little chapel up-stairs. She was sitting before the window that looks down into the church and she got up quickly when I came in. It was dark and at first I couldn't make out her face, only a silhouette against the square of light. The candles were burning in the church below-they were always burning-and behind them I could see those fiendish pictures, their dim bodies writhing in a blur of rose and gold. "Excuse me," I said: "I didn't know anybody was here."

"That's all right!" she said, and I walked to the door with her, not knowing quite what to do. "I must go home to-morrow, Rosa," I said finally. "I've enjoyed my visit here.”

She

"Yes. I'm sure you have." stopped in the doorway. "Don't go home to-morrow. Please!"

"You don't want me to?" Then I ventured. In a way she'd made it possible. "If I went I might take my friends."

"Your friends!" I couldn't help feeling grateful at the way she spoke. "They're not yours. I" she looked down-"I don't know whose they are." "Then why don't you get rid of them?" I said. "If you don't want to, ask your father to speak to them."

"Father!" She laughed in my face. "He wouldn't do it. Father's a Spanish gentleman, Billy, if you know what that means."

"Maybe I do. But you must do something about it. Before-" Then I stopped.

"Before it's too late?"
"Exactly."

"Well- I'd never seen her mouth grow so sharp. "You're a good man, Billy. I owe you something. I know it." She put her hand on my arm-short little fingers full of courage. "I'll-" then her lip trembled and she turned away. When she looked up everything had passed, only, the pupils of her eyes were very hard and bright. "I'm afraid I'll have "I'm afraid I'll have to get them out myself, Billy," she said. More than once during the afternoon I wondered what she would do. It was evident she was going to do something. But as the hours passed, my apprehension began to subside. The details of living very soon repair the breach in that comfortable wall which hides us from the unknown.

And in the evening, sitting out on the terrace with Don Rigoberto and Doña Hermenegilda, watching their quiet faces and hearing the slow steady voice of Don Rigoberto, talking politics as if what was happening in Spain had always happened and would always happen, with the tiny night noises weaving busily through his talk, and the lights in the valley below shining contentedly, and the mountains sinking into the shadow with the peace of an immemorial habit, my fears about Rosa passed into another world, where they wandered, bodiless and unreal, mere projections of my own imagination. Now and then I wondered where Cynthia and Waring were, but no one else seemed to wonder. And toward the end of the evening Rudolf and Rosa went away so quietly that I hardly knew they had gone. After they left, Don Rigoberto and Doña Hermenegilda and I sat alone, while the talk slowly died out. Then the silence settled, closer and closer, feverish and heavy with incessant questions. And I realized that these two old people were in the presence of a phenomenon so dismaying that they could only meet it with silence.

I went up to bed very sick at heart. The whole thing was so wantonly unjust, and we were all so helpless. I'd done what I could with Waring and Cynthia and they'd have none of me. And I couldn't advise Rosa. I don't know how to fight women. No one does. I suppose if you once begin the best way is to kill them. Maybe Rosa would kill Cynthia. The idea rather pleased me. Then I got into bed hoping I could go to sleep and forget it.

The cry woke me.

The next thing was Don Rigoberto's voice in the hallway.

I jumped out of bed and opened the door. To the left, at the end of the hall, was a buttress of light. Rosa's door was open and she was standing against it, dressed. In the opposite corner was a crumpled purple figure, holding its chin and staring at Rosa.

Then Don Rigoberto's shadow blotted it out. "What does this mean?" he demanded. His profile was massive and sharp and his hair and moustache glit

he bent forward, expanded, as if he were going to plunge on the crouching figure. "It's a mistake, Don Rigoberto," came Rudolf's voice. He thrust out his head and wagged it from side to side. "She asked me

Then Don Rigoberto plunged and Rudolf squealed and went sprawling over the floor on his hands and knees. "What's all this!" Waring called out behind me, and I looked around. He was coming down the hall from the stairway with Cynthia behind him.

"I shall leave your friend to explain," said Don Rigoberto. He tottered majestically by Waring, breathing heavily, his fingers clutched in his gown. "The automobile will be ready to-morrow

here!" Rosa cried. She ran out in the hall and seized his arm. "Let him alone!" Waring dropped his arm and Rudolf began to sidle away. I'd seen enough, so I closed my door.

III

THE little sleep I had was broken early by the noise of a heavy object being carried down the hall. I looked at my watch. It was eight o'clock, and I put on my gown and opened the door. There was no one about up-stairs, so I crossed to the window that faces the road. The motor, with Pedro in it, was waiting below, and Rudolf and Cynthia were getting into the back seat.

Cynthia nodded to Antonio, who was standing just outside the doorway, and he bowed gravely. No one else was there. Then the car slipped into the sunshine and past the white houses toward the gate. Rudolf was leaning over his cane with a patch of scarlet neck bared to the sun, and Cynthia's tightly veiled head and thin shoulders were rigid above the seat. They didn't look unhappy, only a little unsociable, rather like disappointed Argonauts setting out on a new adventure. And no doubt they'd find it. I could imagine them sweeping down on an unprotected country house as the car was sweeping, now, down the hill. Only Rudolf-I was a little doubtful about Rudolf. His powers as a siren were failing lately.

After breakfast I told Don Rigoberto I was going to leave to-morrow-I didn't want to ride up in the train with Cynthia and Rudolf-then I walked off by myself down the road, wishing very much that I'd left yesterday. I disliked the idea of talking to Rosa and Waring. I knew they wouldn't spare any details. No young person does. They live in a moral Arizona and all their misty landscapes have gone. But when I did meet Waring, half an hour later, on the way back, he surprised me. For at least five minutes he talked as if nothing had happened. Then he turned on me suddenly. "I want your advice, Billy," he said.

