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 else! Why do you always want to make trouble? It's months since I saw her. Have I behaved like a man who is unhappy because some young woman has gone away? Haven't I made love to you all the time?" He had—almost. He had behaved like a young man who was still on his honeymoon. "But if anything has happened to John, I've got to go. And nothing that you can say or do will stop me."

And something had happened to John. Nobody was ever to know just what. The Albacore had vanished into the seas together with her officers and her crew.

Edward's distress became so poignant that Anne no longer had the heart to quarrel with him or find fault with him. And she even urged him to do the thing that he wished to do. There was money enough for his journey and to keep Anne during his absence, and there was more money owing which he would be able to collect in New York. And, more valuable still, he would be able to make personal connections with his editors and to arrange for the future.

The day before his departure, Anne and Edward went to the cathedral of Notre Dame and burned a candle for his safe voyage. She made him swear that he would come back to her. He did not need to swear that. His heart would bring him. She

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 had her faults—terrible faults—but she loved him. Faults or no faults, he could not see life without her. No other woman had any attraction for him.

And she made him swear that he would not see Alice. He swore that oath too, for the sake of peace, but he had no intention of keeping it.

From the docks he went straight to Bartow-on-the-Sound. The rectory was a house of mourning. You might have thought that no mother and son had ever been closer or more deeply in each other's confidence, sympathy and trust than Dear Mother and John. The Reverend Mr. Eaton was more gentle and silent than ever. But his extraordinary black eyes had a haunted look. He took Edward in his arms and kissed him on both cheeks—just as if Edward had been a daughter. The young man was deeply affected and kept back his tears with difficulty.

And that night, after Dear Mother had gone to bed, he sat up late with his father and told him about Anne. It wasn't an easy telling at first, but as the Reverend Mr. Eaton made no comments, it became easier.

When Edward had finished, Mr. Eaton, who had been leaning attentively forward, leaned back and clasped his fine white hands over his right knee, swinging his right foot to and fro, and said:

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 "I understand very well how these things start, but I want to know what your heart and mind tell you now that the first glamour is over."

Edward considered for some moments. Then he said: "Truthfully, father, I think I feel just the way any man feels about his wife—that I must be kind to her, and faithful, and take good care of her. I feel that I have lots and lots of other duties and considerations, but that she just naturally comes first. Was there always marriage?"

"Probably not," said Mr. Eaton, "but we don't know. . . . I had rather a thousand times that you came back from abroad with this story of the one young woman than with a worldly wise expression upon your face—and no story at all. I am disturbed by what you have told me, a little aghast and horrified perhaps; from a moral point of view I disapprove strongly of what you have done. But I am very proud that you had enough confidence in me to tell me about it."

"Even if Ruth hadn't gossiped," said Edward, "I had made up my mind to tell you. But I'd rather mother didn't know."

"Can the secret be kept?"

"I don't know," said Edward, "but getting a divorce for Anne is only a question of money. If I can earn enough, soon enough, then we can be

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 married, and mother need never know any more than just that much."

"It would be nice," said Mr. Eaton, "if your poor mother didn't even have to know about the divorce. She puts all the moralities into pigeonholes, you know . . . Have you heard about Mark?"

"What about him? No, sir, I haven't."

"I thought some member of the family would have written. I hadn't the heart."

"I heard that his wife made him a lot of trouble."

"He shot a man because of her."

"No!" exclaimed Edward, his face lighting with anxiety and interest.

"Mark appears to stand very well in his community and the case did not get into the courts. It appears also that Mark is cool-headed and that he did not shoot to kill . . . The interloper was so wounded that for some weeks—well, he had to eat off the mantlepiece, and the neighbors have poked so much fun at him that he has been obliged to leave town. Mark's wife is, I am afraid, one of those wives who really ought to be divorced. But because of the baby Mark will not divorce her. He has sold his interests, at a great sacrifice, I am afraid, and has moved farther West—somewhere where the story will not be known. She

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 must have another chance, he says; but she is very tired of Mark, and she will never tire of flattery."

"And Mark was doing so well, and now he has to start all over again. What does mother think about all this?"

Mr. Eaton simply lifted his hands in a gesture which clearly indicated the hopelessness of trying to explain Dear Mother's thoughts on the subject. But he did say: "She has given Mark up for lost. He knows that his wife is a wicked woman and by his failure to punish her has made himself equally culpable. That, I believe, is a small part of your mother's mental attitude."

"It's altogether different in Europe," said Edward, "but American men, whether they are husbands or juries, don't ever seem to like to punish women."

"That is true," said Mr. Eaton, "we don't. We have destroyed the buffalo and the forest and the Indian. We are beginning to destroy the whole edifice of liberty which our ancestors worked so hard to build up for us. But to our women we have been fatuously kind and indulgent. Historians will come, perhaps, to the conclusion that that has been our greatest and our most destructive mistake."

"But we are not going to change?" said Edward.

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 "Certainly not," said his father, "though the heavens fall . . . And now, my dear boy, it is getting late, and I am supposed to keep early hours."

"You haven't told me anything about yourself."

"There is so little to tell . . . John, our strong man is gone, and I shall probably live to be as old as Methuselah!"

Edward looked into his father's eyes, and seemed to see death in them—death not very far off. He tried to smile cheerfully, but succeeded only in twitching the corners of his mouth.

There was a difficulty about going to town early the next morning. Dear Mother seemed to think that business, owing to darling John's recent death, ought to be postponed; but since the business related to John's wife and the child, and since they might be in real need, Edward did not feel that it ought to be delayed on any account. A delay might result in the sudden appearance of the young woman and the offspring at the rectory, and Edward dreaded anything of that kind, not only for his mother's sake but for the young woman's.

