r the strenuous violence of hand-strokes, here was a drowsy and
peaceful time. The wine of that land was good, the shade pleasant, the
Alician philosophy more delightful than of yore; he had all the
accessories, but one, of an earthly paradise.

Man is ungrateful. Jeff was a man; neglectful of present bounties, his
dreaming thoughts were all of the absent accessory and of a time when
that absence should be no more, nor paradise be empty.

Life, like the Gryphon's classical master, had taught him Laughter and
Grief. He turned now the forgotten pages of the book of his years.
Enough black pages were there; as you will know well, having yourself
searched old records before now, with tears. He cast up that long
account--the wasted lendings, the outlawed debts, the dishonored
promises, the talents of his stewardship, unprofitable and brought to
naught; set down--how gladly!--the items on the credit side. So men have
set the good upon one side and the evil on the other since Crusoe's
day, and before; against the time when the Great Accountant, Whose
values are not ours, shall strike a final balance.

Take that book at your elbow--yes, either one; it doesn't matter. Now
turn to where the hero first discovers his frightful condition--long
after it has become neighborhood property.... He bent his head in
humility. He was not worthy of her!... Something like that? Those may
not be the precise words; but he groaned. He always groans. By-the-way,
how this man-saying must amuse womankind! Yes, and they actually say it
too--real, live, flesh-and-blood men. Who was it said life was a poor
imitation of literature? Happily, either these people are insincere or
they reconsider the matter--else what should we do for families?

It is to be said that Jeff Bransford lacked this becoming delicacy. If
he groaned he swore also; if he decided that Miss Ellinor Hoffman
deserved a better man than he was, he also highly resolved that she
should not have him.

"For, after all, you know," said Jeff to Alice:

"I'm sure he's nothing extra--a quiet man and plain,
And modest--though there isn't much of which he could be vain.
And had I mind to chant his praise, this were the kindest line--
Somehow, she loves him dearly--this little love of mine!"

CHAPTER XVII

TWENTIETH CENTURY

"And there that hulking Prejudice
Sat all across the road.

* * * * *

"I took my h