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The MERCHANT and his WIFE are at supper.

WIFE. Our neighbors bought some fine olives to-day. It has been a long time since we have had olives. I am quite hungry for them.

MERCHANT. Now you speak of olives, you put me in mind of the jar which Ali Cogia left with me.

WIFE (pointing to a jar in another part of the room). There is the very jar waiting for him against his return.

MERCHANT. Certainly he must be dead, since he has not returned in all this time. Give me a plate; I will open the jar, and if the olives be good, we will eat them.

WIFE. Pray, husband, do not commit so base an action. You know nothing is more sacred than what is left to one’s care and trust.

MERCHANT. But I am certain All Cogia will never return.

WIFE. And I have a strong feeling that he will. What will he think of your honor if he finds the jar has been opened?

MERCHANT. Surely a jar of olives is not to be guarded so carefully, year after year.

WIFE. That is Ali Cogia’s affair, not ours. Besides, the olives can’t be good after all this time.

MERCHANT (taking a plate). I mean to have a taste of them, at least.

WIFE (indignantly). You are betraying the trust your friend placed in you! I will not remain to witness it.

She leaves the room. The Merchant crosses and takes cover from jar.

MERCHANT (looking in jar). My wife was right—the olives are covered with mould, but those at the bottom may still be good.

He turns the jar up and shakes out the olives. Several gold pieces fall out.

MERCHANT. What is this? Gold pieces! As I live! Gold! gold!

He shakes the jar again; a shower of gold pieces fall.

MERCHANT (dropping the jar in astonishment). A thousand pieces at least!

The top of the jar only was laid with olives! (He puts the gold into his pockets.)

To-night, when my wife is asleep, I will fill the jar entirely with fresh olives, for these show they have been disturbed. And I will make up the jar so that no one, except Ali Cogia himself, will know they have been touched.

Illustration: “A THOUSAND PIECES AT LEAST!”

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The story of the development of stamp collecting, and of the trade that has sprung up with it, is full of romance. Our publishers’ business, with its world-wide ramifications, was begun by young Gibbons putting a few sheets of stamps in his father’s shop window. The father was a chemist, and it was intended that the lad should follow in his father’s footsteps; but the stamps elbowed the drugs aside, and eventually yielded a fortune which enabled this pioneer of the stamp trade to retire and indulge his globe-trotting propensities to the full. He sold his business for £25,000, and, still in the prime of life, retired to a snug little villa on the banks of the Thames. The business was converted into a Limited Liability Company, and the Managing Director may be said to be a product of the original business, for it was a present of a guinea packet of Stanley Gibbons’s stamps that first whetted his appetite for stamp collecting, and eventually for stamp dealing. Mr. Gibbons had for a great many years conducted his business from his private house. The new broom changed all that, and opened out in fine premises in the Strand, W.C., where the Company now occupy the whole of one house and the greater part of the adjoining premises. In every room busy hands are at work all the day long endeavoring to keep pace with a world-wide business which began with a few sheets in the corner of a chemist’s shop window in the town of Plymouth.

And now, looking back on the humdrum days of the beginnings of the stamp trade, what opportunities do they not seem to have missed! Could they but have foreseen the present-day developments, a few unconsidered trifles, valued at a few pence in those days, put away in a bottom drawer, would to-day net a fortune. Young Gibbons, amongst his early purchases, bought from a couple of sailors at Plymouth for £5 a sackful of triangular Cape of Good Hope stamps, a large proportion being the rare so-called Woodblocks, with many of the Errors described in the list of great rarities in another chapter. Those Errors he disposed of at 2s. 6d. each. They are now worth from £60 to £75 each. And the ordinary Woodblocks, which were so plentifully represented in that sackful, are now catalogued at from 50s. to £9 apiece. Strange as it may seem, those were the common stamps of those days, and they are the rarities of to-day.

A well-known collection, full of rare stamps of the value of from £5 to £50, has been largely formed by the fortunate possessor out of stamps for which he paid 2s. per dozen just a little over twenty years ago.

A leading collector once conceived the idea of scouring the little-visited country towns of Spain for rare old Spanish stamps, and a most successful hunt he made of it. He secured most valuable and unsuspected hauls of unused and used blocks and pairs of rare Portuguese; but before returning home he decided to treat himself to a trip to Morocco, and during that ill-fated extension of his tour he lost nearly the whole of his patient garnerings of rare Spanish stamps, for during an inland trip some very unphilatelic Bedouins swooped down on his escort in the desert and carried off the whole of his baggage. He, being some distance ahead of his escort, escaped, and brought home only a few samples of the grand things he had found and lost.

