uplifted by any feeling of self-righteousness, because
it was just one of the things you did--and there was an end of it. It
was a part of the system of life on which she had been brought up.

Half-way between the Cottage and Emerald Avenue she saw the Vicar on
the other side of the road. His first impulse was to hasten past
without speaking, because he had grown rather weary of her constant
diatribes against the changed state of the world; for he too had his
full share of the discomforts which come from living in an age of
transition, so he felt no desire to hear Miss Ethel press the point
home. However, she had been ill and he must do the polite. But as he
expected, she at once began. In answer to his inquiries about her
health, she said abruptly: "Of course, I'm depressed. How can one be
anything else with the world as it is? Nobody seems to be happy here,
or to be sure of happiness hereafter."

"You won't mend it by being miserable," said the Vicar, rubbing his
lean chin. "I know many feel that it is wrong to be happy with so much
injustice and misery about, and there is a great danger that the best
souls--who feel this most--may therefore give up creating happiness.
But that is just the same as if the violets gave up smelling sweet
because of the stenches that abound everywhere. Joy after a while will
leave us if we are not careful--then we shall have nothing left but
bitterness and pleasure."

"Pleasure is all people want nowadays," said Miss Ethel.

"But you are one of the people--and what do you want?" said the Vicar.
"No, Miss Ethel; there are now more men and women in the world wanting
to make things right for everybody than ever before in the history of
mankind. I sometimes feel as though I could see all the millions just
waiting to be shown how to do it. One wonders----" He broke off,
flushing a little, and added rather awkwardly: "Well, I must be getting
on. I'm glad to hear you are better."

Miss Ethel continued her walk, pondering the Vicar's words. Was the
man thinking about the second coming of Christ? . . . And she
remembered how a nursemaid had read some magazine aloud to her long,
long ago by the nursery fire in which the very day and hour of the end
of the world were given. How she had trembled afterwards at the
tipping of a load of bricks in the road forbear that was the Day of
Judgment beginning. Then her thoughts came back again to the present.
Was it true that all these mil