but yet he was dissatisfied. Above him there hovered two unkempt birds, tormented by a sense of what in all the circumstances was the correct thing to do. Each bird had sighted the beetle, and neither would come and take it; for each thought that the other would suppose him to be greedy. Of these two birds the one was magnanimous and the other was nervous, and both were hungry. “There’s a large beetle down there,” the first remarked, “but I don’t know that I care about it particularly. Won’t you take it?” There was nothing that his companion would have liked better, but his unfortunate nervousness prevented him from availing himself of the generous offer. “No, thanks,” he stammered, “I couldn’t deprive you.” “But I really don’t want it,” said Magnanimity.