In all forms of collecting the hunt for bargains adds zest to the game, and probably more so in stamps than in any other hobby, not even excepting old china; and, as in other lines of collecting, the bargain hunter must be equipped with the expert knowledge of the specialist if he would sweep into his net at bargain prices the unsuspected gems to be found now and again in the philatelic mart. Many a keen stamp collector turns his years of wide experience to good account as a bargain hunter, and at least one innocent amateur is credited with netting a revenue which would make many a flourishing merchant green with envy.

Many a match has probably been due to stamp collecting. Not long ago we were told of a young lady who wrote to an official in a distant colony for a few of the current stamps issued from his office. The stamps were forwarded and a correspondence ensued. There was eventually an exchange of photographs, and finally the official applied for leave, returned home, and married his stamp collecting correspondent.

Truly the scope of the stamp collector for pleasure, for profit, and for romance is as wide as the most imaginative could desire.

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ONE of Yoga’s answers to the problems with which this chapter is concerned reads a little like black magic. Still it adds a touch of the bizarre and the exotic to this exacting science of discipline and, as with all Yoga practices, there is sound good sense behind its methods. The Indians claim that people who are afflicted with arthritis or allied complaints should keep a raw, unpeeled, winter-crop potato—yes, I did say a potato!—close to their skin day and night until the condition is relieved. It sounds a little like an old gipsy legend and as a matter of fact I did meet a gipsy some time ago who was afflicted with arthritis in the shoulders. I told him this Yoga story about keeping a potato near one’s skin and he looked at me in sheer amazement. He was completely puzzled as to how I had got hold of this old ‘gipsy’ secret, so it seems that way back in time, gipsy or Yogi, they had respect for the humble potato as a powerful cure for arthritis.

It need not be a very large potato as apparently the smaller ones work just as efficiently and I must say more conveniently. An over-large potato carried upon the person could lead to all kinds of questions and complications. The potato should be discarded when it either grows very hard like a stone or else becomes soft and wrinkled, and should be replaced by a fresh one, but make quite sure it is a winter-crop one.

You could keep it in your pocket during the day and at night slip it into the toe of an old stocking and draw the other end over your hand so that the potato does not roll away from you while you sleep. If you are married this practice could produce some hilarity from your partner but the laugh would be yours if you cured your arthritis by this unorthodox method. So bear with the jeers of your mate and try the experiment. You may be agreeably surprised.

For good measure, while you are on the potato cure, you should drink potato water, which is one of the very best alkalizing drinks and helps the system to eliminate the impurities which are to blame for your complaint. To prepare this drink, and it need not be unpalatable if you flavour it well, wash four or five fairly large potatoes but do not peel them. Put them in a saucepan with two pints of water and bring to the boil. Simmer them slowly for about an hour and then strain through a fine sieve or cloth. Drink the water first thing in the morning, at least once or twice during the day, and just before you slip your hand into that stocking with the potato in it before you hop into bed at night. If you visit your local health shop you will find all kinds of vegetable extracts and salts with which to make your potato water more drinkable.

It is also highly beneficial to arthritis sufferers to eat one or two finely grated raw potatoes, including the skin, every day. I know it sounds revolting but, added to soups, stews, salads or vegetables just before serving you would hardly know it was there! However, your system will know it is there and react “n a very favourable way. It is worth trying is it not? and I would be most interested to hear from my readers who notice an improvement in their condition through the ‘potato cure’.

But let us now turn this from a cookery book back into a book on HathaYoga! Here is an exercise known as HALAS ANA or the PLOUGH POSTURE. One of the basic Yoga asanas, it stretches the vertebrae to the maximum, and subjects the abdomen and its organs and muscles to a powerful massage. The nerve centre and cells along the spine are stimulated as they receive a richer supply of blood. By practicing this exercise your spine will gradually become more elastic and as it effects the kidneys it is a powerful way of eliminating the toxic waste that is the primary cause of arthritis and allied complaints. Waste is the foundation of all disease. It cannot flourish if the body is purified. And now for the PLOUGH POSTURE.

1. Lie down on your back, feet together and hands along your sides. Raise your legs and buttocks off the ground and as you put your hands on your hips to steady yourself push your legs over your head while keeping your knees straight. The first stage of the Plough Posture is pictured in figure 44, page 137. 2. Bend your legs backwards until your toes touch the ground. Press your chin firmly against your chest in a chin lock and place your hands, palms down, facing the opposite way to your legs. Your body now roughly resembles an old-fashioned plough. Try to increase the stretch of your spine by pushing your toes away from your head as far as you can. I have demonstrated the correct position in figure 45. Your hands may be placed in two other ways if you wish. One way is to lace them together and place them behind your head just above the neck and the other is to keep them on the hips as in stage one. Indeed this way may help you to push your body over a little more and increase the stretch of the spine.

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Preheating.--The practice of heating the metal around the weld before applying the torch flame is a desirable one for two reasons. First, it makes the whole process more economical; second, it avoids the danger of breakage through expansion and contraction of the work as it is heated and as it cools.