"Yes?" With the change in his voice had come a change in his face. He was angry, now, and a little vicious. "You know Rosa asked Rudolf last night to come to her room," he said.

"She did?" Evidently he was worrying about it. I'd no idea he was so stupid. "And what about you?" I asked. "What have you been doing this last week?"

"Nothing I shouldn't have." He moved his shoulders uncomfortably, then threw back his head with defiance. "After all, sex is only an incident-a physical function."

"Quite right," I agreed. "I'm glad you're so liberal." He looked at me as if he'd fallen suddenly-didn't quite know where he was. Then the strained expression came back to his eyes. "I was talking theory," he said. "But Billy"-his face was white now and the lock of hair

had fallen over his forehead—“she asked him to come to her room last night. She said so."

"Did she? Well, ask her why." I couldn't see how he could be so blind. Then I remembered what he'd been doing himself. Poor boy! He could only catch the reflection of Rosa in his own distorted mirror. "Think it over," I said. "Rosa's made an ass of Rudolf on every occasion." "But

"That's true," he answered. women are awfully queer. She says herself"-he winced and the muscles tightened about his mouth-"that she asked him to come to her room."

"Yours too-" I suggested. Then I stopped. There was no use in going any further. I'd better let Rosa do her own explaining. "She asked him," he repeated monotonously, the way a man groans to relieve himself from pain. "I don't understand”

"You will some day," I said. "In the meantime I wouldn't worry." Looking at him I cursed Cynthia from the bottom of my heart. I wasn't at all sure he'd ever understand.

After lunch I got away as soon as I could. The house was too full of unspoken questions and the attempt at cheerfulness was ghastly. Don Rigoberto looked shattered and old with halfmoons under his eyes, and Doña Hermenegilda, the few times she spoke to me, dragged herself up as if she'd been struggling under water. And Rosa-it seems only a moment ago that I heard her step on the stairs, and saw her crossing the room.

She walked over to me-I was sitting here, as I am now. For a moment she didn't speak, just stood by me, staring out of the window. "They've gone," she said finally. "I told you they'd go this morning."

I nodded. Then I stared out of the window. I didn't want to see any more misery.

"I had to get them out, somehow," she said. "So I took the best way I could. It didn't hurt Rudolf. Nothing-" her voice sank with contempt-"nothing could hurt him."

"Probably not," I agreed. "And it worked. You got them out."

"Yes. I did. And I got myself in."

eyes blazed-"let him think-whatever he wants! God knows what I think!" She leaned against the wall. "Oh, I'm so miserable, so miserable!" she whispered. "It's a mix-up, Rosa," I said. "But I don't"-I tried to be honest-"I don't see what else you could have done."

"He thinks terrible things and I let him because" she began to sob "I think them of him. Maybe I did wrong, but I was suffering so I didn't know what to do. And I couldn't" she leaned against the wall-"I couldn't get her out. Did Waring" she tried to look at me"did Waring-tell me, Billy-did Waring love her, before he met me?"

I gave her my handkerchief and she wiped her eyes. Then she stood beside me, staring down at the sea. "I've had six months," she said. "God can never take them away from me. But"-her fingers tightened "I can't think of them because she's poisoned them. She's poisoned them. I hope"-she bent her head "she's satisfied, now."

I couldn't say anything more, and she crossed to the stairs with a broken uncertain droop as if her heels were catching in the tiles. There wasn't a word I could say, not a word. So I let her go. I think if Margaret had been alive I would have known better what to do.

JANY people seem to have a very narrow idea of what an engineer really is and what he does. They are apt to think of him simply as a man who operates an engine or some kind of machinery. While such work is a part of mechanical engineering, it is a small and only a secondary part. This concept does not include the civil engineer, the architect, and structural engineer, or even the electrical engineer. In its most complete meaning, engineering is the study of existing conditions, the planning of methods and equipment to improve those conditions or to enable them to work together for any desired result, and the management or operation of such equipment.

The standard types of engineering just named have been recognized and established for many years in all civilized countries, and colleges have long been provided and equipped to train young men in them. A kind of engineering not so well known but of very great importance, which has grown up during the past half century and become established during the past twenty years, is agricultural engineering, which is the application of the art and science of engineering to the problems of agriculture. Its object is to eliminate useless labor on the farm, to make the farm home life pleasanter, and to make the farm business more profitable.

CHARACTER AND SCOPE OF AGRICULTURAL

ENGINEERING

Many men think that the engineering work of agriculture could and should be done by civil, mechanical, and architectural engineers. However, while this idea may seem reasonable, it has not

worked out very well in the past. The engineer trained in other lines than those directly related to agriculture, seldom understands the problems of the farm or the methods of agricultural production well enough to be of much help to the farmer. His training has been, as a rule, highly specialized along lines entirely different from the rather simple, but numerous and widely varied, engineering and production problems of the farm.

The planning of the farmstead, that is, the arranging of the buildings for the greatest convenience and economy of labor, as well as the greatest comfort and beauty, requires a knowledge of farm work and living conditions which the architect trained to city-planning does not usually have. The planning of a convenient farmhouse, where the care and feeding of the farm help is a consideration of the first importance, requires a very different view-point and training from that needed for the proper planning of a city home where commercial and society relations are naturally apt to be of first importance. The planning and building of a dairy barn or a crop-storage building are very different problems than are the planning and erection of a large city office building or a commercial warehouse, and the technical training therefor should be correspondingly different.

In designing a plow bottom, a graindrill, a mower, or a threshing-machine, one deals with very different forces and conditions than must be considered in designing a weaving-loom, a sewingmachine, a power-plant, or a multiple cylinder printing-press. The farm tractor is a very different machine, both in plan and purpose, from an automobile built for pleasure and travel. The selection of the type of tractor best suited to do the work on a given type of farm, under given local conditions, is a problem in agricul