So he said that the business really involved his financial future—it did, more than he realized at the time—and he was sorry, and he would do anything in the world that was reasonable to please

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 Dear Mother, but this particular trip could not possibly be foregone.

It seemed horribly "heartless" to Dear Mother, and "people will be sure to talk." But Edward held to his resolution and caught the eight twenty-two.

He found the old blind woman, and James's child, in the charge of a cross-voiced slattern, but the blind woman's daughter, John's wife, and the child's mother, had very recently departed with a traveling salesman for parts unknown.

"Your brother," said the old blind woman, when Edward's identity had been made clear to her, "didn't do right by her. And I don't blame her for what she done. But if she'd 'a' knowed John was going to be drowned, she might have waited."

"Have you any plans?" asked Edward. "Any money?"

"We've been living on the last money your brother sent—and now"—here she began to sniffle—"there ain't going to be any more."

"Yes, there will," said Edward. There will be enough money to keep you and someone to look after you, but"—and one last look at the ugly, squalid surroundings and the faces of the two women determined his duty—"I don't want John's—my brother's little boy Well, I think he will be better off with me. I will take him back

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 to France with me. He will be better off there."

The child's grandmother—and it was astonishing what a resemblance the child bore to James—sniffed a little at this and pretended to an affection which it was obvious that she did not feel, but in the end she conceded that the boy would be better off with his uncle.

"Then that is settled," said Edward. "But you may keep him, if you will, until I sail."

Edward reached home in time for dinner. He was childishly pleased with himself. He felt that he had met a difficult situation and mastered it.

And he felt very proud to think that at his age he could make himself financially responsible for the keep of an old blind woman and the proper rearing and education of his nephew. He felt that he had done just what dear old John would have wished him to do.

A week later came the first letter that he had ever received from Anne. She missed him so that her heart was breaking. She would never be bad again. And he must love her more than he had ever loved her before, because—well, she could have told him before he sailed, but she hadn't been perfectly sure, and she hadn't wanted to worry him. But she was sure now. There was no doubt. She had been to an old woman who knew all about such things. ..

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 In plain English, Anne was going to have a baby.

Dearest James had told Dear Mother that he would come to the country at once to see Edward. But he did not come at once and Dear Mother was distressed. What would people think? A brother not coming to see a brother who had been away in France for a long time!

For once Edward wished to see James—but not for pleasure. He wished to talk with James about James's little son, and he wished if possible to make him break off his engagement with Alice Ruggles.

But James himself had done that, and very recently.

He came to the country at last looking very handsome and attractive. He did not come alone. There was a young woman with him.

She was extraordinarily beautiful and gentle. She wore the richest and quietest clothes, and a marquise diamond big enough to have supported the entire Eaton family for the rest of their lives.

"Ellen," said James in his most beguiling voice, "this is my Dear Mother. Mother Dear—my wife."

Dear Mother shambled forward as if her legs had been suddenly stiffened. Her upper lip drew back from her projecting shelf of upper teeth.

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 She was smiling. Some intuition had told her that her favorite son had done very well by himself.

He had. Miss Hepwing, to whom he had been quietly married three days before, was a well-born New York girl, all of whose relatives were rich and most of whom were dead. The dead included her parents. There had been nobody to save her from James, and he had managed to make her love him almost at once.

Edward stood in a corner unobserved while Dear Mother "made over" the newly married pair.

"A mother," she cried, "can never have enough daughters . . . How beautiful you are, my dear! How proud I am to have such a beautiful daughter . . ."

"How about Alice?" thought Edward.

At this moment the handsome roving eye of James detected him.

"Eddie!" shouted James. "Dear old Eddie. Ellen, this is Edward—the old rascal—the young prodigal. Come forward, Edward, and kiss your new sister!"

Edward came forward. The sweetness of her face and the honesty and candor of her eyes thrilled him.

"What a perfectly lovely new sister you are," he said, and he kissed her. From that moment to this day he has felt that his sister-in-law is much

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 every factory elected a special control commission which would vigilantly watch the management of the employers, and, in the event of the employers declaring that there was no raw material, no money, etc., the workers would check, the correctness of the statement by the books and by reference to the banking accounts. The workers would veto any suspicious operation, and if the employers continued their scheming the workers would compel them to submit to their will by force of arms. In many places the employers fled from their factories and deliberately concealed themselves, hoping by this means to bring industry to a standstill, but, in such cases, the workers took the factories into their own hands and continued working.

This form of attack on capital acquired the definition of "workers' control." On the eve of the revolution the introduction of control was carried out without any plan and was quite spontaneous. For that reason on the morrow after the October revolution the Trade Unions were confronted with the difficult task of introducing a uniform system of labour control and of working out a practical programme of action.

The question was complicated by the severity of the struggle in the factories, and, in several places the tendency was observed for the workers to drive the owners from the factories and take the latter in their own hands. In place of a single owner there was a collective ownership represented by the workers employed in that factory. From the first days of the revolution the trade unions put up a determined resistance against this disintegration o the national industries. "The factories and works," we said, "are the property of the working class as a whole and not the property of the workers of a given factory, and for that reason workers should under no circumstances assume ownership of any factory." Labour control is only a part of State regulation of industry and therefore all local control committees must become the agents for carrying out the general economic plan and uniform economic policy.

Workers' control in the form that it developed directly after the October revolution was not yet the abolition of private ownership of the means of production, but merely a considerable limitation of the rights of the owners over the means of production and exchange. This is evident from the following paragraphs of the decree on workers' control which was drawn up in conjunction with the trade unions and issued on November 27th, 1917.

From this decree, issued directly after the October Revolution, it is evident that the task of control, as it was formu-


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 the loveliest person in the world and has the most beautiful character. He racks his brain sometimes and twists all his theories of God inside out trying to explain to himself why she should have been given to a man like James.

