She didn't care that was it. Not a placid, indifferent creature like that. And Kingsley had murmured: "Judith needs me!"

Elaine cared, and decided quickly. She left her room and went above, to Judith, on deck.

It was nearly dark and the lights of Minbu village were quivering gold on the surface of the river.

"Pardon me—is this Mrs. Kingsley?" Judith turned with something near surprise for Judith. "Why, yes! However did you know?"

"I heard you tell the captain. You may think it strange, my coming to you like this, but I-I know Mr. Kingsley." "Yes?" with beautiful indifference. "Yes. We-we came up on the same boat, from Rangoon."

"You don't mean Mr. Morgan Kingsley?"

"Yes."

She

Judith looked really amazed. placed one perfect hand on Elaine's arm. "When?" she asked. "Not recently?" "Day before yesterday, Mrs. Kingsley. I left at Mandalay. He went on to Bhamo. Surely, you knew that"

"You must be mistaken!" incredulously. "Mr. Kingsley has fever. He's forbidden to leave Rangoon. I'm going there now, to join him. You are mistaken; now, aren't you?"

Something impish here made Elaine recall that her closest friend was blonde. She wondered how she had ever tolerated it.

Firmly: "I'm not mistaken, Mrs. Kingsley. He's on the Bhamo boat now. He's very sick-very."

Judith did not question any more, but stared across the river, her lips compressed. To herself: "Foolish boy! He would do a thing like that!"

When she turned to face Elaine again she met serious, questioning eyes. Neither spoke for a moment, then:

"I said he was very sick, Mrs. Kingsley."

"He shouldn't have gone, really. He shouldn't, you know," mused Judith.

"But he has. He'll be alone in Bhamo.' Then, calmly: "What will you do about it, Mrs. Kingsley?"

Judith later marvelled that she had not

even questioned this impertinence. Instead, she looked up the black band of river, and said slowly: "What can I do, really?"

Excitement little concealed, Elaine spoke quickly.

"You can cross to Magwe to-night. The captain will arrange it safely. You can get a boat for Bhamo to-morrow!"

Judith's eyes opened more beautifully wide. "Really!" she said. "To Magwe, in the dark, and wait there until tomorrow. I don't think you've ever been ashore at a place like Magwe. It's a bit hysterical, don't you think?"

Elaine spoke: "Mrs. Kingsley, I've told you that Mr. Kingsley needs you. He needs you this very minute. If you're afraid to go to Magwe alone, I'll go with you."

Judith was convinced. Before turning away to seek the captain, however, she looked in Elaine's face just a moment; and Elaine saw the shadow of a strange smile play about one corner of Judith's mouth. Judith was a woman, too.

She was gone, and Elaine was ready for sleep. She prayed: "Lord, take her safely to Magwe. Protect her and take her quickly to Bhamo. He needs her. Make her-make her be kindly. And make him well-and happy."

VI

IF London had promised forgetfulness of Burma and Kingsley, it did not keep that promise. The anodyne of friends at tea, friends for dinner, theatres and opera is not infallible. Each opera was now the tragic story of her own romance, embellished or attenuated, but still her story. And music does not always palliate longings.

After a week of it she said she was ready to go home. Yet she wanted to stay on-as though waiting for something. She left the date of sailing to her father. Alternately she hoped it would be at once, then hoped they might stay on for weeks. Waiting. But for what?

When she was alone-retiring, for instance-her thoughts ran rampant and wild over Burma. Of course (she told herself) she was not in love with married Kingsley. Before she had known he was

married-well-oh, why was he married! She actually thought she was the only woman in the world who asked this about

a man.

She compared with Kingsley constantly the men of London and New York, so well known to her. The result of the comparison was to resign herself to a celibate existence, chiefly interested in charities. The worthy poor would fill her life.

"Idiot!" into her mirror-and went to sleep.

Time was passing, and Elaine guessed the end of this matter-plain oblivion of forgetting. New dreams for old. But there were things she wanted to remember. She cherished the Burma moon that rose that night, back of Magwe. She still heard him murmur her name, in that first hour back on the ship. But an idol's marriage damps things, though through this resignation of twenty-four years hope sprang afresh with each new day. Still waiting-but for what?