When it is desired to join two surfaces by welding them, it is, of course, necessary to raise the metal from the temperature of the surrounding air to its melting point, involving an increase in temperature of from one thousand to nearly three thousand degrees. To obtain this entire increase of temperature with the torch flame is very wasteful of fuel and of the operator's time. The total amount of heat necessary to put into metal is increased by the conductivity of that metal because the heat applied at the weld is carried to other parts of the piece being handled until the whole mass is considerably raised in temperature. To secure this widely distributed increase the various methods of preheating are adopted.

As to the second reason for preliminary heating. It is understood that the metal added to the joint is molten at the time it flows into place. All the metals used in welding contract as they cool and occupy a much smaller space than when molten. If additional metal is run between two adjoining surfaces which are parts of a surrounding body of cool metal, this added metal will cool while the surfaces themselves are held stationary in the position they originally occupied. The inevitable result is that the metal added will crack under the strain, or, if the weld is exceptionally strong, the main body of the work will he broken by the force of contraction. To overcome these difficulties is the second and most important reason for preheating and also for slow cooling following the completion of the weld.

There are many ways of securing this preheating. The work may be brought to a red heat in the forge if it is cast iron or steel; it may he heated in special ovens built for the purpose; it may be placed in a bed of charcoal while suitably supported; it may be heated by gas or gasoline preheating torches, and with very small work the outer flame of the welding torch automatically provides means to this end.

The temperature of the parts heated should be gradually raised in all cases, giving the entire mass of metal a chance to expand equally and to adjust itself to the strains imposed by the preheating. After the region around the weld has been brought to a proper temperature the opening to be filled is exposed so that the torch flame can reach it, while the remaining surfaces are still protected from cold air currents and from cooling through natural radiation.

One of the commonest methods and one of the best for handling work of rather large size is to place the piece to be welded on a bed of fire brick and build a loose wall around it with other fire brick placed in rows, one on top of the other, with air spaces left between adjacent bricks in each row. The space between the brick retaining wall and the work is filled with charcoal, which is lighted from below. The top opening of the temporary oven is then covered with asbestos and the fire kept up until the work has been uniformly raised in temperature to the desired point.

When much work of the same general character and size is to be handled, a permanent oven may be constructed of fire brick, leaving a large opening through the top and also through one side. Charcoal may be used in this form of oven as with the temporary arrangement, or the heat may be secured from any form of burner or torch giving a large volume of flame. In any method employing flame to do the heating, the work itself must be protected from the direct blast of the fire. Baffles of brick or metal should be placed between the mouth of the torch and the nearest surface of the work so that the flame will be deflected to either side and around the piece being heated.

The heat should be applied to bring the point of welding to the highest temperature desired and, except in the smallest work, the heat should gradually shade off from this point to the other parts of the piece. In the case of cast iron and steel the temperature at the point to be welded should be great enough to produce a dull red heat. This will make the whole operation much easier, because there will be no surrounding cool metal to reduce the temperature of the molten material from the welding rod below the point at which it will join the work. From this red heat the mass of metal should grow cooler as the distance from the weld becomes greater, so that no great strain is placed upon any one part. With work of a very irregular shape it is always best to heat the entire piece so that the strains will be so evenly distributed that they can cause no distortion or breakage under any conditions.

The melting point of the work which is being preheated should be kept in mind and care exercised not to approach it too closely. Special care is necessary with aluminum in this respect, because of its low melting temperature and the sudden weakening and flowing without warning. Workmen have carelessly overheated aluminum castings and, upon uncovering the piece to make the weld, have been astonished to find that it had disappeared. Six hundred degrees is about the safe limit for this metal. It is possible to gauge the exact temperature of the work with a pyrometer, but when this instrument cannot be procured, it might be well to secure a number of "temperature cones" from a chemical or laboratory supply house. These cones are made from material that will soften at a certain heat and in form they are long and pointed. Placed in position on the part being heated, the point may be watched, and when it bends over it is sure that the metal itself has reached a temperature considerably in excess of the temperature at which that particular cone was designed to soften.

The object in preheating the metal around the weld is to cause it to expand sufficiently to open the crack a distance equal to the contraction when cooling from the melting point. In the case of a crack running from the edge of a piece into the body or of a crack wholly within the body, it is usually satisfactory to heat the metal at each end of the opening. This will cause the whole length of the crack to open sufficiently to receive the molten material from the rod.

