that lonely boy, shut in his garret, with only a tinseled box to hold fast to, how had he lived through that black flood? How had he fought his way through? "A year or so after, I broke my leg. It was a bad smash. I was laid up three months. All that time I lay there and read and read. I paid a boy to bring me books of plays from the penny library, and I gobbled them all. I sketched out some plays of my own, too. When I got up, I was lame. I could n't get my place back at the Empire. At last, when I was quite at the end of my rope, the fancy struck me that I might do something with my plays.

"Yes, it seems as if I must have been light-headed; but I went about it as coolly as you like. I took four of them, and went straight to Mr. Delaroche, at the Brunswick. I had to break my way in, but I got in, mind that. You 've seen him? A big man, with thick, fair hair, heavy eyelids, and a thrust jaw, like a pugilist. He looked at me as if I'd been a fly on the wall. Then he took the plays, and he read one through as you'd read the head-lines on one of your newspapers. Then he looked at me again, like I was n't more than half there. I was n't, either. The life was nigh frightened out of me.

"I'll take this matter up with you later in the week,' he said. 'I want an option on these. Have you written any

more?'

"A goods-box full,' said I.

"Go home and fetch them. This for the option.' He tossed a bit of paper into my hands. When I got outside, I unfolded it. There were ten five-pound notes screwed together. He'd not even asked for a receipt. That's Mr. Delaroche.

"After that-oh, there 's no more to tell. I've worked with Mr. Delaroche ever since, but our great successes have been the stories that Lucie and I wrote together, 'White Shamrock' and 'The Princess Wakens.' Here, let's do the princess now."

Once more the protean shoe-box changed its guise. Now it was a green bower in a green glen. Within, the princess slept on her rude couch of lilacboughs. Down the glen, singing like a mavis at the dawn, rode the boy minstrel, his young face glowing in the wind, his young voice calling.

"He made a shadow-princess for the baby, too," I said, "just with his fingers, on the wall."

"He? Who?"

I stared back at Sir Christopher's questioning face. My stupid old wits went groping, groping.

"The old gentleman who made the shadow-pictures-for my baby," I stammered, clutching for that memory. But again, as swift as a flying shadow, it slipped my grasp. "I don't know when it was or where. If only-"

Then crashing through those mists of recollection came the roar of a racing engine, the rush of wheels.

"O Mother! At last! When we 've been hunting you all over Westchester County!"

The spell was shattered. The hour fell in crystal fragments.

I sprang up, tumbling princess and minstrel and bower into a heap. Bewildered, my eyes still hazy with dreams, I met Gwendolen's accusing face. Past her, the eight heaven-born occupants of the pall-bearers' carriage looked on in courteous amaze. I shriveled miserably. Here

I sat, not on a tropic island, not in a leafy Trossachs glen, but flat on the dusty porch floor of a dusty modern cottage, my frilled bonnet awry, my lap full of absurd toys, and a grimy baby clinging to my neck, and already drawing deep, ominous breaths of preparation. Well, one comfort: the foremost English dramatist was sitting flat on that porch floor, too, and looking even more sheepish than I felt.

"That stupid new chauffeur! He sent us up the wrong cross-roads. But, Mother dear, what have you been doing?" She pounced upon the scissors, still in my guilty hands.

"Sir Christopher and I have been amusing this baby,' " said I, serenely. 'Sir Christopher has showed us how he mounts his plays."

"Oh." That sigh of relief spoke volumes. If only her eminent guest had diverted himself, it mattered not how, even if he 'd been reduced to building a doll'shouse for a childish old lady and a grubby small boy. "I'm sorry to spoil the fun, but-"

I looked at my fellow-magician. There was regret in his eye.

"Cockcrow. Time to break the en

chantment," said I, sadly. I kissed our little dimpled host, and tucked him inside the screen door, with all the paper dragons to keep him company, and so we went away.