When presently the Reverend Mr. Eaton came in, he too fell in love with Mrs. James, and his brains too were well racked and his theories about God were twisted and tousled in trying to explain to himself how she happened to have been allowed to cast herself away upon that desert island of a son of his—where all that was deserving in her of happiness must come to grief.

But perhaps that great goodness of hers, the which there was no mistaking, would prove contagious. Perhaps James would come down with it in time—if only with a mild case. He didn't.

Finally Dear Mother carried the new daughter off to the upper regions of the house, the Reverend Mr. Eaton retreated into his workroom, and the two brothers were left together.

"Charming—isn't she?" said James.

"I think she is wonderful," said Edward. "She has the sweetest expression I ever saw."

"She is like her expression through and through," said James. "I don't deserve her."

"Right you are!" exclaimed Edward cheerfully.

But James frowned. It was all right for him

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 to depreciate himself, but it was no proper work for any other member of the family. There was a silence between them. Then Edward, drawing a quick breath, said:

"How about Alice Ruggles? What does she think about all this?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said James coldly. "She hasn't heard about it yet."

"She probably still thinks she is engaged to be married to you."

"I never said I'd marry her," said James.

And Edward blushed. He blushed to think that he could have a brother who should make such a speech as that.

"So if you still want Alice," said James, "you can probably have her."

Edward fought down his rage. "What?" he asked, "are you going to do about your little boy?"

"What little boy?"

"You know."

"I do not know."

"He looks precisely like the pictures of you at the same age. And his mother said that you were his father. She ought to know."

"Young Edward," said James, "would it inconvenience you too much to concentrate your attention on your own affairs?"

"John shielded us from the scandal and relieved

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 you of your responsibility. But there was something noble about John. There is nothing noble about me."

"Right you are!" put in James smartly.

But Edward went right on. "It's your child and it's your affair. Father will tell you so when he hears about it, and so will mother, and so will Ellen."

"If you say anything to hurt Ellen!" exclaimed James, "I'll wring your young neck."

"To blazes with my young neck!" said Edward, his rage rising again. "And, anyway, you've led such a soft life that if you so much as touched me I'd knock the daylights out of you. But do right—and I won't tell."

"Flow do you mean—do right?"

"The child has to live."

"I don't want to hear anything about that particular child or any other."

"The child has to live," continued Edward steadily. "I will look after the details and Ellen need never know, but you'll have to put up two hundred dollars a month."

"The devil I will! And how do I know the brat's mine? That girl was"

"Oh, shut up!" exclaimed Edward. "Will you find that money or shall I ask Ellen for it?"

James could never be made to acknowledge that

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 the child was his; but under the pretense that it was really John's and that he could not bear to see it starve, he agreed finally to pay over to Edward two hundred dollars on the first of each and every month. He made these payments regularly for a while, then irregularly, and finally he stopped making them altogether.

The fact that he had upon his hands a young woman of uncertain temper who was not his wife, a child that was not his, and a child of his own on the way did not daunt Edward's spirit. On the contrary he felt rather important and broad-shouldered and self-sufficient. He had agreed to do regular illustrating for a rich and widely circulated magazine, and had no doubt about his financial responsibility. He did wonder a little about when he should find time to paint and pursue art seriously; but he did not worry. The manly thing, he felt, was to support those who were dependent upon him and to think about himself afterward. So he wrote rapturous letters to Anne, and in the midst of the raptures explained about his brother's little boy, whom he would bring back to France with him. He would always let Anne and all the rest of the world believe that the boy was legitimately John's. It couldn't hurt poor old John any, and it would be of advantage to the boy. Edward was going to try very hard to like that boy. But

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 he wished that he did not so strongly resemble brother James.

Dear Mother, who knew nothing of these complications and responsibilities, had made up her mind to keep Edward at home. So many people had spoken to her about his illustrations, his talent, or his genius—at the option of the individual enthusiasm—and his good looks (this particular praise was a matter of sex) that she began to approve of the course that Edward had steered with his young life. She admitted that she had wished him to enter the Church; but she had also encouraged him to draw, helped him in his choice of subjects and bought him a fine box of paints. Of course he had always been her boy—her baby.

Now daily she worked upon his feelings. She made him her confidant, told him that his darling, precious, sainted father had not long to live and that she herself had no one to lean on or confide in. James? Well, he had been away so much—not callous, you know—but very intent upon his own personal fortune—and what a success he was! She had always expected great things of James; but this brilliant marriage, to this exquisite young fatherless and motherless creature—for whom one's heart ached—with all her money and so forth and so forth. It was really overwhelming!

She was steadily kind, admiring and indulgent.

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 She almost succeeded in winning his confidence. But not quite. He observed that her judgments about unsuccessful people, unless they were painfully religious and hypocritical, were just as bitter as ever.

At this time there returned to Westchester from Paris a rich Mrs. Ludlow. And she made it an immediate point to call upon her pastor and Mrs. Eaton to tell them all the wonderful things she had been hearing about their youngest son.

"All Paris is talking about him," she said. "I did my best to get hold of him so that I could bring you news direct; but he had gone out of town. I went to his studio, but he had rented it to a young woman and her mother—painters also, I gathered."

"Edward's here," said Mr. Eaton, "right here in this house."

Ever since her marriage to a large fortune, and especially since the decease of her husband, Mrs. Ludlow had hunted lions. Her eyelids fluttered. Her nostrils dilated. She was on the trail of still another.

"Oh, but I must see him! I must tell him myself what everybody is saying."

"I'll fetch him," said Mr. Eaton.

He took his time with the stairs—he always had to now—and found Edward in John's rooms.

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 Edward's hands were all a mess with oil and emery powder. He had been cleaning the rust from the pair of Revolutionary sabers that John had always valued so highly.