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There is no Scripture story better known than that of Naaman, the Syrian. It is memorable not only because artistically told, but because it is so full of human feeling and rapid incident, and so fertile in significant ideas. The little maid, whose touch set in motion this drama, is an instance of the adaptability of the Jew. Nothing seemed less likely than that this captive girl should carry with her into Syria anything of much value to anyone. Possessions she had none. Friends she might have, only if she could make them. As a captive in a foreign land she might reasonably have put aside all hope of obtaining any influence, and might naturally have sought only to benefit herself. But she was a girl with a heart. She at once took an interest in her new home, and saw with sorrowful surprise that wealth could not purchase immunity from participation in the ordinary human distresses, nor guarded gates forbid disease to pass in. Brooding from day to day over the stories she had heard of Elisha’s power, and listening to her mistress’s account of the failure of still another attempted cure, she exclaims with childlike confidence and earnestness, “Would God my lord were with the prophet that is in Samaria! then would he recover him of his leprosy.” And thus her natural interest in the troubles of other people, her cheerful and spirited acceptance of her position, and the sense that taught her to make the most of it, brought her this great opportunity of doing an important service. No one can lay the blame of his uselessness and lack of good influence on his lack of opportunity, if he is in contact with men at all, for wherever there are human beings there are sorrows to be sympathised with, wants to be relieved, characters to be fashioned.

And while this Jewish maid was utilising her captivity, her parents, if alive, would be eating their hearts out with anxiety and anguish, imagining for their daughter the worst of destinies. Instead of the horrors which usually follow such a captivity, she is cared for in a comfortable home. Little did the parents, think that there was any work to be done in Syria, which none could so well do as their little girl. The Lord had need of her, and knew that when the parents heard all they would not resent that their daughter had been thus employed. None of us see much further into the ways of Providence than those parents saw. Now, as then, those who are bound up in one another are separated, in order that ends even more important than the growth and gratification of natural affections may be attained.

Significant, also, is the dismay of Joram, King of Israel, when he received the letter bidding him find healing for Naaman. So little did he believe in Elisha’s power that he concluded the King of Syria sought to pick a quarrel with him by asking him for a favour he knew he could not grant. But while the king is helplessly tearing his clothes in a passion of despair, Elisha sends him a message which, at least for the present, gives him some calmness: “Why hast thou rent thy clothes? Let him come now to me, and he shall know that there is a prophet in Israel.” Elisha is ashamed that the King of Israel should have exhibited such weakness before a foreign potentate. He feels that the honour of Israel’s God is implicated, and boldly takes upon himself the responsibility of the cure. Bold it certainly was, and tells of a confident faith that God will be faithful to His servants. The king had no such faith. There was a power resident in Israel of which he took no account. Like many other governments, this Israelitish monarchy was unaware of its own resources, because it did not condescend to reckon what was spiritual. Frequently in civil history you find governments brought face to face with matters for which they are, with all their resources, incompetent. In modern Europe, and as much in our own country as in others, everything gives place to politics. Nothing stirs so much excitement. Differences in religion do not sever men as differences in politics do. We should, therefore, recognise what is here suggested, and should counter-balance an undue regard for political movements and political power by the remembrance that the hardest tasks of all are accomplished by quite another power, and by a power which the politician often overlooks. What have we seen time after time in our own Parliament, but the civil power rending its garments over evils which it cannot cure? Are not the remedies which have been proposed for prevalent vices absurdly incompetent? And it is the Church’s shame if she cannot step forward and confidently say, You cannot deal with such things; hand them over to me. There must always be “distempers of society” which rot the very life out of a nation, and for which legislation and criminal law are wholly inadequate. Honest-minded men who will not trifle with alarming abuses, who will not pretend they have found a remedy, must simply rend their garments in their presence. And it is well that in our day, as in others, there are men who, trusting in personal effort and Divine aid, practically say to Government, “leave these things to us.” Christian charity and practical wisdom have, in our day effected a good deal more than the healing of one leprous grandee, even if as yet the spiritual force that resides in the community is only spasmodically and partially applied to existing evil.

Elisha’s treatment of Naaman was intended to bring him into direct and conscious dependence on God; or, in other words, to produce humility and faith. Some persons are crushed and mastered by pain and sickness, and some gain in spiritual worth what they lose in physical strength. But Naaman’s disease had as yet done little to instruct him. He came as a great man, with his servants, and chariots, and piles of money, to purchase a cure from a skilled man. He did not see what Elisha plainly saw, that if this blessing came at all, it must come from Israel’s God, and that with Jehovah no man Could barter or be on bargaining terms, but must accept freely what was freely given. Therefore Elisha refuses even to see him, that Naaman might understand it was with God he had to do; and by refusing a single penny of payment he compelled the Syrian to humble himself and accept his cure as a gift.