Fate was working furiously and fast, but silently unknown to Elaine. Fate was racing things one morning when she awoke to see a not uncommon downpour drenching London streets and windows, but it was like any other rainy morning to Elaine.

Until noon she wrote letters. Mr. Brandon had said he thought he "might put through a deal" while in London and had left the hotel in that mysterious fervor of the male-the business hunt.

Elaine dressed for the afternoon. The rain-Fate's rain-was untiring. She posted her letters and took a taxi, bound for a matinée. She discovered that she had forgotten gloves, and ordered the chauffeur to pull over to a shop and wait. Dodging past scurrying, wet people, she entered the store, purchased the gloves, and returned to the doorway. There she stood a moment, then dashed to the cab, through the downpour. "His Majesty's "His Majesty's Theatre" she told the driver. But a voice, somewhere, commanded sharply: "The Ritz, driver!"

Amazed, she turned to face a huge umbrella blocking the doorway of the cab. It was being folded and thrust drippingly into the car. It was followed by a man

who sat beside her unceremoniously and slammed the door. He turned an embarrassed smile toward her and said simply: "Well, I found you."

If Elaine had words, she could not utter them. She just stared at Kingsley. Calmly, as though he'd been with her for hours, he said:

"You might have let a fellow know where you'd be! I've been looking for you for days! Wouldn't have found you at all if it hadn't been for needing an umbrella. Saw you leaving the shop there. Devilish rain! Lucky rain!" he laughed. "Are you are you all well again?" “Just about. The doctor says I had a close go of it. Of course, you saved me, you know. It was you, absolutely." "What made you look me up?" "Judith told me

"Oh

"You were a bit hard on Judith, really." "Is Mrs. Kingsley in town, too?" "She's in Ostend now, with the family." Elaine turned her attention to the dripping shops and hurrying people. She did not want to look at Kingsley. She wished she might be alone again. Why had he come to-but he was speaking again, very close to her now:

"My dear," he said, "my brother died in Bhamo eight weeks ago. He got into some rotten trouble just before. We're not very proud of it-the family. His last letter was a request to me to go to Bhamo and shape things up a bit if I could. It was tough all around, and nothing to do but go. You see, Judith was pretty hard hit, being his widow."

Elaine heard this as one hears things in a dream. She gave no sign, but stared at the splashing cabs and horses.

"Judith knew I'd a touch of fever and didn't expect me. She started homethat's how you met her." He paused, word-conscious. "Elaine, I-I was in an awful funk when you met me .. my brother's affairs, his death Judith . . . fever . . . everything. I just didn't care a polite damn."

"Mrs. Kingsley must have thought me a fool-on the boat."

"She did have a little laugh at you, dear."

Still looking away: "You shouldn't be out in this rain, you know."

"I'm fit as a fiddler's pony! Look at

me, won't you?"

She turned. He did look very different from the man she had left on the Chindwin. She felt rather proud that he was handsome. He was newly shaved. She noticed a bit of powder over one ear, and had an annoying, wifely desire to smooth it away. Then her eyes strayed to his, and lingered there. The cab was bumping and splashing toward the Ritz.

"Oh, my dear," he said, "I've wanted

you so!"
"I've wanted you!"

The Ritz-and she brushed away the powder over his ear with her handkerchief, just as they started lunch.

The rain had served its mission and the afternoon was fair. Mr. Brandon had the pleasure of snapping a picture, in Hyde Park, of a tall, fine chap. She wanted to send it home to certain people.

O much has been said of our foreign-born child -and of the children of the foreign-bornin their relationship to the public library, that I wonder if there can be any space at all left in our magazines for that other very large and uninteresting group-those who are just plain Americans. I do not even refer to old-stock Americans, but to the ones whose grandfathers, in the years before our war with Spain drew us into the whirlpool of nations, migrated to this country, bringing with them families of quaint little boys and girls, who were to become the parents of the present generation; grandfathers who came to our shores, not so much driven by persecution, as led by golden dreams of great things which were to be gained in this still-new land, with its Aladdin-like cities and boundless, beckoning prairies. In their vision they saw their children growing to manhood in a Utopia over the seas; educated in its common schools and universities; taking their places among the leaders and moulders of the nation, under a flag which would permit them to retain some of the old and incorporate it with the new.