Despite the warring fates, both luncheons were triumphantly successful. So was Sir Christopher's speech, Gwen said. I heard very little of it, though, for I was n't really listening. I was looking past that calm, distinguished presence away down the years. I could see the little motherless, neglected tad crying his papers down the wintry streets; then the two children, comrades and sweethearts, sitting breathless before the wonders of the first play; then the boy, hardly grown, taking upon his shoulders the care of the frail young wife; the long hours of work; the short treasured minutes when they wrote together, and toiled upon their plays; the tragedy of it all, the unfathomable pity. Then, like a picture blotted from a screen, it all fled. Again, for the thousandth time, I was striving to see my own picture, my own memory, that always fled my search. Only the one tiny glimpse stayed fast-the figure of the old man sitting always by the dull wall; on his knee the sleepy, happy child, who watched always the old man's sinewy hands as they bent and wound, painting those romping shadow-pictures on the wall. This could I see, no more. And the mystery of it irked me and teased me and flouted me. When? Where? Where?

"You look a little tired, Mother," said Gwendolen. "It has been a full day for you."

"Yes," I agreed, "it has been a full day, but it was worth it."

Peter took me home, and stayed to dinner. For all his mischief, Peter is the most companionable child I ever had. He's exactly like Frederic used to be. You never need explain things to him. He always understands.

After dinner we sat out on the little balcony. Peter smoked contentedly. I sat looking down the long, dusk, sparkling avenue. If my old eyes could have pierced the twilight, they would have seen, rising dark among those white fires, the great, grave statue that towers above its bench at Madison Square; the tall, erect figure, the grave, steadfast old face,

that peers forever to the west, my own particular hero.

"I say, Granny,"-Peter roused from a long silence,-"when I saw you towing your celebrity around to-day, I wondered. Surely, in your long life, you must have known a lot of grand and famous folk."

That question! It was the open sesame. As if Peter's words had drawn a curtain, I stared upon the full vision. Now I knew. The old grave, gentle face, the stooped figure, the strong old hands that braced the little child so securely, yet contrived to keep those entrancing shadowpictures forever frolicking on the wall! How could I forget?

"Peter, there's a story that I've wanted to tell you this long time, though I don't want to bore you, dear." "Fire away, Granny."

"We 'd traveled since sunrise, twelve miles by stage, then a long day on the cars. The children were tired out and scared and miserable. I was pretty tired, and frightened, too, for I 'd never gone anywhere alone before. We reached Missoula Junction-it's a jumping-off place -at six that night. There I found that we must wait till five the next morning. There was no hotel, so we must stay in the depot."

"You poor little duck! Wish I'd been on hand to look after you."

"I wish so, too, Peter," I began. Then the absurdity of it struck me, for Peter would never have seen us. Peter, the lordly young plutocrat, would have had no eyes for the thin, scared girl in rusty black, her arms heaped with bundles, her fretful brood clinging to her lank skirts. He would n't have known his own father even, for nowadays Charles Edward is tall and gray and taciturn, and a bit ironic around the edges. Then he was a curlyheaded, apple-cheeked little chub, and he wore a short-waisted green-calico dress, made out of one of my old gowns, and rather painfully skimped over his fat little

chest, where the goods ran short, and he was cindery from the long, hard trip, and, I fear, decidedly crumby from the ginger cookies that were all the lunch they 'd had, poor babies. No, he was n't what Peter, that sumptuous young snob, would choose to-day for a progenitor, although to my eyes he was a mighty satisfactory descendant.

"When I found we could n't get a train till morning, I did n't know which way to turn. I sat down and tried to pacify the children. They were cold and cross, and hungry, too, poor lambs!"

"Hungry! Good Lord! Ugh, it makes me sick to think of your bucking all that, Granny. Was n't there a tea-room somewhere?"

"Tea-rooms did n't flourish on the Kansas prairie forty years ago, Peter."

That was sneaking, and I knew it. There was a lunch-counter right in the station, and the smell of hot food tantalized us with every whiff; but I could n't tell Peter that I dared not spend the money. It had taken almost all I had to buy our tickets back home.

"I was afraid to stay there the night, so I went and asked the station-agent what to do. He-he was n't uncivil, exactly; but if I'd been afraid before, I was wild with terror now."

"The hound! Would n't I like to give him his!" Peter's huge fists clinched. His breath came hard.

"I went back to the children. They were crying now, and I could n't stop them. Maybe I was so panic-smitten I did n't half try. But presently an old man came across the waiting-room. He stooped and touched my arm. It's forty years and more, Peter, but I can see him as clear as daylight. He was a sober, precise old gentleman, dressed in fine oldfashioned broadcloth and linen. He spoke gently, but in a deep, authoritative voice.