And probably the incident finds a place in the sacred history because it marked an important step in the knowledge of God. It was an early instance of the Conquests which the God of Israel was to make among the heathen, a distinct and legible proof that whoever from among the outlying nations appealed to Him for help would receive the blessing he sought. But it was more than this, it emphasized the freeness of all God’s gifts. Nothing could be purchased from Jehovah; everything must be received as a gift. This was a new idea to the heathen, and probably to many of the Israelites also. Certainly it is an idea that is only dimly apprehended by ourselves. Our dealing with one another is to so large an extent governed by the idea that nothing can be had for nothing, that we carry this idea into our dealings with God, and expect only what we can earn and claim. It is a wholesome pride that prompts us to work at anything rather than be dependent on other men, but it is a most unwholesome and ignorant pride that forbids us to acknowledge our dependence on God, and to accept freely what He freely gives. Until we learn to live in God, to own Him as alone having life in Himself, and to accept from Him life and all that sustains it, both physical and spiritual, we are not recognising the truth and living in it. Our good deeds and good feelings, our repentances and righteous intentions and endeavours, are as much out of place as a means of procuring God’s favour and help as Naaman’s talents of silver and pieces of gold. We have God’s favour irrespective of our merit, and we must humble ourselves to accept it as His free gift, which we could not earn and have not earned.

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THE Wise homestead dated back more than a century, yet it had nothing imposing about it except its site. It was a simple, glaringly white cot-tage. There was a center front door with two win-dows on each side; there was a low slant of roof, pierced by unpicturesque dormers. On the left of the house was an ell, which had formerly been used as a shoemaker’s shop, but now served as a kitchen. In the low attic of the ell was stored the shoemaker’s bench, whereon David Wise’s grandfather had sat for nearly eighty years of working days; after him his eldest son, Daniel’s father, had occupied the same hollow seat of patient toil. Daniel had sat there for twenty-odd years, then had suddenly realized both the lack of necessity and the lack of customers, since the great shoe-plant had been built down in the vil-lage. Then Daniel had retired—although he did not use that expression. Daniel said to his friends and his niece Dora that he had “quit work.” But he told himself, without the least bitterness, that work had quit him.

After Daniel had retired, his one physiological peculiarity assumed enormous proportions. It had always been with him, but steady work had held it, to a great extent, at bay. Daniel was a moral coward before physical conditions. He was as one who suffers, not so much from agony of the flesh as from agony of the mind induced thereby. Daniel was a coward before one of the simplest, most in-evitable happenings of earthly life. He was a coward before summer heat. All winter he dreaded summer. Summer poisoned the spring for him. Only during the autumn did he experience anything of peace. Summer was then over, and between him and another summer stretched the blessed perspective of winter. Then Daniel Wise drew a long breath and looked about him, and spelled out the beauty of the earth in his simple primer of understanding. Daniel had in his garden behind the house a prolific grape-vine. He ate the grapes, full of the savor of the dead sum-mer, with the gusto of a poet who can at last enjoy triumph over his enemy.

Possibly it was the vein of poetry in Daniel which made him a coward—which made him so vulnerable. During the autumn he reveled in the tints of the landscape which his sitting-room windows com-manded. There were many maples and oaks. Day by day the roofs of the houses in the village be-came more evident, as the maples shed their crimson and gold and purple rags of summer. The oaks re-mained, great shaggy masses of dark gold and burn-ing russet; later they took on soft hues, making clearer the blue firmament between the boughs. Daniel watched the autumn trees with pure delight. “He will go to-day,” he said of a flaming maple after a night of frost which had crisped the white arches of the grass in his dooryard. All day he sat and watched the maple cast its glory, and did not bother much with his simple meals. The Wise house was erected on three terraces. Always through the dry summer the grass was burned to an ugly negation of color. Later, when rain came, the grass was a brilliant green, patched with rosy sorrel and golden stars of arnica. Then later still came the diamond brilliance of the frost. So dry were the terraces in summer-time that no flowers would flourish. When Daniel’s mother had come to the house as a bride she had planted under a window a blush-rose bush, but always the blush-roses were few and covered with insects. It was not until the autumn, when it was time for the flowers to die, that the sorrel blessing of waste lands flushed rosily and the arnica showed its stars of slender threads of gold, and there might even be a slight glimpse of purple aster and a dusty spray or two of goldenrod. Then Daniel did not shrink from the sight of the terraces. In summer-time the awful negative glare of them under the afternoon sun maddened him.

In winter he often visited his brother John in the village. He was very fond of John, and John’s wife, and their only daughter, Dora. When John died, and later his wife, he would have gone to live with Dora, but she married. Then her husband also died, and Dora took up dressmaking, supporting herself and her delicate little girl-baby. Daniel adored this child. She had been named for him, although her mother had been aghast before the propo-sition. “Name a girl Daniel, uncle!” she had cried.

“She is going to have what I own after I have done with it, anyway,” declared Daniel, gazing with awe and rapture at the tiny flannel bundle in his niece’s arms. “That won’t make any difference, but I do wish you could make up your mind to call her after me, Dora.”

