s my daughter before me, her cheeks that have not
bloomed are wilting. Preserve her, Lord. This is my wife before me, her
love that has not lived is dead.--Time is a barren field that has no
end. I see no horizon. My feet walk endlessly, I see no horizon.--I am
faithful, Lord.--

* * * * *

The tailor-shop is black. It has moved up three hours into midnight. It
is black.

Esther and Meyer walk the grey street. In the arms of the man sleeps
Flora. His arm aches. He dares not change her to his other arm. Lest she
wake.

He has undressed her. Gentle hands of a man. He holds her little body,
naked, near his eyes. Her face and her hands, her feet and her knees are
soiled. The rest of her body is white--very white--no bloom upon her
body. He kisses her black hair.

He lays her away beneath her coverlet.

There is his wife before him. She is straight. Her naked body rises,
column of white flame, from her dun skirt. Esther--his love--she is in a
case of fire. Within her breasts as within hard jewels move the liquids
of love. Within her body, as within a case, lies her soul, pent, which
should pour forth its warmth upon them.

He embraces her.

"Esther.--Esther--" He can say no more.

His lips are at her throat. Can he not break her open?

She sways back, yielding. Her eyes swerve up. They catch the cradle of
her child.

--Another child--another agony of glory--another misery to the world?

She is stiff in the unbroken case of a vast wound all about her.

So they lie down in bed. So they sleep.

* * * * *

She has cooked their breakfast.

They walk, a man and a woman, down the steep street to work. A child
between them, holding the hand of a man.

They are grey, they are sullen. They are caught up in the sullen strife
of their relentless life. There is no let to them. Time is a barren
field with no horizon.

FRENCH EVA[9]

By KATHARINE FULLERTON GEROULD

(From _Scribner's Magazine_)

The real _dramatis personae_ are three (for Schneider was only a
sign-post pointing): Follet, the remittance-man, Stires, and French Eva.
Perhaps I should include Ching Po--but I hate to. I was the man with his
hands in his pockets who saw the thing steadily and saw it whole--to
filch a windy phrase. I liked Stires, who had no social standing, even
on Naapu, and disliked Follet, who had all the standing there was.
Follet dined with magnates; and, belie