Release me. Now. Or I ........." "What will you do then? I'll have to kill you then and there, I think." "Oh, what? You? You couldn't. You couldn't!" "Certainly not. I never killed a man, though I sometimes made him think I was going to." The man was silent, looking down at the floor. "There, you see! I told you that you couldn't. I think that you are the lowest and most contemptible cur that I've met in a long time, and that you should be put down and treated like a mangy cur. I think that you should be shot." "Oh, God!" moaned the man. "Oh, Lord!" muttered Mrs. Harriet. "God, indeed! you ought to be ashamed of calling upon God at such a time. What would your Maker have to say about that? And you so cowardly, too. You wouldn't shoot me yourself, would you? If you were going to kill someone, you would do it yourself; but if you were going to be killed, you wouldn't dare to lift a finger against your murderer. Your God is your cowardly, contemptible self. You are contemptible, every bit of you." The man cowered lower, shuddering, and began to sob in the most frightful way. He was sobbing and moaning and shivering, and he didn't dare to open his mouth. He was as brave as a lion when the lion has been starved into courage by the terrible circumstances in which he finds himself, but there are no situations so desperate as those in which cowardice and fear and anguish of the body and soul have made the coward. He was afraid of death, but he was almost as afraid of his wife, who stood there with the revolver and the rope in her hands. "Do your best, Mr. Harriet," said the man at last. "Oh, yes, it's easy enough for you to tell me to do my best; you've got the best of me; you are master of this house, and you have all the world in your hands. But when I think of you, with your thin, weak legs, and your great, long bones, and your puny hands, and your great, long fingers, and your cowardly heart; when I think of you with your big, bald head, and your beard all full of lice, and your long, lank hair falling down over your shirt-collar, and your horrible, fat body—oh, my God, my God, my God! What have I done to you? The sight of this great mass of flesh suddenly made the woman scream with pain, and gave the man the strength of despair. He made a spring for the door, and dashed out of the room with a mighty scream. The woman took the revolver and the rope to the window, and shot him as he ran across the field. "You have got the victory," she said. "I think it was a great victory, and I am quite proud of it. I love you. I am the better for your victory, and I am proud of it. You think yourself a great man. You are a great man. You are greater than all the world. You know what you have done. I know what you have done, and you know that I know. I believe that I could kill you if I wished, but I would not wish it. You have got the victory, but that does not make me love you less. I have a secret which you have not got, and you have not got it, because I have it." She sat down and thought a little. Then she laughed a little. "I know what I would like to do," she said. "I know what I would like to do, and I am quite sure that I shall do it, and that I shall have my wish. I will go to sleep for a little, and when I wake up I will remember." ## THE JOURNALISTS Mr. and Mrs. Pelly, the husband a journalist and the wife a housewife, are discussing the possibility of their quitting London for a place where they will be less distracted by news of the War, for they fear that their little boy is being brought up to hate Germany. Their conversation is interrupted by the entrance of a woman of about the same age as Mr. Pelly's wife. "Excuse me, madam," she said, "but will you kindly tell me the way to the nearest Town Hall? I am told that my son has gone there." "Of course," answered Mrs. Pelly. "Go to the end of the street and turn to the right. You can't miss it." "Thank you very much," said the lady, "and excuse my bothering you. I was told that the Town Hall was near your house." Mrs. Pelly looked at the speaker, who seemed to her very much like a well-dressed young mother who had seen better days. Her tone was respectful and anxious, and her words were quite sincere. It is the manner that carries the weight with it. People believe or disbelieve all sorts of fables, but that is not the point. They believe or disbelieve all sorts of things, but that is not the point. The important thing is the manner. If one is told a thing, one acts upon it, if it is convincing; if it is not convincing, one does not act upon it. The result is as we see. It does not really matter if it is a fable or an important truth that we act upon. The point is this manner, and manner we can be taught. There is no reason why it should not be taught. Mr. Pelly, in order to convince his neighbour of his sincerity, rose from his seat and went up to her. He was quite sincere, and, therefore, Mr. Pelly felt extremely annoyed at having no money when he wanted to buy something to give the woman who would give him in return nothing but contempt. "I will give you a glass of wine," said the lady of the house. "I am afraid that I should be a bad example to the boy if I should drink wine now," said the neighbour. "Don't believe her, Mr. Pelly," said the wife, laughing; "she has got a weakness for you, and whenever she finds you drunk, she says that it is all on account of her, and that if you were not on your feet drinking, you would be on the sofa." "How unfortunate that it is!" said the stranger. Then the husband and wife separated and retired into the kitchen, as husbands and wives do so often, which made the neighbour wonder at their simplicity and honesty, for it seemed to her that they were ready to steal a dinner from her in return for a glass of wine. But she said no more about it to them, and waited patiently for the return of Mr. Pelly. "We haven't got any wine," said Mr. Pelly. "Well, of course, if you haven't got any wine, we are wasting your time, are we?" she said. "No, it isn't that," said Mr. Pelly. "But I don't often have a glass of wine, and I don't think it would be a good example to the boy. All the same, if you would accept a little wine from me, I should be glad to do it, as you seem to want it so much." "You are very kind, and I accept your offer with the greatest pleasure." Mr. Pelly went to his cellar and returned with two glasses and a bottle of red wine. The bottle of wine was opened and drunk. Then, after a little thought, he said: "Now, I want to know how you like my boy. Do you think that you could manage that he should join the Army?" "If he did that, I should feel myself very well off. He was never so bright as he is now." "He does seem bright, and I agree with you. A child who can be that bright cannot be doing any harm. And he likes work, too. You should have seen the way he built those stones in his wall." "I did see it," said the lady, "and he has the knack of doing things. He is the only boy I ever saw who could play all the pieces from any piece of music that you gave him. He played them all at once, and with different notes; sometimes, you know, one does not care to play such pieces twice over, and there are so many who are clever, but only one who can be really clever with all the pieces." "He is a genius," said Mr. Pelly. "I am quite in love with him." Then Mrs. Pelly smiled to herself, and thought that perhaps it was time to come into the matter. "If he is such a child as you think him, he is not too old for the Army," said the lady. "There are men of sixteen and seventeen in the Army now. What do you think of sending him out as soon as possible?" "If you say so, it shall be done. I only wish he were a little bigger, so that he would be able