Dora Lee was soft-hearted. She named her girl-baby Daniel, and called her Danny, which was not, after all, so bad, and her old uncle loved the child as if she had been his own. Little Daniel—he always called her Daniel, or, rather, “Dan’l”—was the only reason for his descending into the village on summer days when the weather was hot. Daniel, when he visited the village in summer-time, wore always a green leaf inside his hat and carried an umbrella and a palm-leaf fan. This caused the village boys to shout, “Hullo, grandma!” after him. Daniel, being a little hard of hearing, was oblivious, but he would have been in any case. His whole mind was con-centrated in getting along that dusty glare of street, stopping at the store for a paper bag of candy, and finally ending in Dora’s little dark parlor, holding his beloved namesake on his knee, watching her bliss-fully suck a barley stick while he waved his palm-leaf fan. Dora would be fitting gowns in the next room. He would hear the hum of feminine chatter over strictly feminine topics. He felt very much aloof, even while holding the little girl on his knee. Daniel had never married—had never even h ad a sweet-heart. The marriageable women he had seen had not been of the type to attract a dreamer like Daniel Wise. Many of those women thought him “a little off.”

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Setting. The story is set in a Paris atmosphere of social aspiration and discontent. The background is one of studied contrasts, contrasts between the stolid contentment of a husband and the would-be luxuriousness of a wife, between what Madame Loisel had and what she wanted, between what she was and what she thought she could be, between her brief moment of triumph and the long years of her undoing, between the trivialness of what she did and the heaviness of her punishment. These contrasts are developed not by reasoning but by action, each action plunging Madame Loisel deeper and deeper into misery. The author’s attitude toward his work forms also a part of the real background. Maupassant shows neither sympathy nor indignation. He writes as if he were the stenographer of impersonal and pitiless fate.

Plot. Madame Loisel, a poor but beautiful and ambitious woman, borrows and loses a diamond necklace valued at $7200. That, at least, is what Madame Loisel thought for ten terrible years, and that is what the reader thinks till he comes to the last words of the story. The plot belongs, therefore, to that large group known as hoax plots. In most of these stories one person plays a joke on another. In this story a grim fate is made to play the joke. In fact, the current phrase, “the irony of fate,” finds here perfect illustration. We use the expression not so much of a great misfortune as of a misfortune that seems brought about by a peculiarly malignant train of circumstances. The injury in this case not only was irremediable but turned on an accident. Notice also how Maupassant has sharpened the poignancy and bitterness of Madame Loisel’s misfortune by making it depend not only on an accident that might so easily not have happened but on a misunderstanding that might so easily have been explained. When Madame Loisel, just on the threshold of her life of drudgery, took the necklace bought on credit to Madame Forestier, the latter “did not open the case, to the relief of her friend.” The irony of fate could hardly go further; but it does go further a little later, when Madame Forestier, still young and beautiful, fails to recognize Madame Loisel because the latter had lost youth, beauty, daintiness, her very self, in toiling to pay to Madame Forestier a debt that was not a debt. Just before the final revelation Madame Loisel is made to say, “I am very glad.” There is a unique pathos in her use of this word: it lifted her a little from the ground that her fall might be all the harder.

There is no denying the art of this story, but it is art without heart. The author is a craftsman rather than a creator, a master of the loom rather than of the forge. Maupassant did perfectly what he wanted to do, but his greatness and his limitation are both revealed. “What would have happened,” he says, “if she had not lost that necklace? Who knows, who knows? How strange life is, how changeful! How little a thing is needed for us to be lost or to be saved!” The greatest art may begin but not end this way.

Characters. The man is only a foil to his wife. He is introduced to bring into sharper relief her unhappiness and her powerlessness to better her condition. He is not a bad man, nor is she a bad woman. To say that the story turns entirely on his honor and on her false pride is to miss, I think, the author’s purpose. There is nothing distinctive in these characters; he is better than she, but both are puppets in the grip of brute circumstance rather than everyday characters shaped by the ordinary pressures of life. They are not types as Rip is a type, or Scrooge, or Oakhurst. Maupassant shows in his stories that he is interested not so much in the free play or the full reaction of personality as in the enslavement of personality through passion or chance. He saw life without order because without center, without reward because without desert; and his characters are made to see it through the same lens and to experience it on the same level. They either do not react or do not react nobly. Had Madame Loisel and her husband been shaped to fit into a less mechanical scheme of things, they would have recognized in their ten years’ trial the call to something higher. They could have used their testing as a means of understanding with keener sympathy the lifelong testing of others. They could have attained a self-development that would have brought a happiness undreamed of before the fateful January 18. But this is Browning’s way, not Maupassant’s. The latter prefers to make Madame Loisel and her husband chiefly of putty so that they may illustrate the blind thrusts of accident rather than the power of personality to turn stumbling-blocks into stepping-stones.

