“I wish you would,” she told the man facing her with a set, icy glare. “I’d have you dropped off the end of Derby Wharf. I’m not your wife or son; there would be no reason for my protecting you, hiding your beastliness from the world. Nothing could be better than having you throw a paper weight at me.” The shadows under Ira Calef’s eyes, on the deathly pallor of his face, were like black smudges; a shiver passed over his rigidity. His hand drooped; both hands held the edge of the table before him. Epes, in a swift insight brushed with compassion, saw what was in his father’s mind--the huddled light figure crushing the geranium border. “Get out of here,” the elder said to Sumatra in strained, dry tones. “Go, and take him with you.” “To sea?” she insisted. “If there is any salt water in hell.” But, once more in the hall, she was pitiably shaken. “What can we do?” she implored Epes, against him. He reassured her that that was easy enough; a far different, apparently trivial and ill-timed question occupied him. “Sumatra,” he proceeded, “tonight Annice told me that she had lost the obang, the Calef token. Did you find it?” “No, Epes,” she replied, “I didn’t find it.” Her voice sank, died. “I didn’t find it, Epes,” she repeated with difficulty. “I couldn’t, very well, could I, when I had stolen it?” [15] Copyright, 1921, by The Curtis Publishing Company. Copyright, 1923, by Joseph Hergesheimer. THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE[16] By WILLIAM C. G. JITRO (From _The Little Review_) The low country of the lakes with its flowing blue waters, its sunken gray and yellow earth and low skies, is beautiful; yet there have been thrown down in it cities so mean, so cold, so dingy, and so ugly that in them any beautiful thing is marvelous. The eyes strain away out of the cities over the waters and the still, sandy marshes, or turn up into the fathomless heights of the sky; and again and again in springtime, when small clusters of fruit trees and rose vines bloom here and there in the smoke with robins singing in the new sticky foliage, one seeks such spectacles out to walk near them. As for the cities’ polyglot people, they are so harsh, so cold and silent, and so monotonous both in appearance and in their fierce activity, that among them any one only beautiful or charming becomes precious; a thrilling deed, a noble character, a great love, a deathless faith, or even a passionate hatred, or profound despair is something to set apart, to cherish in the mind, to hoard and love. For they dream, the people of those gray and far-off cities by the azure floods, as all must do or die; but their dreams are not good or sweet or high or noble.