"John always kept them bright till he went to sea," he said. "After that I took care of them. And I thought I'd better have one more whack at the old things."

"I don't like to interrupt," said Mr. Eaton, "but there are ladies below who demand your presence. Your mother and Mrs. Ludlow."

"The Mrs. Ludlow?"

"The very woman!"

"She used to be rather good looking."

"I should have said opulent looking—opulent in its physical rather than its financial sense."

"What do they want with me?"

Mr. Eaton wrinkled up his eyes and smiled. "The last lion that ventured into Mrs. Ludlow's drawing-room never came out. She is said to have devoured him alive."

"But" Then Edward broke into a broad grin. "Am I a lion? Me? Has she never seen a lion so very little that she had pity for it?"

"Never!" said Mr. Eaton.

Edward finished washing his hands and said that he would be down in a minute.

"Thank you," said his father. At the door he

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 turned and said: "I think it might be effective if you began to roar when you reached the foot of the stairs and entered the parlor on all fours."

Edward put the sabers aside with the intention of giving them a final polishing later, had a look at himself in the mirror, not to admire himself but to see if there was any oil and emery on his face, and went slowly down to the parlor.

"You nice boy!" exclaimed Mrs. Ludlow. "You must come and sit down right beside me and hear all about yourself."

Edward did as he was told.

"I am just back from Paris," said Mrs. Ludlow. "I even did myself the honor of calling on you at your studio"

Edward could not help changing color. Good Lord, what was the woman going to say next!

"But of course you were gone. Your tenants were very nice and friendly. They let me come in and look at all the paintings. The girl was really very sweet and pretty—and the mother must have been pretty before her mustache became so pronounced. But have you heard?"

No, Edward hadn't.

"Not that two of your pictures have been hung on the line and that all Paris is talking?"

No, Edward had not heard that. But it was wonderful news. He was no longer bored and

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 indifferent. Mrs. Lion Hunter was transformed in the twinkling of an eye into a most wise, entertaining, witty and agreeable person.

"The picture called Ogre's House"

"Brigand's House?" Edward suggested.

"How stupid of me!—the Brigand's House—is a sensation—but for my part I simply adored those three lovely young girls fading into the mists of the river."

Edward smiled gaily. "It was too hot to sleep," he explained, "so they all went for a swim."

"But where did you find such lovely models?"

At this point Mrs. Eaton, who had been drinking in the praise with immense satisfaction, broke into the conversation.

"Models!" she exclaimed. "Do you have to have models?"

"For the human form divine, mother?" said Edward. "Well, I should rather think so!"

"Do you mean to tell me," said Mrs. Eaton, and her horror was genuine, "that young women come to your studio and undress themselves?"

"Not unless I ask them to," said Edward demurely.

Mrs. Ludlow laughed nervously.

"I should think," said Mrs. Eaton, "that you could find plenty of other objects to paint."

"I could," said Edward patiently, "and do

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 often. But this picture was of three tired little shop-girls who, after working all day, couldn't sleep in their hot garret and went swimming in the river."

"All Paris," said Mrs. Ludlow, "is saying that it is one of the loveliest pictures ever painted."

"The tough part was the stars and the mist," said Edward. "I worked my head off over that."

"But what a subject!" exclaimed Mrs. Eaton.

"A subject comes into your head, mother dear," said Edward, "and you have to paint it. There is no way out."

"What is the other painting?"

"Just an old house in Corsica—with a green tile roof, and a fig tree, and a tremendous wine-colored shadow on one side."

"That," said Mrs. Eaton, "I should conceive to be a far more suitable subject for a painting."

"Maybe it is," said Edward, "but I love to paint figures. And it is not so easy as you might think."

"The Pirate's House," said Mrs. Ludlow, "is being considered by the Luxembourg."

"What!" exclaimed Edward.

Mrs. Ludlow nodded. And then, feeling sure that she had thrown a net around her lion, she rose and said her good-bys. She invited Edward, quite casually, to call upon her. He promised that he would do so. He escorted her to her carriage,

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 and on the way they named a day—the next day but one, at five o'clock.

"I want to talk to you about a lot of things," she said. "A portrait of myself—if you would care for the commission—and your—well, your younger tenant."

Her eyes were fixed sharply upon his. And he knew at once that she knew about Anne. He lowered his voice.

"What about her?" he asked anxiously. "She's all right, isn't she?"

But Mrs. Ludlow only smiled, stepped nimbly into her carriage and said: "Home—Robbins."

Edward was beginning to wonder why he heard nothing of Alice Ruggles—she must know that he was in Westchester—and he wrote to her and received no answer. He determined, therefore—in spite of his promise to Anne—to call upon her at the earliest opportunity, but in the meanwhile the portrait of Mrs. Ludlow, for which she was to pay him five hundred dollars, occupied his mind to the exclusion of everything else.

He had called upon Mrs. Ludlow, and together they looked over all the dresses in her wardrobe. They had chosen the dress for her to be painted in, and they decided that she should be painted behind a tea table with a handsome service of Georgian silver-fluted column behind her and in

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 the middle distance a willow tree and beyond the wooded shore of the bay.

During the first sittings Edward liked Mrs. Ludlow. But as time passed his liking changed almost to aversion. She proved to him that no woman is too old to hope that some young man will make love to her. She made herself ridiculous with her hints and her advances and her languishing looks, and she made Edward miserably uncomfortable. The night he stayed to dinner she tried to make him drink too much and didn't succeed. The day the portrait was finished she flung her arms around him and hugged him with astonishing strength and declared her passion for him. She begged him to marry her. She boasted of her money and her influence. She could make him the most famous painter in the world.

