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is as bright as an army with banners. There is something martial and terrible about it—it seems to move right over one, as if it had orders to prepare for a vast battle of the elements. I believe there 'll be a tremendous easterly storm to-morrow. I always know before the weather bureau does when an easterly is on the way. Perhaps I may come to my senses out in the garden.

It is twelve o'clock—it is, to be precise, half-past twelve o'clock.

I did come to my senses out in the garden—or I lost them forever, and the terrible thing is that I cannot tell which.

For Job and I went out into the garden, and the world was as white as death, and as warm as life, and we plunged into the night as if we plunged into a bath of warmth and whiteness—and I ran faster than Job. The yellow June lilies are out, and the purple fleurs-de-lis; the white climber is in blossom on the tree-house, and the other roses—oh, the roses! There was such a scent of everything in one—a lily-honey-iris-rose perfume—that I felt drowned in it, as if I had been one flower trying to become another, or doomed to become others still. It was as quiet as paradise. I ran up the steps to