VIEW IN THE COURTYARD OF THE WARTBURG BEFORE ITS
RESTORATION IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY

The room which is to-day shown as Luther's workroom, where, supposedly,
he translated the New Testament, is in the large gable end and
is lighted partly by the lower of the two windows.

CHAVEZ

BY MILDRED MCNEAL SWEENEY

(Georges Chavez, after crossing the Alps in his aëroplane, fell and was killed Sept. 23, 1910.)

And so lies down, in slumber lapped for aye.
Diana, passing, found his youth too fair,

His soul too fleet and willing to obey.

She swung her golden moon before his eyes-
Dreaming he rose to follow-and ran-and was away.

His foot was wingèd as the mounting sun.

Earth he disdained-the dusty ways of men
Not yet had learned. His spirit longed to run

With the bright clouds, his brothers, to answer when
The airs were fleetest and could give him hand

Into the starry fields beyond our plodding ken.

All wittingly that glorious way he chose,

And loved the peril when it was most bright.

He tried anew the long forbidden snows

And like an eagle topped the dropping height
Of Nagenhorn, and still toward Italy

Past peak and cliff pressed on, in glad, unerring flight.

Oh when the bird lies low with golden wing
Bruised past healing by some bitter chance,
Still must its tireless spirit mount and sing

Of meadows green with morning, of the dance
On windy trees, the darting flight away,

And of that last, most blue, triumphant downward glance.

So murmuring of the snow: "The snow, and more,
O God, more snow!" on that last field he lay.
Despair and wonder spent their passionate store
In his great heart, through heaven gone astray,
And early lost. Too far the golden moon

Had swung upon that bright, that long, untraversed way.

Now to lie ended on the murmuring plain

Ah, this for his bold heart was not the loss,

But that those windy fields he ne'er again.

Might try, nor fleet and shimmering mountains cross,
Unfollowed, by a path none other knew:

His bitter woe had here its deep and piteous cause.

Dear toils of youth unfinished! And songs unwritten left
By young and passionate hearts! O melodies

Unheard, whereof we ever stand bereft!

Clear-singing Schubert, boyish Keats-with these
He roams henceforth, one with the starry band,
Still paying to fairy call and far command

His spirit heed, still winged with golden prophecies.

BELOVED

THIS BEING THE STORY OF THE SCHISM
AT THE LITTLE STONE CHURCH

BY EMERSON HOUGH

Author of "Heart's Desire," "The Singing Mouse Stories," etc.

WITH PICTURES BY F. C. YOHN

"Is Mary Alice. She paused

S thee ready, Cousin Mar' Ellen?"

for a moment at the door of a little house the brick front of which was well-nigh covered with morning-glories, and the short, straight walk of which gave directly upon the single street of Warrenford. "It is almost time, thee knows."

A gentle voice replied from somewhere among the morning-glories. A small bird chirped sweetly in its cage at the window, and a big bee buzzed almost as loudly among the phlox which grew along the brick walk. Such always were almost the only sounds on the single street of Warrenford on a day like this. The summits of the Blue Ridge seemed more than ever softened to-day, the wavering light of the kindly summer day tempered by some quality which left the landscape more than usually tender. All the world was gentle and quiet here. Rather, the world itself had passed by long ago, and left this little spot to tell, to such few as chanced or cared to see it, of another and different day, albeit also one of rest and quiet. Nothing but peace and calm had been known here from the old times of Lord Fairfax up to the days of the Civil War. Since that upheaval, some of the younger men of Warrenford had passed away beyond the mountains in search of other homes; but Warrenford itself, quaint and wholly old-fashioned, remained but little changed. Its one winding street still crawled at the edge of the hills; its bright and shallow stream still crossed the street as of old, unbridged; the old mill-wheel

hung silent, as it had for years. The names
on the chance signs here and there were
those known for a century or more. The
garb of the two old ladies who now passed
down Cousin Mary Ellen's brick walk to
the little front gate was one that had re-
mained unchanged in cut or color for a
century or more. It was that once most
commonly seen hereabout, the dull-col-
ored habit of the Society of Friends,
shaped
shaped as their mothers and grandmothers
had worn it.

They made a quaint and unworldly picture, these two, as they stepped out upon the shaded street. They walked slowly, gently, fitting perfectly into the quiet picture which lay about them. At the postoffice, far behind them up the street, there might have been half a dozen village loiterers, but on the street itself there was no commerce. If a slow figure passed here or there, it was that of an old man or old woman. Youth had almost wholly departed from the place.

"I hope that Lucy Maxwell will be ready, as thee always is, Cousin Mar' Ellen," commented Aunt Mary Alice, presently. "Tch! tch! It is not seemly to be late at the meeting-house. Does it seem to thee, Cousin Mar' Ellen, that it is harder to be prompt now than once it was?"

"But Lucy Maxwell is younger than we are, Aunt Mar' Alice," rejoined her companion, "and thee knows she is mostly very punctual."

When they arrived at the home of Miss Lucy Maxwell, the latter was dis