Poor Edward, who hated to hurt anybody's feelings! He tried so hard to be kind and affectionate. He patted her shoulders clumsily. He even kissed her. And he lied to her. He said that her love was a wonderful thing to him, wonderful and precious. . . Unfortunately—well—what she suggested was impossible. The girl in Paris—well, he and that girl were husband and wife.

He escaped finally. And spent the next week in dodging and evading the woman's attentions.

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 He hated her. He wrote to Anne that he had painted a portrait of an old friend of his mother's and that as soon as he had received the money he would sail for France. He sailed without the money. No love, no money. The rich Mrs. Ludlow never did pay for her portrait.

One afternoon found Edward alone in the rectory. His father and his Dear Mother had gone to pay a round of parish calls. He thought that it would be a good opportunity to sneak off to New Rochelle and see Alice Ruggles. The walk would do him good. He went to his room to change his shoes, and when he had changed them and was coming down the stairs the parlormaid had just answered a ring at the front door. And the clear boyish voice which Edward heard asking if Mr. James were at home was the voice of Alice Ruggles herself.

"Mr. James is in the city."

"But I'm here, Alice," cried Edward, and he descended the remaining steps in two jumps.

The pallor of Alice's face and the woe in her eyes was like a blow to him. He simply stood and stared at her.

The left them.

"Is it true that James is married?"

"Yes, Alice, it is true. Come into the parlor and sit down. You look sick."

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 "Married!" she said, and stood her ground.

"Oh, you are terribly hurt. I know that!" exclaimed Edward. "But you have had a lucky escape. I tell you, you have had a lucky escape."

"You don't know what you are talking about," said Alice sharply, "and I don't know what is going to become of me."

Suspicion sickened into certainty. After a long silence Edward said: "The dirty dog! He ought to be lynched." Then he said, "Do your father and mother know?"

"Mother knows that there is something all wrong—but she doesn't dare suspect. She knows it would kill her—and father. Poor father and his theories! They don't work out when it comes to me."

"What are you going to do?"

"What can I do? I'm not going to go on living. That's certain."

"But Alice—don't talk like that!"

"Where is your mother? I'll ask her what I'd better do. Maybe she would like to take me in. Anything that has ever belonged to her blessed James ought to be sacred to her."

"Mother's out," said Edward, "and don't talk so wildly. Are you still in love with James?"

"I hate him! I could kill him."

"So could I—slow torture, and all that kind of

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ATE one winter afternoon, when the sun was gilding the pines on the western mountains and the shadows stretched long and chill through the snow-laden woods, a huge bull moose broke out of the gloom of the spruces and went swinging up the sunlit barren at a stride whose length and power would have discouraged even a wolf from following. Five minutes later I came out of the same tunnel under the spruces, just as the fringe of green across the barren swished back to cover the flanks of the plunging bull, and then nodded and nodded in twenty directions—''this way! that way! here! yonder!''—to mislead any that might follow on his track. For at times, even the hemlocks, and the alders, and the waters, and the leaves, and the crackling boughs, and the dancing shadows, all seem to conspire together to shield the innocent wood folk from the hostile eyes and hands of those who pursue them. And that is one reason why it is so hard to see game in the woods.

The big moose had fooled me that time. When he knew that I was following him he ran far ahead and then circled swiftly back, to stand motionless in a hillside thicket within twenty yards of the trail that he had made scarcely an hour previous. There he could see perfectly, without being seen, what it was that was following him. When I came by, following swiftly and silently the deep tracks in the snow, he let me pass below him, while he took a good look and a sniff at me; then he glided away like a shadow in the opposite direction. Unfortunately a dead branch under the snow broke with a dull snap beneath his cautious hoof, and I turned aside to see—and so saved myself the long tramp up and down the cunning trails. When he saw that his trick was discovered, he broke away for the open barren, with all his wonderful powers of eye and ear and tireless legs alert to save himself from the man whom he mistook for his deadly enemy.

It was of small use to follow him farther, so I sat down on a prostrate yellow birch to rest and listen awhile in the vast silence, and to watch anything that might be passing through the cold, white woods.

Under the fringe of evergreen the soft purple shadows jumped suddenly, and a hare as white as the snow bounded out. In long, nervous jumps, like a bundle of wire springs, he went leaping before my face across a narrow arm of the barren to the shelter of a point below. The soft arms of the ground-spruces and the softer shadows beneath them seemed to open of their own accord to let him in. All nodding of branches and dropping of snow pads and jumping of shadows ceased instantly, and all along the fringe of evergreen silent voices were saying: there is nothing here; we have not seen him; there is nothing here.

"Now why did he run that way?" I thought; for Moktaques is a crazy, erratic fellow, and never does things in a businesslike way unless he has to. As I wondered, there was a gleam of yellow fire under the purple shadows whence Moktaques had come, and the fierce round head of a Canada lynx was thrust out of the tunnel that the hare had made only a moment before. His big gray body had scarcely pushed itself into sight when the shadows stirred farther down the fringe of evergreen; another and another lynx glided out; and I caught my breath as five of the savage creatures swept across the narrow arm of the barren, each with his head thrust out, his fierce eyes piercing the gloom ahead like golden lances, and holding his place in the stately, appalling line of fierceness and power as silent as the shadow of death. My nerves tingled at the thought of what would happen to Moktaques when one of the line should discover and


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 thing. But what's the use? Let's be practical. Come in here." He slid an arm around her waist and half carried her into the parlor. Then he fetched her a glass of wine from his father's study. It was communion wine. Lacrimæ Christi—tears of Christ. The alcoholic content was low, but it brought some color into her cheeks. He made her take the easiest chair. He put some cushions back of her and one under her feet.

"Feel better?"

"I always feel better when I'm with you."

Her words warmed his heart.

"And safe?"

"Safe."

"That's good. Then listen, you poor little kid, and let's see if we can't find some way to make life worth living."