Those children, with ever-dimming memories of their journey over tossing seas, have grown to manhood, absorbing the dreams of their fathers and becoming

a part of the miracle land, speaking its language, saluting its flag, and yet in the twilight hour telling their childrenAmerican children, American born and schooled and bred-traditions and legends of the country of their childhood.

But the grandchildren it is with whom we are concerned. Surely they can be of no great interest-they haven't so much as a hyphen any more. They are neither the one thing nor the other. They do not belong to our "old families"; their ancestors quite possibly did not know of the Declaration of Independence until it had grown dim with years. Nor has the new land in most cases fulfilled the fathers' dream of wealth and eminence; indeed, more often it seems to have brought them but a continuance of the poverty-ridden conditions of the old days. Not of the old, neither are they of the new; not of the romantically rich, nor yet of the interestingly, abjectly poor. The father works his eight hours a day. The mother is not ashamed of the washing she hangs on the line nor of her large family. The boys and girls earn their own spending money by doing chores of one kind or another. (One lad whom I know gets his by selling manure in the spring and delivering it in person. When taunted by a friend about his unpleasant work, he said in a straightforward way: "But people have to have it for their gardens.") Six days go by for them in

monotonous rotation, and then Sunday introduces another six. An occasional holiday outing in the woods or a brief week in the country is often the extent of their travels.

And yet what a heritage they have, and what a future! Old dreams of their fathers shine in their eyes, and in their hearts lie buried the hopes of their coming manhood and the glorious achievements of children yet unborn. Perhaps their clothes aren't "store clothes" and are adorned with patches, but the robes of a king clothe no greater ambitions, and their clean, wholesome bodies cover clean, wholesome thoughts.

Drab? Uninteresting? Yes, if "interesting" humanity is made up only of brilliancy of achievement and excess of wealth, or of poverty and suffering, or of degradation, degeneration, lying, and corruption. None of these things predominate in our middle-class American child; nevertheless herein lies the hope of our country-in these common, every-day American children, whose fathers learned their first English words in our grade schools and went home to teach their fathers. As I watch these youngsters swarm into the children's room of our branch, as I talk with them, laugh with them, and exchange ideals with them, how I've come to glory in the future of a nation built upon such a foundation.

When, a year ago, I was told that my library work in this great polyglot city, neither of the East nor of the West, was to be with plain, middle-class American children, it took all the courage in me to go on. I hated the very thought of it. Why should I, who love to watch life at concert-pitch, be picked out to deal with this group of children? I thought I neither understood them nor wanted to understand them. In my conceit I wasn't sure there was much in them to understand! Why mightn't I have the foreign child, with his queer combination of timidity and sureness, of respect and "freshness," of clashing ideals? I felt that we had much to give each other. Or why shouldn't I be allowed to work with the children of the college-bred, with their fine old American backgrounds? I laugh when I recall that turbulent period while rows of children-my children-file past

me with their pink cards and pink faces and friendly nods. Not that I've grown to care one whit less for the little foreigner I still grow hungry for the inspiration I got from him-but I've made a discovery.

I thought they would neither like the books I like nor want to be taught to like them. Nothing could be less true. And, what is more, their American honesty, sense of humor, and readiness to adapt themselves to conditions have proved wonderful tools, for instead of pretending to like what they do not-and then not asking for help again in the selection of their reading-they come to us quite frankly and talk it over, usually to the satisfaction of both sides. Their respect for us as guardians of their library is equalled by our respect for them, so that we can discuss our problems man to man; and their belief in us-for they do believe in us and in their teachers, with a belief that makes us fear lest we fall short-is but a shadow to our belief in them.