She was one of those pretty and charming girls who, as if by a mistake of destiny, are born in a family of employees. She had no dowry, no expectations, no means of becoming known, understood, loved, wedded by any rich and distinguished man; and so she let herself be married to a petty clerk in the Bureau of Public Instruction.

She was simple in her dress because she could not be elaborate, but she was as unhappy as if she had fallen from a higher rank, for with women there is no inherited distinction of higher and lower. Their beauty, their grace, and their natural charm fill the place of birth and family. Natural delicacy, instinctive elegance, a lively wit, are the ruling forces in the social realm, and these make the daughters of the common people the equals of the finest ladies.

She suffered intensely, feeling herself born for all the refinements and luxuries of life. She suffered from the poverty of her home as she looked at the dirty walls, the worn-out chairs, the ugly curtains. All those things of which another woman of her station would have been quite unconscious tortured her and made her indignant. The sight of the country girl who was maid-of-all-work in her humble household filled her almost with desperation. She dreamed of echoing halls hung with Oriental draperies and lighted by tall bronze candelabra, while two tall footmen in knee-breeches drowsed in great armchairs by reason of the heating stove’s oppressive warmth. She dreamed of splendid parlors furnished in rare old silks, of carved cabinets loaded with priceless bric-a-brac, and of entrancing little boudoirs just right for afternoon chats with bosom friends—men famous and sought after, the envy and the desire of all the other women.

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In certain parts of the East it is the custom for a man when he is married to bring home his bride at night, and for his relatives and friends to go out with lamps and torches and music to meet him.

Ten young women had been invited to meet the bridegroom with their lamps burning and to sit down with him at the wedding-feast. Five of them were wise and five were foolish. The wise ones took a supply of oil in case their lamps should burn out before the bridegroom arrived; the foolish five took no oil but what was in their lamps. But before the bridegroom came they all fell asleep.

At midnight there was a cry, “Behold, the bridegroom cometh; go ye out to meet him.” But five lamps had almost burnt out, and the foolish virgins said unto the wise, “Give us of your oil, for our lamps are gone out.” But the wise ones answered, “Not so; lest there be not enough for us and for you. Go ye, rather, to them that sell, and buy for yourselves.” And while they went to buy, the bridegroom came, and they that were ready went in with him to the marriage-feast, and the door was shut.

Afterwards, came also the other virgins, saying, “Lord, Lord, open the door to us.” But he answered and said, “Verily I say unto you, I know you not,” and would not open the door to them.

In this parable the bridegroom means Jesus returning to earth, on the Day of Judgment. The ten virgins are the people of this world, some of whom have their hearts full of the love of God and keep their lamps burning with a steady and bright light; that is, they fulfil God’s commandments and obey the teachings of Christ. The others have not this love in their hearts, and are not prepared for Christ’s coming. Their lamps give out a feeble light and soon will go out.

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Once upon a time, there lived a very rich man, and a king besides, whose name was Midas; and he had a little daughter, whom nobody but myself ever heard of, and whose name I either never knew, or have entirely forgotten. So, because I love odd names for little girls, I choose to call her Marygold.

This King Midas was fonder of gold than of anything else in the world. He valued his royal crown chiefly because it was composed of that precious metal. If he loved anything better, or half so well, it was the one little maiden who played so merrily around her father's footstool. But the more Midas loved his daughter, the more did he desire and seek for wealth. He thought, foolish man! that the best thing he could possibly do for this dear child would be to bequeath her the immensest pile of yellow, glistening coin, that had ever been heaped together since the world was made. Thus, he gave all his thoughts and all his time to this one purpose. If ever he happened to gaze for an instant at the gold-tinted clouds of sunset, he wished that they were real gold, and that they could be squeezed safely into his strong box. When little Marygold ran to meet him, with a bunch of buttercups and dandelions, he used to say, "Poh, poh, child! If these flowers were as golden as they look, they would be worth the plucking!"

And yet, in his earlier days, before he was so entirely possessed of this insane desire for riches, King Midas had shown a great taste for flowers. He had planted a garden, in which grew the biggest and beautifullest and sweetest roses that any mortal ever saw or smelt. These roses were still growing in the garden, as large, as lovely, and as fragrant as when Midas used to pass whole hours in gazing at them, and inhaling their perfume. But now, if he looked at them at all, it was only to calculate how much the garden would be worth if each of the innumerable rose petals were a thin plate of gold. And though he once was fond of music (in spite of an idle story about his ears, which were said to resemble those of an ass), the only music for poor Midas, now, was the chink of one coin against another.

