ock so nicely balanced that it seemed as if a child's touch could
send it crashing from its pedestal, yet probably it had stood there
since creation day. Other rocks, strangely colored, were standing on
end in all kinds of extravagant postures. Some were shaped like fierce
animals; others resembled faces, houses, men. It seemed like a vision
of another world, a glimpse of some vanished people, a race of titanic
beings who had suddenly been petrified into stone. The place was
deserted. There was no one there but themselves. A sepulchral silence
hung heavy over everything. It was as mournful and awe-inspiring as a
city of the dead.

By the time they had seen all the wonders of the garden the sun was low
on the horizon. A glorious crimson glow shot up out of the west, and,
flooding the heavens, tinged each surrounding object with rich color.
Tired after the day's adventures, they sat on a bench at the base of a
tall stone pillar, which, in the growing dark, seemed like a colossal
sentinel standing guard in a camp of giants. Madison was very silent.
Deep in his own thoughts, he paid little attention to his companion.

"How quiet it is!" murmured Laura, almost to herself, as she contrasted
the heavy stillness of the place with the roar and excitement of
Broadway.

"How lonely!" added Madison. Bitterly he exclaimed: "It reminds me of
my own life."

Quickly she looked up at him. It was unusual for him to speak of
himself.

"Are you lonely?" she demanded.

He nodded.

"Often."

She looked puzzled, not understanding.

"Why are you lonely? You are young and strong and clever. The world is
before you----"

He remained silent for a moment, without replying. In the uncertain
light of the late afternoon, she could see that his eyes were fixed
steadily on her. In them was a look that every woman understands, be
she pure or impure. Then slowly, his deep, bass voice beautifully
modulated, he said gravely:

"I am lonely because I am alone. All these years, ever since I was a
boy, I have spent my life alone. I have had many so-called
friends--yes; but even friends do not satisfy the longing to have some
one still nearer and dearer, some one to whom you can turn in trouble,
some one who will be always there to share in your joys. Work--yes, I
can work, but why should I strive and toil? For myself? Bah--I'm sick
of it all. To live alone, as I do, is not worth the effort it costs.
Sometimes I think I'd just as soon blow out m