First he told her about John's marriage to the girl that James had ruined and how it had devolved upon him to take charge and custody of the child of that ruination. Then he told her about Anne and the baby that Anne was going to have; and about Anne's jealousy and his love for Anne.

"I'll always love Anne," he said, "and I'll always be faithful to her. But we can't be married because she is married, and it wouldn't complicate matters much if I were married too, and it would protect you—and I'd give my painting hand to

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 protect you. We could be married and you could come to France to live. And although Anne would be terribly furious at first, why, in the end I could make her understand. She wouldn't let me see you—ever—I don't suppose. But you'd be my wife, and the baby would have a chance—and I'd help: you in every way that I possibly could. Now there's the only sane practical way that there is out of this mess."

Alice wept very bitterly. She wept, she said, because Edward was so noble. But when he had put her in her carriage, there was a twinkle of hope in her woeful eyes. And they had arranged to be married.

Of course it was the memory of what John had done that inspired Edward to do the same for another lady in distress. He had thought only about the noble aspect of John's conduct—never about the foolish one. But he did realize now that he had made his own life, which ought to have been simple, direct and carefree, about as complicated as possible. He acknowledged freely to himself that he was a hopeless idiot. And there were certain aspects of this affair which were much too awful to think about at all.

Could he keep his marriage to Alice a secret from Anne? His own people would have to know

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 after the fact, and so would hers. What would Anne do if she found out? He shuddered at that thought. He remembered that he had never succeeded in explaining anything to Anne.

Would he be able to feed so many hungry mouths—two women and three children? He doubted if the Ruggles would be able to give their daughter more than enough to dress on.

But he was young and strong and affectionate and full of courage. The moralities of his situation did not affect him. For already he had seen enough of this best of all possible worlds to realize that as often as not it is the bad man who succeeds and the good man who perishes. Look at James! Look at John!

Dear Mother made countless difficulties about his going back to Paris. Just because she carried a stiff upper lip and continued to make unheard—of sacrifices for everybody, did he realize that she was old and had used up her strength? Did he realize that his precious father had not long to live? She succeeded in making Edward feel like a perfect brute, and for two days prior to his sailing she hardly spoke to him. And for once his father wasn't much help to him.

"Can't you see your way of staying at home with us, Edward?"

"How about Anne, father?"

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 "She isn't your wife."

"Doesn't that bind me all the tighter to her?"

"Your mother and I need you."

"Oh, father"

"You must do what you think is right."

"Father, I am doing what I think is right. It means hard work. It means giving up lots of things and it means all kinds of complications and difficulties. I would be glad if I could be a little boy again and begin all over. But I can't, and I have to go on. I didn't stay on the safe bank, I jumped into the river and I've got to swim."

Mr. Eaton said no more.

That night a carriage drove swiftly up to the rectory, and there was a quick patter of feet on the brick walk and an insistent ringing of the front door bell.

"How perfectly outrageous!" exclaimed Mrs. Eaton. "Edward! See who that person is."

The person was Mr. Ruggles. His face was white and stern.

"Alice is desperately sick," he said. "She wants to see you."

Edward thrust a white face into the parlor. He said simply: "I am going with Mr. Ruggles, mother. I don't know when I'll be back."

He shut the door quickly so as not to hear what

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 his mother might have to say to that. He snatched up his hat from the hall table.

They drove in silence for a long way. Then Mr. Ruggles spoke.

"The doctor thinks that we are going to lose her," he said. "She had a fall . . . I know that you are not to blame, Eddie; but you will have to forgive me if at the moment I can't feel kindly towards any member of your family."

"I don't blame you."

"If I could lay my hands on your brother James, I would strangle him."

"So would I," said Edward.

"Poor little Alice trusted him," said Mr. Ruggles. "She trusted him."

"I know."

"She told you?"

"She told me. But she'll get well and then we can be married . . ."

"Married—you and Alice?"

"When she told me about James—and he married to somebody else—it seemed the only way to make things look right for her. She was to meet me in town tomorrow. I have the license in my pocket."

There was another long silence, during which Mr. Ruggles continually flicked his flagging horse with the whip. He said at last:

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 lated in the resolution on "Workers' Control" at the first Trade Union Congress, was to "put an end to autocracy in the sphere of economics in the same way as it had been abolished in politics," from which it follows that "Workers' control is not tantamount to the socialisation of the means of production and exchange but a preliminary step towards it."

This cautious approach and estimation of workers' control, the greatest act in the history of the world, arises from the practical estimation of economic possibilities by the trade unions, and the consciousness that socialism cannot be constructed in a week or a month, but is the work of long years and decades. A wedge had been driven into the capitalist system of production: the working class had approached right up to production and its secrets and it was proved that "constitutional monarchy" was impossible and that however complicated a modern factory may be the owner is a useless cog in the mechanism. This is the second logical conclusion which arises from the October Revolution.

The October Revolution converted the working class into the dominant class and the bourgeoisie into the subject class this completely overturned the former relations between the workers and the employers and confronted the trade unions with new problems. Directly after the October Revolution the economic strikes came to an end. The workers formulated their demands and submitted them to the trade unions and, upon the trade unions sanctioning them, these were put into force by the State. If the employer refused to submit, then prisons and other means of compulsion, prepared by the bourgeoisie itself, were brought into use. For the first time in the history of humanity a government intervened in strikes in favour of the workers, imprisoned employers for failing to satisfy the demands of the trade unions and by means of decrees introduced wage rates worked out by the trade unions, and confiscated businesses of obstinate factory owners. The October Revolution did not merely imply a transfer of political power to the proletariat but also the transfer of economic power into the hands of the working class. All former relations were destroyed. The trade unions developing on the basis of capitalist relations and as fighting organs were converted into part of the machinery of the labour government (resolutions of the 9th Congress of the Russian Communist Party), and this compelled the trade unions to reorganise their ranks, to change their tactics and to put forward questions which have never before confronted trade unions of other countries.

