walls each year; but doubtless they impinge but lightly upon the consciousness of these myopic fellows. Each year they repeat their patterns and twice in that time their lubrications are exposed to the gaze of people who would rejoice in something that contained some spark of ecstasy.

As the weary searcher after an esthetic kick contemplates "The Goldfish Bowl," the best he can say is "what of it?" In no other branch of art is invention at so low an ebb. Woolworth buildings, Shelton hotels rise in exultant song. If America has a soul they hymn it. The Rhapsody in Blue connotes something of our national spirit. The theater lives and breathes; but a mirror held to the lips of contemporary painting would show practically no moisture. Of all the arts, that of painting enters least into the lives of the American public. Carnegie Hall and the various auditoriums are packed by lovers of music. The successful novelist sells by the hundreds of thousands. The "outline" books, those short cuts to philosophy, microbes, religion, history and human behavior in general reach amazing sales. But deep in the rutted mud of the banal sticks the old canopy-topped surrey of the painted picture.

I have delayed until this point any comment on what is called "modernity" in painting. Those who have

deserted the fringed-top vehicle have equipped themselves with strange, amorphous contraptions made up of old pieces of scrap-iron, odd chunks of cast-off machinery and held together with bits of wire and string. These ultramodern contrivances are apt to have five square wheels, an engine which runs only in reversethe noise of which can be heard for miles-mud-guards which clank and hit the road, a fish-horn and a fire chieftain's red bell. The driver stands on his head and steers with his teeth. They are all bound for the Land of Cockeye. In some cases we are told that these bizarre visions are purely cerebral-that paint is being used to transport the observer into a fourth dimension of art in an effort to push on into new fields. If it were possible to do that-if by some twentieth-century miracle our view could be suddenly extended into regions of the abstract so that a dropsical nude, whose head is an egg and whose posterior looks like a blimp and whose colors are black, poisonous green and dirty rosemadder, were to become the living symbol of some genuine emotionthen I, for one, would uncover in all humility before the innovation. As it is, only a feeling of ennui is induced, as great as that which exudes from the horsehair-covered art of the Academy-possibly greater.

M

ARY JUSTINE woke abruptly and sat straight up. What was it filled her with such bright happiness? She rubbed her eyes. A light flickered over the room from the red lamp on the cupboard. How strange everything looked! The curtains at the window were different, puffing out a bit with the cold air coming in. At the bottom of the pane the frost was an inch thick, but higher up it turned to tall castles and knights in shining armor. The yellow spinning-wheel was different, and the mound of wool beside it; the high cupboard too by which Sister stood when she related the most exciting of her stories; all were different. They were alive. They were waiting, as Mary Justine herself was waiting.

Mary Justine remembered. It was Christmas eve. It was her eighth Christmas, and she, being so old, was going to church at midnight with Sister! To go anywhere at all with Sister was an enthralling adventure, like visiting a curious new world. But to go, hand in hand, out into the dark night to discover what Mary Justine knew they would discover, and to have this big surprise as a Christmas gift for Sister!

Mary Justine had a secret, born out of the glittering stories Sister had told. It was more, really, than a

secret. It had begun as a dream, had developed into a hope which had grown to a mysterious impassioned faith. All this had come about when Sister's stories began to change, as they had, a few weeks ago, from hobgoblins and fairy princesses, from the "fair pale one who had the power to love, to be loved, and to live," and from enchanting Wish Maidensto the true, marvelous tales of the Son of Man, the Gentle One of Galilee.

The secret Mary Justine harbored in her heart which she could tell to no one for fear a word or look might dispel it, was that on this night, on this night hallowed by holy memories, she would see, she would find -the Christ Child!

21

Voices came from the other room where Father lay in the ornamented bed which was a relic of better days. Mary Justine did not understand about the "better days," nor about the "exile" which had brought them here, but she did understand why people came from far and near to talk to Father. It was because he knew everything and could tell them exactly what to do, no matter what the trouble.

His voice rang out now, cutting off Mary Justine's thoughts.

"You simply can't condemn Lydia for standing by her friend, my dear. We have our theories, and we've got to uphold them when it comes to a practical issue—”

"But Agnes is of a lower order, and not worth our daughter's sacrifice. Lydia will be sacrificed, along with her friend, to people's opinion. Just because we happen to be here, by an unjust trick of fate, is no reason she should get intimate with common people." Mother's tones were sharp. "Simplicity, naturalness, are never low, darling."

"I'll not have Lydia sticking by her. I always suspected the worst of Agnes even before she did this thing. As untamable as a wild-"

"What chance has she had, with those cackling parents-?"

"That's not Lydia's lookout!" Instantly Mary Justine's mind flew to Lydia's defense. She had to confess to herself, of course, that Sister would always need her. When she stood on the stool by the cupboard, and her eyes held that wide tranced look, she was not really there at all, but off on some miraculous journey, and Mary Justine felt at times that she too was being spun through skies, as with wings. It was dangerous; it was glorious. You might fall any minute, or you might spin on forever. What was it Sister saw when her eyes held that wide. tranced look? The look went beyond Wisconsin, that green mitten on page twenty-seven of your Joggraphy book-it went, why, it went to undiscovered lands. Sister had a key to other worlds, and Mary Justine would hang on, that was all, to bring her beloved safely back home.

Her back ridged itself against the

words in the next room. But it was Father speaking, so she settled back comfortably.

"Personally," he said, "I'm pretty damn proud of being Lydia's father. After the disappointments life offers, to find you've created, by some queer alchemy, a poet-! And with a poet's vision, she stands for the truth as she sees it. She has some fine, clear-seeing integrity of her own, higher than the black and white morality preached. A blind loyalty is not so high, but to understand, at her age, with all her lovely innocence-"

"You're talking nonsense, my dear," said Mother, in a voice through which ran a quickening sense of tenderness.

