A flurry of hurrying, scurrying leaves swept past him, a company of mocking, dancing leaves; from right and left they came, and scarce ten steps before him they met and swirled up—up into a monstrous wraith with beckoning hands. Chris’s conflict took form. “I’ll do it! I’ll do it! I’ll show her! She’ll regret this day!” and he threw back his head and with flashing eyes started forward with resolute steps. A lost leaf wavered, dipped, paused, then with a timid wafture touched his crisp curls. His blood surged up, for it was like the caress of a loving hand. “Oh no,” said Chris, “I may be wrong—I’ll tell her so;” and holding the lost leaf very gently between his two hands he walked swiftly back. HONOR EASTON. [Illustration: A FLOWER FROM THE CENTURY PLANT. BY CHARLES DINNEH GIVES’EM. The Princess Stony-eye kept on saying nothing.]