These new problems, arising out of the commencing social revolution were formulated by the first All Russia Trade Union Congress which met in the beginning of January, 1918, in Petrograd. In the first place the trade unions had to define: (1) their attitude towards the October revolution, (2) whether the organised proletariat could preserve neutrality in the acute


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 "I do feel kindly toward you, Eddie."

As they passed through the little gate in the wall, Edward's eyes took in the old motto, printed upon it in iron letters:

"They say. What say they? Let them say."

And for some reason or other a great lump rose in his throat. Until that moment he had not believed that any creature so filled with life as Alice could die. He had the premonition that she was not going to live.

And it seemed to him that he had never really loved Anne, but only Alice, and Alice always. It seemed to him that he could not bear to have her die.

How should he look when he entered the sickroom? What should he say? The poor boy was so eager to do just the right thing—that he did it. At the sight of her all thought of self left him, and he advanced quickly to the bed with his face filled with concern and affection. Mr. Ruggles was the first to speak.

"I've brought Eddie, Alice," he said, His voice was quite steady, and he added, "You'll probably want to have a little visit together—such old friends."

He took his wife by the arm and led her out of the room.

"Feeling a little better?" asked Edward.

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 "Maybe. I think so. But I'm going to die."

"No, you're not." He took one of her hands and held it in both his.

"I'm only sorry for mother and father," she said.

"Think that you'll get well and you will."

"Don't let's argue, Eddie. Hold my hand tight. When you went away I was hurt. And I guess I did everything I've done out of spite . . . I never really liked anybody but you, and when I thought you didn't care . . ."

"I did care. I do care. It was always you. I've made a mess of things too."

"You don't really love that girl in Paris, do you? Say you don't, anyway."

At that moment he didn't love Anne. He said: "I never loved anybody but you."

He leaned forward and cuddled his cheek against hers. With her free hand she caressed his hair.

"Now I can go to sleep," she said, "without any danger of bad dreams. Everything's all right now." A minute later she said: "I'd give anything if we could just stay like this till the finish, but father and mother would feel so horribly hurt and jealous. Will you please tell them to come, darling? . . . Kiss me good-bye first."

She held up her pretty mouth and he kissed it

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 with all the tenderness that was in him. Then he rose and walked quietly out of the room.

Mr. and Mrs. Ruggles and the doctor were waiting in the hall. Edward managed to say:

"She wants her father and mother." And then his power of speech failed him. He went downstairs and paced from the old grandfather clock in the hall to the pot of ferns in the bay window of the drawing-room and back again—to and fro—until he knew by a sound of sobbing that she had died.

A very pale and sick-looking Edward joined his father and his Dear Mother at breakfast.

"When did you get home, Edward?" asked Dear Mother in the old peremptory voice.

"About ten minutes ago," said Edward, "and I'd rather not be scolded about it. Alice is dead."

"That lovely child?" exclaimed Mr. Eaton. "How terrible!"

Dear Mother was shocked too—more than she would have cared to confess, but she was determined to have her say and point a moral.

"That is what comes to those," she said, "who are without faith in their divine Maker."

"That is what comes to everybody sooner or later," said Edward sharply. "Cripples and idiots are sometimes born into the most pious families."

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 His anger rose. "Alice didn't die because she was a pagan. Do you want to know why she died? I'll tell you. She died because when you gave birth to my brother James you brought a moral degenerate into the world."

He banged his fist upon the table so that all the dishes leaped, and then he rose and stormed out of the room.

Dear Mother never forgave those cruel and unchristian words about brother James. From the scorned Mrs. Ludlow she learned all about Anne, and of her poor, darling, wayward Edward's destination after he leaves this best of all possible worlds she is morally certain. Alice was never worthy of her James, anyway.

Edward took his nephew abroad and explained him to Anne. Sometimes she believes the explanation; but when it suits her temper she pretends that the child is one of Edward's many early indiscretions.

They took a little house in Versailles with a studio attached, and there Anne's baby was born. She made a great fuss about her sufferings, and was never the same ardent young woman afterward. Her dread of having another is one of the many little crosses that Edward has to carry. He has a whole sheaf of crosses—some little and some big.

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 There is his young nephew. The evil James seems to be looking at you out of the boy's eyes. Such affection as he shows is all to gain some end or other. But of course he has to be kept alive, and it costs a lot of money. James has long since ceased to contribute, and there is no way of compelling him except to write Ellen a letter and tell her the whole story. Ellen is so rich and so kind that she would help, of course; but Edward will never ask.

Edward's and Anne's little daughter takes after Anne. In her cradle she showed the same tempers and jealousies. Edward adores her and pities the poor man she will some day marry.

Edward succeeded in getting a divorce for Anne, and long after her tempers and her cruelties and her habit of washing soiled clothes in public had killed his love for her, they were married.

It isn't so easy to make a living as he thought it was going to be. He has regular illustrating to do, but if he stops long enough to paint a picture his income drops to nothing and Anne upbraids him for his selfishness.

It was his ambition to have the children grow up in America, and once when he had saved enough money he brought his little family over and took a house in Larchmont. Anne hated everything, including Dear Mother, and Dear Mother hated

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 Anne back, and between them they made Edward so miserable and ashamed that at the end of three months he retreated to France.

Anne promised that if he took her back to France she would never be bad to him again. She was bad to him all the way over on the steamer, and will continue to be so at intervals until she dies.

Sometimes Edward wishes that the whole race of women was at the bottom of the sea. Then he thinks of James and imagines that it would be a better world if a good many of the men were there too.

