She thinks just as much of her varicose veins as we do of the

loss of our wives."
I wonder what Bastin's ideas of unpleasant conversation may be,

thought I to myself, as I watched him depart already
wool-gathering on some other subject, probably the heresy of one

of those "early fathers" who occupied most of his thoughts.
Bickley listened to my tale in sympathetic silence, as a doctor

does to a patient. When he was obliged to speak, he said that it
was interesting as an example of a tendency of certain minds

towards romanticvision which sometimes asserts itself, even in
the throes of death.

"You know," he added, "that I put faith in none of these
things. I wish that I could, but reason and science both show me

that they lack foundation. The world on the whole is a sad place,
where we arrive through the passions of others implanted in them

by Nature, which, although it cares nothing for individual death,
is tender towards the impulse of races of every sort to preserve

their collective life. Indeed the impulse is Nature, or at least
its chief manifestation. Consequently, whether we be gnats or

elephants, or anything between and beyond, even stars for aught I
know, we must make the best of things as they are, taking the

good and the evil as they come and getting all we can out of life
until it leaves us, after which we need not trouble. You had a

good time for a little while and were happy in it; now you are
having a bad time and are wretched. Perhaps in the future, when

your mental balance has re-asserted itself, you will have other
good times in the afternoon of your days, and then follow

twilight and the dark. That is all there is to hope for, and we
may as well look the thing in the face. Only I confess, my dear

fellow, that your experience convinces me that marriage should be
avoided at whateverinconvenience. Indeed I have long wondered

that anyone can take the responsibility of bringing a child into
the world. But probably nobody does in cold blood, except

misguided idiots like Bastin," he added. "He would have twenty,
had not his luck intervened."

"Then you believe in nothing, Friend," I said.
"Nothing, I am sorry to say, except what I see and my five

senses appreciate."
"You reject all possibility of miracle, for instance?"

"That depends on what you mean by miracle. Science shows us all
kinds of wonders which our great grandfathers would have called

miracles, but these are nothing but laws that we are beginning to
understand. Give me an instance."

"Well," I replied at hazard, "if you were assured by someone
that a man could live for a thousand years?"

"I should tell him that he was a fool or a liar, that is all.
It is impossible."

"Or that the same identity, spirit, animating principle--call
it what you will--can flit from body to body, say in successive

ages? Or that the dead can communicate with the living?"
"Convince me of any of these things, Arbuthnot, and mind you I

desire to be convinced, and I will take back every word I have
said and walk through Fulcombe in a white sheet proclaiming

myself the fool. Now, I must get off to the Cottage Hospital to
cut out Widow Jenkins's varicose veins. They are tangible and

real at any rate; about the largest I ever saw, indeed. Give up
dreams, old boy, and take to something useful. You might go back

to your fictionwriting; you seem to have leanings that way, and
you know you need not publish the stories, except privately for

the edification of your friends."
With this Parthian shaft Bickley took his departure to make a

job of Widow Jenkins's legs.
I took his advice. During the next few months I did write

something which occupied my thoughts for a while, more or less.
It lies in my safe to this minute, for somehow I have never been

able to make up my mind to burn what cost me so much physical and
mental toil.

When it was finished my melancholy returned to me with added
force. Everything in the house took a tongue and cried to me of

past days. Its walls echoed a voice that I could never hear
again; in the very looking-glasses I saw the reflection of a lost

presence. Although I had moved myself for the purposes of sleep
to a little room at the further end of the building, footsteps

seemed to creep about my bed at night and I heard the rustle of a
remembered dress without the door. The place grew hateful to me.

I felt that I must get away from it or I should go mad.
One afternoon Bastin arrived carrying a book and in a state of

high indignation. This work, written, as he said, by some ribald
traveller, grossly traduced the character of missionaries to the

South Sea Islands, especially of those of the Society to which he
subscribed, and he threw it on the table in his righteous wrath.

Bickley picked it up and opened it at a photograph of a very
pretty South Sea Island girl clad in a few flowers and nothing

else, which he held towards Bastin, saying:
"Is it to this child of Nature. that you object? I call her

distinctly attractive, though perhaps she does wear her hibiscus
blooms with a difference to our women--a little lower down."

"The devil is always attractive," replied Bastin gloomily.
"Child of Nature indeed! I call her Child of Sin. That photograph

is enough to make my poor Sarah turn in her grave."
"Why?" asked Bickley; "seeing that wide seas roll between you

and this dusky Venus. Also I thought that according to your
Hebrew legend sin came in with bark garments."

"You should search the Scriptures, Bickley," I broke in, "and
cultivate accuracy. It was fig-leaves that symbolised its

arrival. The garments, which I think were of skin, developed
later."

"Perhaps," went on Bickley, who had turned the page, "she" (he
referred to the late Mrs. Bastin) "would have preferred her

thus," and he held up another illustration of the same woman.
In this the native belle appeared after conversion, clad in

broken-down stays--I suppose they were stays--out of which she
seemed to bulge and flow in every direction, a dirty white dress

several sizes too small, a kind of Salvation Army bonnet without
a crown and a prayer-book which she held pressed to her middle;

the general effect being hideous, and in some curious way,
improper.

"Certainly," said Bastin, "though I admit her clothes do not
seem to fit and she has not buttoned them up as she ought. But it

is not of the pictures so much as of the letterpress with its
false and scandalous accusations, that I complain."

"Why do you complain?" asked Bickley. "Probably it is quite
true, though that we could never ascertain without visiting the

lady's home."
"If I could afford it," exclaimed Bastin with rising anger, "I

should like to go there and expose this vile traducer of my
cloth."

"So should I," answered Bickley, "and expose these introducers
of consumption, measles and other European diseases, to say

nothing of gin, among an innocent and Arcadian people."
"How can you call them innocent, Bickley, when they murder and

eat missionaries?"
"I dare say we should all eat a missionary, Bastin, if we were

hungry enough," was the answer, after which something occurred to
change the conversation.

But I kept the book and read it as a neutralobserver, and came
to the conclusion that these South Sea Islands, a land where it

was always afternoon, must be a charming place, in which perhaps
the stars of the Tropics and the scent of the flowers might