and God bless you, old man."

"If only Haydon had been here--" choked Galbraithe.

"I expect he's younger than any of us," replied Green, soberly. "He's
measuring time by eternities."

Galbraithe picked up his bag.

"S'long," he said.

He moved toward the door, and the entire group stood stock still and
without a word watched him go out. He moved along the narrow corridor
and past the city editor's room. He went down the old stairs, his
shoulders bent and his legs weak. Fifteen hundred days were upon his
shoulders. He made his way to the street, and for a moment stood there
with his ears buzzing. About him swarmed the same newsboys he had left
five years before, looking no older by a single day. Squinting his eyes,
he studied them closely. There was Red Mick, but as he looked more
carefully he saw that it was not Red Mick at all. It was probably Red
Mick's younger brother. The tall one, the lanky one and the little lame
one were there, but their names were different. The drama was the same,
the setting was the same, but fifteen hundred days had brought a new set
of actors to the same old parts. It was like seeing Shakespeare with a
new cast, but the play was older by centuries than any of Shakespeare's.

Galbraithe hailed a taxi.

"Granderantal stashun," he ordered.

Peering out of the window, he watched the interminable procession on
street and sidewalks. He gazed at the raw angular buildings--permanent
and unalterable. Overhead a Kansas sun shone down upon him--the same
which in its gracious bounty shone down upon New York.

DISHES[7]

[Note 7: Copyright, 1919, by The Pictorial Review Company.
Copyright, 1920, by Agnes Mary Brownell.]

BY AGNES MARY BROWNELL

From _The Pictorial Review_

"Well, I guess that's the last of that!" Myra Bray said grimly, and
blinked at the smashed fragments of the cup.

It had been so fragile, that even the sound of its breaking was thin and
evanescent like a note blown, not struck. Now as it lay on the floor, it
seemed dwindled to nothing more than the fine gilt stem that had been
its handle, and irregular pinkish fragments like fallen petals.

"Myry Bray! Butterfingers!" Myra apostrophized herself, and darted a
quick, sidelong glance in the direction of old Mrs. Bray, her
mother-in-law.

It had been old Mrs. Bray's cup. This was old Mrs. Bray's house. When
Myra married Marvin Bray it had been with the understanding that they
must make their home with his mot