f at the beck and
call of another man is essentially degrading. In the long perspective
of eternity, was his soul any more majestic than mine? In this luminous
new vision of my importance as a fragment of immortal mind, could I,
should I, bow to the force of impertinent trivialities?

I sat back in my chair, full of love of humanity.

By and by the boss appeared at my desk. One look at his face convinced
me of the truth of Tagore's saying that great activity is poison to the
soul. Certainly his face was poisonous.

"Say," he shouted, "what the devil's the matter with you to-day? Dennis
just called me up about that herring order--"

"Master," I said mildly, "be not overwrought. Great activity is a
strychnine to the soul. I am a mystic...."

A little later I found myself on the street with two weeks' pay in my
pocket. It is true that my departure had been hasty and unpleasant, for
the stairway from the office to the street is long and dusty; but I
recalled what Professor Tagore had said about vicissitudes being the
true revealers of the spirit. My hat was not with me, but I remembered
the creed pasted in it. After pacing a block or so, my soul was once
more tranquil.

I entered a restaurant. It was the noon hour, and the room was crowded
with hurrying waiters and impatient people. I found a vacant seat in a
corner and sat down. I concentrated my mind upon the majestic vision of
the brotherhood of man.

Gradually I began to feel hungry, but no waiter came near me. Never
mind, I thought: to shout and hammer the table as the others do is
beneath the dignity of a philosopher. I began to dream of endless vistas
of mystical ham and eggs. I brooded upon these for some time, but still
no corporeal and physical units of food reached me.

The man next me gradually materialized into my consciousness. Full of
love for humanity I spoke to him.

"Brother," I said, "until one of these priestly waiters draws nigh, will
you not permit me to sustain myself with one of your rolls and one of
your butter-balls? In the great brotherhood of humanity, all that is
mine is yours; and _per contra_, all that is yours is mine." Beaming
luminously upon him, I laid a friendly hand on his arm.

He leaped up and called the head waiter. "Here's an attic for rent!" he
cried coarsely. "He wants to pick my pocket."

By the time I got away from the police station it was dusk, and I felt
ready for home. I must say my broodings upon eternal beauty