The Devil is Making Candy:—Short explains that this is a picture with a purpose. The Devil, in a cook’s costume, is bending over the usual candy kettle. Peeping in at the door are those that wait for his candy. These are the usual run of sinners, types that appear in sermon pictures, the miser with his gold and the Magdalene with her painted jaws, etc. The devil looks exceedingly sly but Short explains that there is nothing for him to look sly about. It is only fudge. The Devil tests it by dipping in his finger, which, of course, he can do without burning himself. “Yet,” says Short, “I would not eat after the Devil’s fingers. Would you?” The Sewing Machine of Fate:—Fate is an old woman among the stars, big as a sign of the zodiac. She is crouched in a heap over a sewing machine. It is a little too small for her clumsy hands but she can use it. Forever and forever, with eyes that never lift from the plunging needle, she bends over her task, sending through new cloth from the looms of time. When this cloth has passed under the needle, it is written with characters that can never be snipped out. This inscription is all she lives for. Yet, like the inscriptions of the temples of Yucatan, it is forever unreadable except to ghosts, hobgoblins, spooks, and such like creatures, with whom sensible people have nothing to do. There is one great blank space on the wall, for the portrait of the mythical queen of the revels in this particular Yellow Hall, Sally Mary Ann Velaska Harris, familiarly called “Velaska.” Sunday, June 15:—I find myself this morning in the loft of the gigantic Cathedral of St. Peter and St. Paul with Surto Hurdenburg. His face is still painted blue by mother nature, as a reminder of his long struggles with alcohol. But there are new unquenchable fires within. He looks like a broken down but repentant Bill Sykes. He takes the sermon with great literalness, as I know, by his asides to me. St. Friend’s voice is much more quavering and old than last Sunday. He is living in the reaction from that tremendous physical outlay. It is as though we were endowed with a special sense of hearing and were listening from celestial parapets to the cry of a sick man on the earth.