At length (as people always grow more and more foolish, unless they take care to grow wiser and wiser), Midas had got to be so exceedingly unreasonable that he could scarcely bear to see or touch any object that was not gold. He made it his custom, therefore, to pass a large portion of every day in a dark and dreary apartment, under ground, at the basement of his palace. It was here that he kept his wealth. To this dismal hole—for it was little better than a dungeon—Midas betook himself, whenever he wanted to be particularly happy. Here, after carefully locking the door, he would take a bag of gold coin, or a gold cup as big as a washbowl, or a heavy golden bar, or a peck measure of gold dust, and bring them from the obscure corners of the room into the one bright and narrow sunbeam that fell from the dungeon-like window. He valued the sunbeam for no other reason but that his treasure would not shine without its help. And then would he reckon over the coins in the bag; toss up the bar, and catch it as it came down; sift the gold dust through his fingers; look at the funny image of his own face, as reflected in the burnished circumference of the cup, and whisper to himself, "O Midas, rich King Midas, what a happy man art thou!" But it was laughable to see how the image of his face kept grinning at him, out of the polished surface of the cup. It seemed to be aware of his foolish behaviour, and to have a naughty inclination to make fun of him.

Midas called himself a happy man, but felt that he was not yet quite so happy as he might be. The very tiptop of enjoyment would never be reached, unless the whole world were to become his treasure room, and be filled with yellow metal which should be all his own.

Now, I need hardly remind such wise little people as you are, that in the old, old times, when King Midas was alive, a great many things came to pass, which we should consider wonderful if they were to happen in our own day and country. And, on the other hand, a great many things take place nowadays, which seem not only wonderful to us, but at which the people of old times would have stared their eyes out. On the whole, I regard our own times as the strangest of the two; but, however that may be, I must go on with my story.

Midas was enjoying himself in his treasure room, one day, as usual, when he perceived a shadow fall over the heaps of gold; and, looking suddenly up, what should he behold but the figure of a stranger, standing in the bright and narrow sunbeam! It was a young man, with a cheerful and ruddy face. Whether it was that the imagination of King Midas threw a yellow tinge over everything, or whatever the cause might be, he could not help fancying that the smile with which the stranger regarded him had a kind of golden radiance in it. Certainly, although his figure intercepted the sunshine, there was now a brighter gleam upon all the piled-up treasures than before. Even the remotest corners had their share of it, and were lighted up, when the stranger smiled, as with tips of flame and sparkles of fire.

As Midas knew that he had carefully turned the key in the lock, and that no mortal strength could possibly break into his treasure room, he, of course, concluded that his visitor must be something more than mortal. It is no matter about telling you who he was. In those days, when the earth was comparatively a new affair, it was supposed to be often the resort of beings endowed with supernatural power, and who used to interest themselves in the joys and sorrows of men, women, and children, half playfully and half seriously. Midas had met such beings before now, and was not sorry to meet one of them again. The stranger's aspect, indeed, was so good humoured and kindly, if not beneficent, that it would have been unreasonable to suspect him of intending any mischief. It was far more probable that he came to do Midas a favour. And what could that favour be, unless to multiply his heaps of treasure?

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Grandma Bums sat knitting busily in the sun one bright morning the week before Christmas. The snow lay deep, and the hard crust glistened like silver. All at once she heard little sighs of grief outside her door. When she opened it there sat Peter and Jimmy Rice, two very poor little boys, with their faces in their hands; and they were crying.

“My patience!” cried grandma. “What can be the matter with two bright little boys this sunny morning?”

“We don’t have no good times,” sighed little Peter.

“We can’t slide. We haven’t any sleds,” whimpered Jimmy.

“Why, of course boys can’t have a good time without sleds,” said grandma, cheerily. “Let us look about and see if we can’t find something.” And grandma’s cap-border bobbed behind barrels and boxes in the shed and all among the cobwebs in the garret; but nothing could be found suitable.

“Hum! I do believe this would do for little Pete;” and the dear old lady drew a large, pressed-tin pan off the top shelf in the pantry. A long, smooth butter-tray was found for Jimmy. Grandma shook her cap-border with laughter to see them skim over the hard crust in their queer sleds. And the boys shouted and swung their hands as they flew past the window.

“I do expect they’ll wear ‘em about through,” murmured grandma; “but boys must slide,--that’s certain.”

And the pan was scoured as bright as a new silver dollar and the red paint was all gone off the wooden tray when Peter and Jimmy brought their sleds back.

Grandma knitted faster than ever all that day, and her face was bright with smiles. She was planning something. She went to see Job Easter that night. He promised to make two small sleds for the pair of socks she was knitting.

When the sleds were finished she dyed them red and drew a yellow horse upon each one. Grandma called them horses, but no one would have suspected it. Then the night before Christmas she drew on her great socks over her shoes to keep her from slipping, put on her hood and cloak, and dragged the little sleds over to Peter and Timmy’s house.

She hitched them to the door-latch, and went home laughing all the way.