cheerfully about and advocating a tricky theory, vehement champions of a set of personal schemers and waxy images.” He spoke with feeling; but now, as though a trifle ashamed of too much seriousness, and justifiably afraid of talking like one of his own editorials, he took a lighter tone. “I had been taken on the paper through a friend and not through merit, and by the same undeserved, kindly influence, after a month or so I was set to writing short political editorials, and was at it nearly two years. When the paper changed hands the new proprietor indicated that he would be willing to have me stay and write the other way. I refused; and it became somewhat plain to me that I was beginning to be a failure. “A cousin of mine, the only relative I had, died in Chicago, and I went to his funeral. I happened to hear of the Carlow 'Herald' through an agent there, the most eloquent gentleman I ever met. I was younger, and even more thoughtless than now, and I had a little money and I handed it over for the 'Herald.' I wanted to run a paper myself, and to build up a power! And then, though I only lived here the first few years of my life and all the rest of it had been spent in the East, I was born in Indiana, and, in a way, the thought of coming back to a life-work in my native State appealed to me. I always had a dim sort of feeling that the people out in these parts knew more--had more sense and were less artificial, I mean--and were kinder, and tried less to be somebody else, than almost any other people anywhere. And I believe it's so. It's dull, here in Carlow, of course--that is, it used to be. The agent explained that I could make the paper a daily at once, with an enormous circulation in the country. I was very, very young. Then I came here and saw what I had got. Possibly it is because I am sensitive that I never let Tom know. They expected me to amount to something; but I don't believe his welcome would be less hearty to a failure--he is a good heart.” “Failure!” she cried, and clapped her hands and laughed. “I'm really not very tragic about it, though I must seem consumed with self-pity,” he returned, smiling. “It is only that I have dropped out of the world while Tom is still in it.” “Dropped out of the world!'” she echoed, impatiently. “Can't you see you've dropped into it? That you----” “Last night I was honored by your praise of my graceful mode of quitting it!” “And so you wish me to be consistent!” she retorted scornfully. “What becomes of your gallantry when _we_ abide by reason?” “True enough; equality is a denial of privilege.” “And privilege is a denial of equality. I don't like that at all.” She turned a serious, suddenly illuminated face upon him and spoke earnestly. “It's my hobby, I should tell you, and I'm very tired of that nonsense about 'women always sounding the personal note.' It _should_ be sounded as we would sound it. And I think we could bear the loss of 'privilege'--”