'You are coming with me, Madam,' he said. 'You and your children will do me the honor to sup with me.'

"He led us over to the lunch-counter before I could speak. He-"

"Aha, Granny! Did n't you just tell me that there was n't a tea-room in sight?"

I gasped.

"Well, Peter! A lunch-counter is not a tea-room. A lady, unattended-"

"Um, I see, Granny." Peter's arm shut over my shoulders with a hard grip. Sometimes Peter understands just a little too well.

"He hoisted the children on the high stools, and tied napkins around their necks, and fed Barbara her bread and milk, as if he 'd never done anything else," I hurried on. "At first I could n't eat, but he made me swallow some hot tea, then he coaxed the food down by morsels. He was as tender as my own father, yet I had to obey him. I could n't resist.

"Then he took us back to the warm corner by the box stove. He laid his great-coat on a bench, and put me on it, with my jacket for a pillow.

"'Go to sleep,' he said. 'I must wait till morning for my train. I'll take care of the children.'

"I'd like to give him his, too," said Peter, with a heartfelt sigh.

"I had n't the sense to thank him. I was as drowsy and as contented as little sleepy Barbara on his knee. Norton and Charles Edward had already cuddled down on my old shawl, like two blissful, stuffed puppies. 'Most all that I remember of that night is the warmth and comfort of that great, soft coat wrapped round my aching body, the warmth and comfort of that old, grave, watching presence that sat beside me. But once I heard an excited little crow from Barbara, and I pinched myself awake to see what the old man might be doing.

"He sat with Barby tucked into the crook of his arm. Both hands were free, and with both hands he was making shadow-pictures for her on the whitewashed wall-such shadow-pictures as you 've never seen, Peter, my poor child. Knights and kings and princesses; clowns and pixies and rabbit-dancers-oh, how often I 've wished that I 'd kept on pinching and lain awake to see! But the next thing I knew, the old gentleman was shaking me gently awake. It was almost daybreak. In the dim light the old man looked gray and haggard. Sitting there, hour after hour, holding sleeping little Barbara, he must have been cramped and Ichilled to the bone.

"'Your train is in, Madam. I will put you aboard.'

"He gathered up the little boys and

hurried us to the platform. I was still dulled with sleep. I could n't think or speak. But at the door Barby began to wail: 'I want a dwink! I want a dwink!'

"I'll get it for her. Go on,' he said. He carried the imperious little thing back to the water-cooler, and stood holding her while she drank at her ease. Just then a man came shouldering up. He was a big, bronzed fellow with a rolling gait. He stopped and stared at the old man, then he snatched off his cap and saluted.

"'I did n't know 's you were in this part of the country, Admiral, sir,' he said very respectfully. Then he saluted again, and hurried away.

"Well, Granny, you 've got me guessing for sure. Who was your elderly cavalier? Hurry and tell."

"Peter, you'll think I was a perfect dolt, but I was so sleepy, so stupid! And the train was jarring under my feet as he put Barbara into my arms. I had just wits enough to put out my hand and say, 'Whom may I thank?" "

"Well?"

"Well, the old gentleman hesitated. He flushed a little in a queer, shy, boyish way; then in his deep, quiet voice he said, 'My name is Farragut.'

"Farragut! O Granny! O Granny, can you beat it! Was it Farragut, honest-true? O Jumping Jupiter! Why was n't I there!

"Go on, Granny. In mercy's name, get the agony over. Surely you asked him for his autograph? Surely you had presence of mind to snip off a coat-tail for me?"

"Peter, I had no mind left, I tell you. I was so tired that the name carried no meaning. It went right through my empty head.

""Then thank you, Mr. Farragut,' I said. He lifted his hat, smiling. I mind that he still held the battered old depot tin cup in his hand.

"By, Mr. Farragut!' cooed Barbara. She blew him a moisty kiss. Our train moved out. That, Peter, is the end of the tale."

There was a pause.

tools, Peter, there's one more statue would stand in this city."

"You'd need a good husky pull with the art commission, too, Granny."

I ignored this unfilial comment, and

went on.

