He raised his eyes, not his head, and stared over the desk at the wall beyond. From above the mantel the portrait of Father Speares's ancestor glared at him from its massive frame, wearing the fierce and faded aspect of a past century. Near the window stood the sofa, with the worn spot on the leather arm where the head of the dead man had rested. It was all chill and leaden and devoid of color. Presently he moved, and, opening a drawer of the desk, drew out a small dark phial and placed it upon the unfolded leaves of the sermon. Through the blue glass the transparent liquid gleamed like silver. His movements were automatic. There was no haste, no precipitation, no hint of indecision. He looked at the clock upon the mantel, watching the gradual passage of the hands. When the minute-hand reached the hour he would have done with it all--with all things forever. The colorless liquid in the small blue phial lay within reach of his grasp. It seemed to him that he saw already a man lying on that leathern sofa--saw the protruding eyes, the relaxed limbs, the clammy sweat, and saw nothing more that would be after him under the sun. The hands of the clock moved on. A finger of sunlight pierced the curtains and pointed to the ashes in the grate. Outside the noise of a crowded city went on tumultuously. He removed the cork of the bottle, inhaling a pungent and pervasive odor of bitter almonds. At the same instant a voice called him, and there was a knock at his door. "Father!" He replaced the stopper, still holding the phial in his hand. For a moment the heavy silence hung oppressively, and then he answered: "What is it?" His voice sounded lifeless, like that of one awakening from heavy sleep or a trance. "You are there? Come quickly. Your men at the Beasley Rolling Mills have gone on a strike. A policeman was shot and several of the strikers wounded. You are wanted to speak to them." "To speak to them?" "I have a cab. You may prevent bloodshed. Come." Father Algarcife returned the phial to its drawer, withdrew the key from the locker, and rose. He opened the door and faced the messenger. His words came thickly. "There is no time to lose," he said. "I am ready." He seized his hat, descended the steps, and rushed into the street. THE END ERRATUM On page 194, 4th line from bottom, the word "begotten" should be omitted. BY MARY E. WILKINS JEROME, A POOR MAN. A Novel. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 50. MADELON. A Novel. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25. PEMBROKE. A Novel. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 50. JANE FIELD. A Novel. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25. A NEW ENGLAND NUN, and Other Stories. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25. A HUMBLE ROMANCE, and Other Stories. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25. YOUNG LUCRETIA, and Other Stories. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25. GILES COREY, Yeoman. A Play. Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, Ornamental, 50 cents.