I have talked to these boys and girls, who represent the transition stage in the forming of a race, by the hundreds. First of books, and from books we have gone rambling down all the lanes of life, and I have yet to find one who has not some code of honor, stanchly defended, which, though it be often a trifle distorted, is a foundation of granite upon which to build. And what better building-blocks could one find anywhere than books— good books, to be fitted as carefully to each separate need as the builder fits his stones?

The other day I was called out to the library steps by some boys, to settle a fight between our "tough gang" (I pity the library or other social organization that does not own at least one "tough gang"-it would be like fish without Worcestershire) and an organized group of boys. In the end it was to the "toughs" I took off my hat. After they had stated their side of the case, which involved their code of honor, they gave their word not to "start anything," and kept it. What sort of citizens are to be made of these lads? Get them the right sort of a club leader right sort of reading. their innate gift for

and give them the Combine that with organization, their

initiative, their exuberance, and their belief in fair play, as they see it, and you have your answer.

But what has all this to do with library work with children? Everything. It is with just such boys in a middle-class neighborhood, made up largely of first and second generation Americans, that we can, if we will, put in some of our most telling strokes. The only trouble with them is that they are engines with surplus steam up and the safety valve clogged. They are apt to blow up at any moment if this is not remedied—and the pieces will have to be picked up in the Juvenile Court. A good, wholesome, vigorous story, properly introduced, will, time and again, clear the valve as nothing else can, and the engine at once passes from the menace class to the utility class, to stay there if the right fuel is supplied long enough—and the nation is one vigorous man-power per boy stronger-or per girl; for underneath the skin the problems are not so different.

One of the library's greatest instruments in effecting this transformation in the middle-class "gang" is the same as that which proved so successful with the Jew of the East Side and the immigrant from far countries. It is the club-perhaps, at first, merely a restless group in search of something new, who are drawn aside by a member of the staff or a volunteer worker to listen to a description of the jungle as Du Chaillu saw it, or to sail the seas of China with Hawes. The results can never be doubted. The old meeting-place of the gang at the corner is dull compared with battling tigers in the jungle, the unconquerable ice of the North, or the haunts of the ladrones in the Pacific. A demand for similar books grows apace, and the adventurers have joined the cheapest and most comprehensive Cook's tour in the world—the library. I somehow feel that, though this sudden enthusiasm in many cases will not be lasting, no boy can quite slip back to his old level after having once ventured forth with us.

Nor can I think of any one type of child for whom such journeyings are more necessary. The new wonder and the glamour of a strange land have grown dim and winked out in the generation that has

passed since their grandfathers made the momentous passage, and in its place has not yet been substituted a love and knowledge of the world through actual travel, as in the case of their wealthier compatriots. Yet these are the children who will be the first to greet the newcomer from over the seas. These are the lads whose desks will be next to the strangers' in our public schools. He will have more to do with the moulding of our new embryo citizens than almost any one else. Therefore through him, and what we make of him, and what he in turn makes of the newcomer, will we be able to stamp out or permit to live that opprobrious adjective so often applied to Americans— provincial.

When one bears in mind all these things, who could find a stupid moment in working directly and intimately, as the children's librarian is privileged to do, with these fine, wholesome Americans of all our mixed community least hidebound by tradition, and, therefore, most ready to found traditions-for the better or for the worse of a great nation?

Another point of contact is the story hour; but is it possible to thrill over a story hour with these comfortably fed, comfortably clothed, and comfortably schooled Americans, with a well-stocked library at their disposal and dimes enough to insure the movies about once a week? Yet-I can't speak of last year's story hour for older boys and girls without a tightening of the throat. I tried to give them a little, but how infinitely rich they made me as week after week fifty to seventy gathered in that little room and followed the growth of the Norse people from the days of Odin's sacrifice, through Sigurd's valor and Frithjof's struggle with honor, to the very dawning of Christianity in the far, cold Northland. They listened and were silent, but in their faces was an understanding born of that fastfading ancestral background, of comfortable middle-class homes, of a belief in the future, and of their association day after day with teachers who in this new era dare to be idealists also and adventurers in the seas of the spirit as well as of the mind.

To be sure, their movie habits inevitably linked themselves with the stories. I