"The Pagans, _ma belle_" he interrupted coolly, quite as if he were answering her question, although in reality nothing was further from his intention, "isn't really a society at all. It is only the name by which we've taken to calling a knot of fellows who meet once a month in each other's studios. We are all St. Filipe men, but we've no organization as a club." "Well?" Edith asked, as he paused; evidently puzzled to discover any connection between her question and his reply. "And you," her betrothed responded, tucking her into the carriage and surreptitiously kissing her hand, "are the loveliest of your sex. I'll come to take you to the depot at six, you know. Good-by." He closed the carriage door, watched her drive off, and then went his own way. V. THE BITTER PAST. All's Well that Ends Well; v.--3. "The Pagans: Friday, Jan. 17. Pipes, pictures and punch. GRANT HERMAN." Such was the invitation received one day by each of the Pagans, under a seal bearing the impress of the goddess Pasht. There is little that need be added to Fenton's account of the Pagans. The society had no organization beyond a rule to meet each month and to limit its membership to seven; no especial principles beyond an unformulated although by no means unexpressed antagonism against Philistinism. Fenton had suggested Pasht as a sort of _dea mater_, and had furnished the seal bearing the image of that goddess which it was customary to use upon the notifications of meetings; and for the rest there was nothing definite to distinguish this group of earnest and sometimes fiery young men from any other. They doubtless said a great many foolish things, but they did so many wise ones that it seemed but reasonable to assume that there must be some grains of wisdom mingled with whatever dross was to be found in their speech. Their views were extreme enough. Fenton was fond of maintaining astounding propositions, using the club much as Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes once privately said Wendell Phillips does the community, "to try the strength of extravagant theories;" and none of the Pagans were restrained by any conventionality from a free expression of opinion. It was on the afternoon of the day fixed for the Pagan meeting when Helen Greyson took her way across the Common and through the business portion of the city to the building down by the wharves where were the studios of Herman and his pupils. It was feebly raining, the weather having been decidedly whimsical all that week, and the clouds rolled in ragged, sullen masses overhead. Helen felt the gloom of the day as a vague depression which she endeavored in vain to shake off, and hastened towards her studio, hoping to be able to lose herself in her work. Picking her steps among the piles of fire-brick and terra-cotta which lumbered the yard and the long shed skirting the building, which was a terra-cotta manufactory, she let herself in at a side door and went directly to her studio.