wisdom, but it certainly wasn't cricket."

"No," said Havelock. "Chess, rather. The game where chance hasn't a
show--the game of the intelligent future. That very irregular and
disconcerting move of his.... And he got taken, you might say. She's an
irresponsible beast, your queen."

"Drop it, will you!" Then Chantry pulled himself together, a little
ashamed. "It's fearfully late. Better stop and dine."

"No, thanks." The big man opened the door of the room and rested a foot
on the threshold. "I feel like dining with some one who appreciates
Ferguson."

"I don't know where you'll find him." Chantry smiled and shook hands.

"Oh, I carry him about with me. Good-night," said Havelock the Dane.

A JURY OF HER PEERS[11]

[Note 11: Copyright, 1917, by The Crowell Publishing Company.
Copyright, 1918, by Susan Glaspell Cook.]

BY SUSAN GLASPELL

From _Every Week_

When Martha Hale opened the storm-door and got a cut of the north wind,
she ran back for her big woolen scarf. As she hurriedly wound that round
her head her eye made a scandalized sweep of her kitchen. It was no
ordinary thing that called her away--it was probably farther from
ordinary than anything that had ever happened in Dickson County. But
what her eye took in was that her kitchen was in no shape for leaving:
her bread all ready for mixing, half the flour sifted and half unsifted.

She hated to see things half done; but she had been at that when the
team from town stopped to get Mr. Hale, and then the sheriff came
running in to say his wife wished Mrs. Hale would come too--adding, with
a grin, that he guessed she was getting scarey and wanted another woman
along. So she had dropped everything right where it was.

"Martha!" now came her husband's impatient voice. "Don't keep folks
waiting out here in the cold."

She again opened the storm-door, and this time joined the three men and
the one woman waiting for her in the big two-seated buggy.

After she had the robes tucked around her she took another look at the
woman who sat beside her on the back seat. She had met Mrs. Peters the
year before at the county fair, and the thing she remembered about her
was that she didn't seem like a sheriff's wife. She was small and thin
and didn't have a strong voice. Mrs. Gorman, sheriff's wife before
Gorman went out and Peters came in, had a voice that somehow seemed to
be backing up the law with every word. But if Mrs. Peters didn't look
like a sheriff'