We know not whence we come, or whither wend, What goal may be to which our journey draws, Fate binds this burden on us, and the end We know not, care not, and we must not pause. A motley train we move. The young, the old, Women and men, with feeble steps or strong, Driven, like herded sheep, from fold to fold-- Oh, we are weary, and the way is long. Vain whispers have we known, and hopes as vain; And one, he bore a banner with a cross, And spake wild words of comfort after pain, And future gain to balance present loss. But where he is we wot not. We have lost All hopes we had, all faiths or right or wrong, We have been shaken, shattered, tempest-tost, And we are weary, and the way is long. Yet still, within each bosom smoulders there Some little spark that might have been divine, Something that will not let us quite despair, Something we cannot, if we would, resign. Some day the spark may quicken and may guide, And fire the soul within us, dead so long, So may there be, when falls the eventide, A joyous ending to a grievous song. Two Pictures By P. Wilson Steer I. The Mirror II. Skirt Dancing [Illustration] [Illustration] A Study in Sentimentality By Hubert Crackanthorpe A PHANTOM regiment of giant mist-pillars swept silently across the valley; beaded drops loaded each tuft of coarse, dull-tinted grass; the peat-hags gaped like black, dripping flesh-wounds in the earth’s side; the distance suggested rectangular fields and wooded slopes--vague, grey, phantasmagoric; and down over everything floated the damp of fine rain. Alec’s heavy tread crunched the turfed bridle-path rhythmically, and from the stiff rim of his clerical hat the water dribbled on to his shoulders. It was a rugged, irregular, almost uncouth face, and now the features were vacantly huddled in a set expression, obviously habitual. The cheeks were hunched up, almost concealing the small eyes; a wet wisp of hair straggled over the puckered forehead, and the ragged, fair moustache was spangled by the rain. At his approach the sheep scampered up the fell-side; then, stood staring through the mist in anxious stupidity. And Alec, shaking the water from his hat, strode forward with an almost imperceptible gleam on his face. It was so that he liked the valley--all colourless and blurred, with the sky close overhead, like a low, leaden ceiling. By-and-by, a cluster of cottages loomed ahead--a choppy pool of black slate roofs, wanly a-glimmer in the wet. As he entered the village, a group of hard-featured men threw him a curt chorus of greetings, to which he raised his stick in response, mechanically.