the messenger, and the beggar, and the woman with the child; but chiefly from the woman and the child. The material value has no relation to the value each sets upon that which is his own. Behind this feeling lies the strength of the world. Here on this hill of Bagdad I am thinking these things. And, Luke, I would have thee also think on my story of the woman and the child. There is in it a lesson for thee.” When Luke Claridge first read this letter years before, he had put it from him sternly. Now he heard it with a soft emotion. He took the letter from Faith at last and put it in his pocket. With no apparent relevancy, and laying his hand on Faith’s shoulder, he said: “We have done according to our conscience by Davy--God is our witness, so!” She leaned her cheek against his hand, but did not speak. In Soolsby’s hut upon the hill David sat talking to the old chair-maker. Since his return he had visited the place several times, only to find Soolsby absent. The old man, on awaking from his drunken sleep, had been visited by a terrible remorse, and, whenever he had seen David coming, had fled into the woods. This evening, however, David came in the dark, and Soolsby was caught. When David entered first, the old man broke down. He could not speak, but leaned upon the back of a chair, and though his lips moved, no sound came forth. But David took him by the shoulders and set him down, and laughed gently in his face, and at last Soolsby got voice and said: “Egyptian! O Egyptian!” Then his tongue was loosened and his eye glistened, and he poured out question after question, many pertinent, some whimsical, all frankly answered by David. But suddenly he stopped short, and his eyes sank before the other, who had laid a hand upon his knee. “But don’t, Egyptian, don’t! Don’t have aught to do with me. I’m only a drunken swine. I kept sober four years, as she knows--as the Angel down yonder in the Red Mansion knows; but the day you came, going out to meet you, I got drunk--blind drunk. I had only been pretending all the time. I was being coaxed along--made believe I was a real man, I suppose. But I wasn’t. I was a pillar of sand. When pressure came I just broke down--broke down, Egyptian. Don’t be surprised if you hear me grunt. It’s my natural speech. I’m a hog, a drink-swilling hog. I wasn’t decent enough to stay sober till you had said ‘Good day,’ and ‘How goes it, Soolsby?’ I tried it on; it was no good. I began to live like a man, but I’ve slipped back into the ditch. You didn’t know that, did you?” David let him have his say, and then in a low voice said: “Yes, I knew thee had been drinking, Soolsby.” He started. “She told you--Kate Heaver--” “She did not tell me. I came and found you here with her. You were asleep.” “A drunken sweep!” He spat upon the ground in disgust at himself. “I ought never have comeback here,” he added. “It was no place for me. But it drew me. I didn’t belong; but it drew me.”