"Nonsense," he answered, laughing impishly, "is all that makes life worth living-nonsense and love."

Mary Justine could feel, though she understood not a word of his talk, the peculiar warm emphasis he put on the word "love."

"I'm proud," he continued, "that my daughter Lydia can rise to that gorgeous moment when her friend Agnes gave herself so magnificently, so inevitably-”

"Oh, for heaven's sake! That ridiculous story! A knight walks over the hills while she's picking flowers. He looks at her-speaks— they melt together—!"

"Even as Freya when she meets her Odin, and Spring reigns—” "A myth you're speaking of, that has nothing to do with life-"

"On what, then, are myths based? At least Agnes confesses to a man. Another girl would have told of sleeping potions, or said that she was raped."

Mary Justine was glad that at this

moment Sister was coming down from the attic.

Anybody could see that Sister was beautiful.

She stood now in the flickering light which made little running paths of gold across the dark red of her hair. Her wide brow dreamed above tilted gray-green eyes, her straight defiant nose lifted above a sweet pure mouth forever betraying all she felt. It was tender, even when her brow was stern; it was forgiving, even while her eyes condemned. When she spoke a cadence of song fell from her lips, and even though at times the words were strange, unwonted, Mary Justine so passionately longed to understand, that in the end she did, strangely, in some deep essence of her spirit. Mary Justine herself never could have shaped them, those beautiful singing words, but she could think them and feel them, flowing like a river of burning jewels, through her.

Into the voices coming from the other room Sister stepped with clear uplifted look.

a home farther west for the two of them. He comes back to find this has happened

"He knows Agnes," said Lydia. "He knows how she's always been. Why, at parties it was never the kissing games for her. She wouldn't soil herself by something she didn't feel, even in the spirit of fun—”

"I understand," said Father, and at this moment Mary Justine knew that he looked exactly like Sister, impish, unbowed, lifting his beautiful tired head with a look that went through you like a golden arrow. "Agnes is a passionate saint, a bright, unconscious sinner."

"No sinner at all," said Lydia. "She is herself, therefore true, therefore sinless. As a flower is sinless in unfolding. As the soil is sinless when it lies sleeping to spring to more luxuriant growth, as the earth is sinless when it opens to bring forth the deeper blossoms born of fallow death."

"Not again," Father responded. "We haven't stopped. Your mother's turning orthodox-think of that for an Ekengren! She's protecting you, darling!"

"You'll have to give her up," said Mother. "I can't hold any other view, in spite of your father's satire. Joe will be coming back now, any day. He's a fine lad. Think of his side of it-"

"Joe will understand," said Lydia quietly.

"Hah!" cried Mother. "Agnes pledges herself to him. He goes, in the manner of his brave kind, to seek

There was a pause, full of pain that was like a heavy blackness as Lydia finally responded, "It doesn't matter how Karl feels. He doesn't own my soul, nor does he have the right to tell me how, nor what, to think. And," she added, slowly, "I'm going over to Agnes's after church tonight."

"Lydia! What will people say? Already-"

"I can't be devoured by your protection, nor his." Mary Justine could feel the proud angle of Sister's head; she could feel the stern look on

her brow, the agonized trembling of her mouth. There was a stillness, followed by a quick rush as Lydia threw her arms about Mother and cried, "You precious old fraud! You'd be more ashamed than I if I were less than honest! And don't you suppose I know how you've sneaked over there to do nice things for Agnes?"

"The young are so independent these days," sighed Mother in a tone of ineffable pride. "Karl will be here now, any minute. Get yourself and the little one ready for church. Dress Mary Justine warmly, it must be forty below. Tell any one who asks that your father's condition kept us both at home."

"Do!" said Father, and Mary Justine got the impression of lifted, wicked eyebrows.

Now they were on the path, plowing through the heavy snow. Sister had dressed her in the new plaid linsey-woolsey dress and the knitted white stockings. During this, instead of the whispered confidences Mary Justine had certainly expected, Sister had remained aloof, in an impenetrable silence she could not enter. And here against the words, almost bitter, cold as the night itself, which came back at her from Lydia and Karl, her own imaginings stood rich.

She would not permit the dim sense of disappointment which had begun to creep into the adventure. Nothing could take from her the hope that had lain, white and pure and strong, in her heart these many weeks that to-night, to-night she would see the Holy Child

This hill which she was now climbing was not the hill behind her home,

but a hill in far-away Judea, a frozen hill which led to a lowly stable. And there were three figures ahead of her instead of two, and there was a star leading. Oh, if she had but gifts to offer, frankincense and myrrh, to show him that next to Sister and next to Father she loved him best out of all the world! There was a special kinship between her and the Gentle One, for when he'd grown to manhood he had spoken truths for which he had suffered, even as had Father, in the land from whence they'd come, even as did Father, in the new land to which they'd flown.

Brave flowing words were suddenly called to her mind from Lydia as she stood by the high cupboard. "And God revealed to Joseph in a dream that each child born into the world is a child of God . . . a child of love."

The night wrapped itself about her in a cape of magic white.

The only trouble was that Sister and Karl had such long legs and hers were short and fat, and wouldn't go so far with each step. They seemed to have forgotten her altogether. She had almost to run, which wasn't nice at all, for it made it difficult for her to live the glowing scenes. And also this talk ahead was not in keeping with the night, and she had to turn her eyes to the lantern at Karl's side instead of watching the star overhead, pointing the way—

"Your mother's right, you know, sweet," Karl said over and over. “I realize how innocent it is of you to want to stand by Agnes-"

"It's not innocent of me," came Lydia's voice, changed from its muted music to stiff formal tones.