ever heard such infinite tenderness.

"Oh, yes, you do...." It seemed to come from a great distance, like the
soughing of the wind in the trees, sad, mysterious, supernatural. It
was not Good's voice, but something vast, inchoate, nameless. She
shivered and drew her coat more closely about her.

"But you're human," the voice went on. "You have more angel in you than
most--but you're not an angel. You're wise--very wise, Judith
Wynrod--too wise to be an angel. Heaven is for the fools. The wise have
the earth. It's the little things--like table manners and polished
shoes--that keep us out of heaven. I'm fool enough to brave these little
things. But you're wise. You know that they would increase and multiply
and crush us both, because they are stronger than we. If we were
souls--merely souls--it would be different. But I'm a man. You're human,
too. If we were souls alone--less human--less wise--the little
things--would not matter. But we aren't just souls. No, we are not--we
are not...."

The tender, wistful voice died away. The world seemed very distant to
Judith for a moment, and only this man, who talked like a god--or an
idiot--mattered. There was a tense, fleeting moment, when, had Good
known it, the course of both their lives might have been changed. But he
did not know it. The moment passed. The wind sighed in the trees again.
The myriad noises of the night were loosed. A locomotive whistled
dismally. A thousand tentacles seemed to come down on Judith and
overwhelm her and bind her fast; and with the sound of the whistle she
knew that the world was with her once more. She had been an angel for a
moment. She was one no longer. The tears fell unchecked.

"It's funny, isn't it," Good was saying in a matter-of-fact tone, "that
the trifles--things we really don't value at all--should keep people
from the one thing that counts. Queer world, this. But it's one of the
rules of the game. It's silly to complain. As well mock the stars." His
voice broke miserably and he covered his face with his hands. As she
stared miserably at the stooped, shabby figure of the truest friend she
had ever known, she felt very small and mean and ineffective, wishing
that she might say something which would comfort him, knowing that
anything she could say would hurt him more than silence. She was shamed
by her impotency. But when she thought of the bright camaraderie which
had been between them, and would be no more, she was angry. Why had he