"But it would n't be the statue of a magnificent navy officer in sword and uniform. It would be the statue of an old man, a very tired old man' in citizen's clothes, with a grave, kind, watching face. He 'd stand there, holding a little clinging child. He 'd be giving it to drink-"

"Giving cold water to a thirsty child. I see, Granny. And out of an unsanctified depot tin cup." There was a funny little catch in Peter's voice. "There's your realism all right; and your romance, too. Wads of it. I'll bet you 've got that statue graved on your heart, Granny, if you can never carve it with your ridiculous little hands."

He stared down the avenue as if his eagle young eyes could pierce those miles of jeweled darkness. I watched him, and I waited. At last he turned to me again. There was a curious wonder in his eyes.

"Say, Granny, can you beat it! Look at those two men, Farragut and Sir Christopher. Different? As day from night. One was a gentleman born, the other a little cockney waif, fighting for his life in a London slum. Farragut spent his whole life in living gorgeous deeds. Sir Christopher has never lived at all. He 's painted life for other folks to look at. Farragut would n't have known a backdrop from a bushel-basket. Sir Christopher would pat a torpedo on the head if he met it in the street. Yet when you get down to the real stuff, the vital fiber, why, they 're as like as two peas. Quiet and simple and tender, eager to serve those who are in need, glad to give happiness to little children-say, Granny, what is a genius, anyway? When you try 'em out, they 're nothing so amazing. A size bigger than we are, maybe. A bit quicker to see and to do and to give; but they 're just as human as we are, every time. A lot more human at that."

"Probably that 's why they're ge

TH

HE United States contains the best and the worst prisons in the world. The best, though excellently managed and with admirable physical equipment, are handicapped by our collective social ignorance of the criminal, which is mired in fear. The worst are horrible in equipment, brutal in management, and exist in a morass of social terror. We are only at the dawn of the new era; noon, though inevitable, is yet to come.

First, let us glance at the darkest night. Take Richmond, Texas. This is not Calcutta, June 20, 1756, when 123 Englishmen perished in a single night in the terrible Black Hole. It is the United States of America, September, 1913.

One Saturday evening, as the other convicts were going to their cells at the end of a week's work, twelve men were locked in the "dark cell" at Richmond. They were negroes; they were convicts; each had broken a prison rule. Still, they were human beings.

This modern "Black Hole" was underground; it measured eight by ten by seven feet, thus containing 560 cubic feet of air, while the best prison cells now are required to contain at least 800 cubic feet of air-space for each prisoner. In the ceiling were sixteen half-inch holes to let out the foul air. In the floor were four tiny vent-pipes connecting with the outer world.

In placing his prisoners in this "dark cell," it was the purpose of the warden to terrorize them, and thus break resistance. So light was cut off at every angle. In doing this, the floor ventilation stopped, probably unintentionally. Sixteen hours after the cell was locked, it was opened, on Sunday morning. Eight of the men were dead, and the other four dying.

was

This shocked every one, even the warden. Certain newspapers dwelt feverishly on the incident, craving political capital. The opposition papers ignored it. Most people saw nothing to condone, yet some

glossed it over by saying: "Anyway, they were only niggers. It will be a lesson for the others."

The sincere apologists, however, had what appeared to be a convincing argument. They explained that since the "bat" (flogging-whip) had been eliminated from Texas prisons a few years before, the only drastic mode of punishment left a warden was the "dark cell." They declared that the negro criminal was more difficult to deal with than any other kind, that he was less amenable to reason or restraint, and that he could be reached only through his epidermis or his primitive imagination, which recoiled at the dark. "Restore the bat," became their shibboleth.

But Texas had traveled too far on the road to return to the bat, despite the fact that the leading factions in the State seem to be spending their time arguing whether or not it is necessary to preserve discipline by returning to that archaic instrument of discipline.

Meanwhile the fundamental causes of the conditions in the Richmond prison that produce the mental attitude in a convict which makes necessary either a dark cell or a bat are ignored. Many persons think that a prison in which the bat is not used is necessarily humane. And when they are told that the dark cell has been abolished, they proceed immediately to forget about the convict, thinking that his condition is as near ideal as could be expected-for a convict.

At this precise point more than half our state prisons are languishing in the doldrums of reformation. From most of them the old and revolting forms of brutality have been stripped, but nothing has been devised to take their places. The whipping-post, the leg-irons, the mugging penalties are abolished. The convict immediately, with sly glee, notes his immunity from severe punishment, and dares to go to lengths he never would have dreamed of in the old brutal days. Where