moving world; and as the railway civilizing process is much the same the country over, they lose their identity as sectional types." Mrs. Dunham leaned back in her chair and began to make mental notes with queries after them. Mr. Vennor had given her to understand that they were to have a rara avis, served underdone, for dinner; and, in the kindness of her heart, she had determined to see that the "young artisan," as her cousin had called him, was not led on to his own undoing. Now, however, she began to suspect that some one had made a mistake. This young man seemed to be abundantly able to fight his own battles. "I presume you are very familiar with this part of the country—along your own line, Mr. Brockway," she said, when the waiter came in to lay the plates. "In the way that I have just indicated, yes. I know so much of its face as you can see from this window. But my knowledge doesn't go much beyond the visible horizon." "Neither does mine, but I can imagine," Gertrude said. "Ah, yes; but imagination isn't knowledge." "No; it's often better." "Pleasanter, you mean; I grant you that." "No, I meant more accurate." "For instance?" Gertrude smiled. "You are quite merciless, aren't you? But if I must defend myself I should say that imagination paints a composite picture, out of drawing as to details, perhaps, but typically true." Brockway objected. "Being unimaginative, I can't quite accept that." "Can't you? That is what Priscilla Beaswicke would call the disadvantage of being Occidentalized." "I suppose I am that," Brockway admitted cheerfully. "I can always breathe freer out here between these wide horizons; and the majesty of this Great Flatness appeals to me even more than that of the mountains." They followed his gesture. The sun was dipping to the western edge of the bare plain, and the air was filled with ambient gold. The tawny earth, naked and limitless, melted so remotely into the dusty glow of the sky as to leave no line of demarcation. The lack of shadows and the absence of
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