tervals, and settling there when they are too old to work for their guild.

Altogether a man might spend his days in that square and be the better for it. As a matter of fact a surprising number of us find it possible to do so, sipping coffee, smoking cigarettes or waterpipes, and watching life slip by on the strong blue current of the Bosphorus. And as I sit there too, treated always with a charming courtliness yet somehow made to feel the vanity of thanking God that I am not as other ghiaours are, I often ask myself how these things may be. In other parts of the world people enjoy no such leisure unless they have rents or an indifference as to going to destruction. In Rouméli Hissar we neither go to destruction nor have rents. The case may be connected with the theory that all inhabitants of Constantinople are guests of its ruler. We are not subject to military duty, we are exempt from certain burdens of taxation, and other inducements are offered those of the true faith

to settle in the city of the Sultans. I have no means of knowing how persuasive these may be, but it is astonishing how overwhelming a proportion of the less skilled

Albanian ice-cream vendor.

ROSES, in the garden old,
Glorious with ephemeral gold,
Blooming by the old stone-wall,
Did her touch give you this scent?-
Lincoln then was President-
As, white-gowned for mask or ball,
With her lover here she went.
In your fragrance now, almost,
I could swear I see her ghost
Rise, as beautiful as sweet;
Mid your blossoms catch the beat
Of her happy heart and feet
As when here they used to meet,
Lovers young, who now are cold,
Now are cold,

Roses, in the garden old.

II

Jasmine, blooming overhead,
Deep-embowering porch and shed,
Framing in one windowsill,

Was it here, on you, she leant?-
Lincoln then was President-
And from her sad eyes and still
Did you learn that look? she sent
Through your blossoms, very far,
To the southmost seat of war.
Mid your branches, starry there,
I can see them now, I swear,
Filled with weeping and despair,
As when there she leaned in prayer
For the lover, long since dead,
Long since dead,
Jasmine, blooming overhead.

B

UT think of strangers living in our house! Using our pretty things, sleeping in our beds why, the very thought of it is dreadful!" Mrs. Carroll shuddered and looked fondly about the beloved studio and out through the vista of softtoned rooms, as mellow and sweet as if the house had found itself a hundred years ago instead of only having been completed within a twelvemonth.

"But, Molly, it's only for a week," urged her husband, "and we want to get away anyhow. I must go and paint those sand-dunes before the color changes. Besides we always hate this place when the horse show is on at the country club. It's such a bore-none of the fun and all of the bother and expense of a house full of guests. Oh, we always say we won't have any people this time, but we always do."

"Couldn't we close the house up, Fred, without renting it?" she asked. To her the home was a very personal matter-because she was a woman. To the man, it was merely a beautiful thing he had createdbecause he was an artist. Now he was interested in creating other beautiful things.

"Then where are we going to find the money for going away?" he asked. "You know how hard up we are. The house has put us in this hole; the house has got to pull us out."

Now, if they had only referred the matter to an agent they would have saved themselves a lot of annoyance and have got great deal better rental. But the Carrolls were new at the business of letting houses and, moreover, they did not like the idea of putting their house in the market publicly. It seemed rather vulgar; Mrs. Carroll felt as if they were disgraced enough as it was. "Nonsense," said Fred, "I

don't mind people's knowing that we're hard up. It isn't as if we were in business; there the measure of success is the amount of money you make; in art-some of the best are the least well off."

All the same Carroll took particular pains to mention at the club, "We are going away, anyhow-my wife hates the turmoil and fatigue of horse-show week-so if you know of any nice people tell them that you know of a nice house with sixteen rooms and three baths."

And Mrs. Carroll took pains to tell callers over her pretty tea-table, "We are going away, anyhow-Fred hates the turmoil and fatigue of horse-show week-so if you know of any nice people tell them that you know of a nice house with sixteen rooms and three baths."

II

THEY thought it would be a lady, but it proved to be a man, a brisk young man with eye-glasses and an incisive manner. He introduced himself as secretary to Mr. Sterling, and he said he would like to see the house.

They had understood vaguely that prospective tenants liked to look at houses before agreeing to take them-even when they were unusually charming houses with sixteen rooms and three baths. They themselves had always looked at houses before taking them in the old dreary days of renting; but they never before appreciated how it felt to have a businesslike eye fasten upon their intimate possessions and appraise their worth. They felt that the young man was inwardly scowling at everything in sight and they hated him for itthe more so because he seemed to be urbanely endeavoring to conceal his contempt under an indulgent appreciation. As if such as he could appreciate their things! "The ceilings are rather low, are they not?" asked the brisk young man with a gracious smile.

"Yes, very low," answered Carroll, also smiling as he recalled the fight with the architect to secure those low ceilings, "would you like to look at the bedrooms?" The ceilings were still lower upstairs. ("Don't you go up," he whispered apart to his wife, "it's bad enough for me to have to do this.")

VOL. XLV.-77

But though Mrs. Carroll's pretty cheeks were flushed and she felt inclined to order the stranger out of the house, she was afraid that Fred might forget to show off the linen closet, her particular pride, so she tagged along behind, walking on tiptoe.

Carroll, feeling like a guide at the Louvre, was saying, "This is the day-nursery." "I see," said the young man. "This is the night-nursery," said Carroll.

"I see," said the young man. "And here is the linen closet," put in Mrs. Carroll.

"Ah, a fine, large one," said the young man. He, too, was embarrassed, to tell the truth. This was an unaccustomed job for Mr. Sterling's secretary.

Then they went through the other rooms, but instead of admiring her dainty curtains, Mrs. Carroll felt sure that he was making mental notes of the place where the children had set the rug on fire and of the evident fact that her dressing-table was, after all, pretty small.

The ordeal was soon over and the young man was downstairs again with his hat in his hand ready to go.

"And what did you say the rent was?" he was asking. At this point Mrs. Carroll fled abruptly.

Her husband cleared his throat and said, "Two hundred dollars," feeling sure that the businesslike young man would think it too much.

As a matter of fact, other houses which hadn't sixteen rooms and three baths were renting for double that amount. Carroll did not know this, but the young man did.

"Ah, I see," he said. "Well, I'll telegraph you Mr. Sterling's decision in the morning."

"By the way," said Carroll, "may I ask what Mr. Sterling it is?" "Charles F. Sterling," said the other, and paused to watch the effect.

But there was no effect; because Mr. Charles F. Sterling, though a very great millionaire, was a very recent one-so recent that he had not yet begun gathering pictures.

The Carrolls had reached that stage of their married career when wedding gifts have become old and sparse. Accordingly they overdrew their account at the bank