This Mr. Wriford simply stands there. He doesn't do anything, and he doesn't say anything. He can't. You see, he has been through a good deal for a good long time. This is the end of a long passage for him. You know how weak he is. You probably despise him. Well, then, despise him now. He has no parts, no qualities, for this. He makes a bungling business of it. He has come to the doorway of the porch and simply stands there. They have seen him. They are staring at him. They are saying things. They are exclaiming. He doesn't hear. He just stands there.... Then he begins. He jolts down off the step of the porch. He stumbles along the few paces to the bath-chair. She that is seated there gives a kind of laugh and a kind of cry. He falls on his knees, kneeling in puddles, and puts his arms out, and takes her in them, and catches her to him, and buries his face against her, and holds her, holds her--and has nothing at all that he can say, not even her name. Well, nor has she. She just has her arms about him.... When at last she speaks, Mr. and Mrs. Bickers have gone--into the church, or into the air, or into the ground--gone somewhere for some reason. And even then it is not at first speech but some odd little sound that she makes, and at that he looks up and she stoops to him--and there they are, her cheek against his cheek. "My back's a fair old caution," says Essie then. "They don't think I'll ever walk again." He stammers something about "I'll carry you, dear. I'll carry you." Each in the other's arms, her cheek against his cheek. "Just going to Whitehouse, we were," says Essie. "My goodness, if it hadn't rained and made us come for shelter!" He says something about: "It's empty--it's still empty for us--Whitehouse." Some one opens the church door. Young voices and music that have been muffled come streaming through towards them-- _Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord: or who shall rise up in his holy place?_ _Even he that hath clean hands and a pure heart: and that hath not lift up his mind unto vanity, nor sworn to deceive his neighbour._ A sound escapes him. He feels a sudden moisture from her face to his. The singing goes deeper; then with triumphant surge and sweep breaks out again: "_Lift up your heads, O ye gates, and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors...._" "What, are you crying too?" says Essie. "Aren't we a pair of us, though?" THE END _By the author of "The Clean Heart"_ THE HAPPY WARRIOR By A. S. M. HUTCHINSON Author of "The Clean Heart" and "Once aboard the Lugger----" Frontispiece $1.35 net. The plot of "The Happy Warrior" is unusual, its love interest is sweet and pure, and there is a fight of which it is truthfully said that there is nothing more virile and tense in literature. Shows the touch of the master hand ... Mr. Hutchinson is nothing if not original. His own strong individuality is apparent in his method and in his style.--_New York Times_.