he knew
what it was to be afraid.

He had never been afraid and he went down on his knees. With a new
horror in his heart he damned them. He turned his eyes up, but he could
not open them. He thought rapidly, calling on Freda in his heart,
speaking tenderly, promising.

A flare of heat passed his throat, and descended into his bosom.

"I want to live. I can do it--damn it--I can do it. I can forge ahead,
make my mark."

He forgot where he was for a moment and found new pleasure in this
spoken admission, this new rebellion. He moved with the faint shaking of
the earth like a child on a woman's lap.

The upraised hoofs of the first horse missed him, but the second did
not.

And presently the horses drew apart, nibbling here and there, switching
their tails, avoiding a patch of tall grass.

LONG, LONG AGO[6]

[Note 6: Copyright, 1919, by The Bellman Company. Copyright, 1920,
by Frederick Orin Bartlett.]

BY FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT

From _The Bellman_

When the brakeman swung back the door and with resonant indifference
shouted in Esperanto "Granderantal stashun," Galbraithe felt like
jumping up and shaking the man's hand. It was five years since he had
heard that name pronounced as it should be pronounced because it was
just five years since he had resigned from the staff of a certain New
York daily and left to accept the editorship of a Kansas weekly. These
last years had been big years, full of the joy of hard work, and though
they had left him younger than when he went they had been five years
away from New York. Now he was back again for a brief vacation, eager
for a sight of the old crowd.

When he stepped from the train he was confused for a moment. It took him
a second to get his bearings but as soon as he found himself fighting
for his feet in the dear old stream of commuters he knew he was at home
again. The heady jostle among familiar types made him feel that he had
not been gone five days, although the way the horde swept past him
proved that he had lost some of his old-time skill and cunning in a
crowd. But he did not mind; he was here on a holiday, and they were here
on business and had their rights. He recognized every mother's son of
them. Neither the young ones nor the old ones were a day older. They
wore the same clothes, carried the same bundles and passed the same
remarks. The solid business man weighted with the burden of a Long
Island estate was there; the young man in a broke