long time before he spoke again.

"After all--there is a long time yet. There have scarcely been men for
twenty thousand years--and there has been life for twenty millions. And
what are generations? What are generations? It is enormous, and we are
so little. Yet we know--we feel. We are not dumb atoms, we are part of
it--part of it--to the limits of our strength and will. Even to die is
part of it. Whether we die or live, we are in the making....

"As time goes on--_perhaps_--men will be wiser.... Wiser....

"Will they ever understand?"

He became silent again. Elizabeth said nothing to these things, but she
regarded his dreaming face with infinite affection. Her mind was not
very active that evening. A great contentment possessed her. After a
time she laid a gentle hand on his beside her. He fondled it softly,
still looking out upon the spacious gold-woven view. So they sat as the
sun went down. Until presently Elizabeth shivered.

Denton recalled himself abruptly from these spacious issues of his
leisure, and went in to fetch her a shawl.

The Man Who Could Work Miracles

THE MAN WHO COULD WORK MIRACLES

A PANTOUM IN PROSE

It is doubtful whether the gift was innate. For my own part, I think it
came to him suddenly. Indeed, until he was thirty he was a sceptic, and
did not believe in miraculous powers. And here, since it is the most
convenient place, I must mention that he was a little man, and had eyes
of a hot brown, very erect red hair, a moustache with ends that he
twisted up, and freckles. His name was George McWhirter Fotheringay--not
the sort of name by any means to lead to any expectation of
miracles--and he was clerk at Gomshott's. He was greatly addicted to
assertive argument. It was while he was asserting the impossibility of
miracles that he had his first intimation of his extraordinary powers.
This particular argument was being held in the bar of the Long Dragon,
and Toddy Beamish was conducting the opposition by a monotonous but
effective "So _you_ say," that drove Mr. Fotheringay to the very limit
of his patience.

There were present, besides these two, a very dusty cyclist, landlord
Cox, and Miss Maybridge, the perfectly respectable and rather portly
barmaid of the Dragon. Miss Maybridge was standing with her back to Mr.
Fotheringay, washing glasses; the others were watching him, more or less
amused by the present ineffectiveness of the assertive method. Goaded by
the Torres