suddenly lines from an
English poet unknown to her. By chance she was turning over the Academy
pictures of the year, and came at last to one called "A Japanese Beauty
of Old Days"--an exquisite thing.

"Is it not fascinating?" she said. "So piquant and fresh."

He gave a silent laugh, as was his custom when he enjoyed anything, and
then replied:

"I came across a little book of verses one day in the States. A friend
of mine, the president of a big railway, gave it to me. He does some
painting himself when he travels in his Pullman in the Rockies. Well, it
had some verses on just such a picture as that. Hits it off right, Miss
Raglan."

"Verses?" she remarked, lifting her eyebrows. She expected something out
of the "poet's corner" of a country newspaper. "What are they?"

"Well, one's enough to show the style. This is it:

"'Was I a Samurai renowned,
Two-sworded, fierce, immense of bow?
A histrion angular and profound?
A priest? or porter? Child, although
I have forgotten clean, I know
That in the shade of Fujisan,
What time the cherry-orchards blow,
I loved you once in old Japan.'"

The verse on the lips of Mr. Vandewaters struck her strangely. He was
not like any man she had known. Most self-made Englishmen, with such a
burly exterior and energy, and engaged in such pursuits, could not, to
save themselves from hanging, have impressed her as Mr. Vandewaters did.
There was a big round sympathy in the tone, a timbre in the voice, which
made the words entirely fitting. Besides, he said them without any kind
of affectation, and with a certain turn of dry humour, as if he were
inwardly laughing at the idea of the poem.

"The verses are charming," she said, musingly; "and the idea put that
way is charming also. But do you think there would be much amusement
in living half-a-dozen times, or even twice, unless you were quite sure
that you remembered everything? This gentleman was peculiarly fortunate
to recall Fujisan, and the orange orchards--and the girl."

"I believe you are right. One life is about enough for most of us.
Memory is all very fine; but you'd want a life set apart for remembering
the others after awhile."

"Why do you not add, 'And that would bore one?' Most of the men I know
would say so."

"Well, I never used the word that way in my life. When I don't like a
thing, that ends it--it has got to go."

"You cannot do that with everyt