y.

He had a desperate desire to get away to himself; to hide his face in
his arms, and give vent to the tears that were stifling him; to weep for
his lost friend, and for this great heartbreaking heroism of theirs.

"But why did you do it?" he persisted. "Was it because I was his
friend?"

"Oh, it was much more than that," Gerald said quickly. "It was a matter
of the two countries. Of course, we jolly well knew you didn't belong to
us, and didn't want to, but for the life of us we couldn't help a sort
of feeling that you did. And when America was in at last, and you
fellows began to come, you seemed like our very own come back after many
years, and," he added a throb in his voice, "we were most awfully glad
to see you--we wanted a chance to show you how England felt."

Skipworth Cary rose to his feet. The tears for his friend were still wet
upon his lashes. Stooping, he took Lady Sherwood's hands in his and
raised them to his lips. "As long as I live, I shall never forget," he
said. "And others of us have seen it too in other ways--be sure America
will never forget, either."

She looked up at his untouched youth out of her beautiful sad eyes, the
exalted light still shining through her tears. "Yes," she said, "you see
it was--I don't know exactly how to put it--but it was England to
America."

"FOR THEY KNOW NOT WHAT THEY DO"

BY WILBUR DANIEL STEELE

From _Pictorial Review_

When Christopher Kain told me his story, sitting late in his
dressing-room at the Philharmonic I felt that I ought to say something,
but nothing in the world seemed adequate. It was one of those times when
words have no weight: mine sounded like a fly buzzing in the tomb of
kings. And after all, he did not hear me; I could tell that by the look
on his face as he sat there staring into the light, the lank, dark hair
framing his waxen brow, his shoulders hanging forward, his lean, strong,
sentient fingers wrapped around the brown neck of "Ugo," the 'cello,
tightly.

Agnes Kain was a lady, as a lady was before the light of that poor worn
word went out. Quiet, reserved, gracious, continent, bearing in face and
form the fragile beauty of a rose-petal come to its fading on a windless
ledge, she moved down the years with the stedfast sweetness of the
gentlewoman--gentle, and a woman.

They knew little about her in the city, where she had come with her son.
They did not need to. Looking into her eyes, into the transparent soul
behin