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text: Keeping the Peace (Morris)

title: Keeping the Peace (Morris)


text: Keeping the Peace (Morris)/Chapter 1

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text: Keeping the Peace (Morris)/Chapter 2

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text: Keeping the Peace (Morris)/Chapter 3

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text: Keeping the Peace (Morris)/Chapter 4

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text: Keeping the Peace (Morris)/Chapter 5

title: Keeping the Peace (Morris)/Chapter 5


text: Keeping the Peace (Morris)/Chapter 6

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text: Keeping the Peace (Morris)/Chapter 7

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Rh "Don't try," he urged, deeply touched. "I won't say I don't think I have helped Rose a little. I knew I could. I always have been able to handle children. I wish I knew as much about grown folks. But this treatment? She must go to a hospital for it, of course?"

She looked up swiftly, half laughing, half distressed.

"My aunt—aren't you forgetting her? She says she 'never did approve of hospitals.

"But that is absurd. She must consent. I will speak to her."

"No! Oh no! You don't quite understand yet. I think we might in time bring my aunt to consent to the hospital; but the—the free-ward. No, that she will not hear of. And as a private case—"

"I see," said Courtney, shortly. "If Rose were a child of the tenements she would go to the free-ward and be cured. As she is— Pray let me speak to her mother."

"No, no! You see, this becomes a—a question of money; and that is another thing my aunt does not approve of—'questions of money.' I have seen you pay her for the breakfasts she sends in here to you. You lay the money on her table while both of you look the other way. What nonsense all that is! But it has been, oh, very good of you to humor her. It has made everything easier. You would offend her deeply now if you should speak to her of a free-ward for a child of hers."

"But what then can we do?"

In her reply he noted that she ignored the plural.

"I don't know yet. But in time I shall find a way. Rose must have this, if I starve the rest of us—a little."

She spoke lightly, but Courtney knew this was no jest, and he knew also that, however proud her independence, there was no chance for a further paring down of the expenses of her household—none whatever. He rose from his chair, walking restlessly across the small room, which his tall figure, his broad shoulders, seemed always to dwarf when he stood.

"See here!" he said, suddenly. He sat down on the side of his table, leaning toward her urgently. "This is all absurd. If Rose can be cured, that exquisite, patient little thing, why, then—Now look here, Miss Ireland. It's not always easy for me to speak, either." He leant yet nearer. "You know what I feel toward the child; I don't need to tell you. Would your aunt allow you to settle for Rose's cure?"

Her face, which had grown flushed and troubled under his gaze, was, with his question, so amazed that he laughed outright.

"It would be a matter of several hundred dollars, I suppose. Well, of course I didn't imagine you had that where you could lay your hand on it at once; but I have, and— Now, just wait a moment. Hear me out—"

"No, no, no, Mr. Courtney! No!"

"Why not? I tell you I have it. It's lying now at the bank. What interest could it draw that would pay me like seeing Rose free—as other children are, only a thousand times sweeter than any other child could be? You know I love her—as if she were my own little sister. I don't believe you care more for the child than I do. This ought to be left just a plain question between Rose and me—no one else. She and I can settle all that. You are out of it—except as I have to consult you. Your aunt has unbounded confidence in your ability to do anything. Don't you see how easy it would be to manage, and nobody know but you and me? I have offended you? Miss Ireland— What have I done?"

Miss Ireland had turned away, her face hid in her hands. It was no surprise to Courtney when, a moment later, she lifted her head and looked up at him. He knew her power of quick self-mastery. But there was something in the smile on her lips, in her eyes, and in her face which he failed to read, a look that still perplexed him while he obeyed it as he interpreted it.

"Don't trouble to answer me. I see too well what you mean to say. I am right and you wrong—but I yield. I will say no more about it—not now."

"But I must! I can't—I can't let you offer this and not—"

"No! If you can refuse to let me do anything, I refuse to let you say anything. Play fair!"

She sat with her gray eyes lifted un-


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 class war, (3) what should the workers support—bourgeois democracy or labour democracy, i.e., the Constituent Assembly or the Soviets and, finally, what were the practical problems confronting the labour unions in the period of proletarian dictatorship.

The First Trade Union Congress held the view that the victory of the workers and the poorest peasants in October "leads us simultaneously towards the beginning of international socialist revolution and to the victory, over the capitalist system of production." Everything else follows from this fundamental view of the character of the October Revolution.

"The idea of 'neutrality' of the trade unions"—says this resolution—"was and remains a bourgeois idea. There is and there can be no neutrality in the great historical fight between revolutionary socialism and its opponents. Support of bourgeois policy and betrayal of the interests of the working class was always concealed beneath the mask of neutrality. Least of all in Russia, a country going through a great, revolution and which has overthrown the bourgeoisie, could the trade unions be 'neutral.' All the questions arising in the process of the revolution (Constituent Assembly, nationalisation of Banks, the fight against the bourgeois press, the repudiation of loans, etc.), directly affects the interests of the trade union movement. In all these questions the trade unions must give their entire support to the policy of the Socialist Soviet Government, as conducted by the Council of Peoples Commissaries."

By this resolution the Congress, in the name of two and a half million workers, firmly and undeviatingly stood for the soviet system, for labour democracy as against bourgeois democracy, and thus linked the fate of the trade union movement in Russia with the fate of the soviet government and the socialist revolution. Expressing itself in favour of the dictatorship of the proletariat and for "the close co-operation and inseparable connection between the trade unions and the proletarian political organisations and, chiefly with the Soviet of Workers' Delegates" the first conference resolved that "the centre of gravity of the trade union movement at the present moment must be transferred to the sphere of national administration and organisation. The Trade Unions must undertake the work of organising production and restoring the undermined forces of the country." How did the Unions carry out this resolution? By the creation of special economic organs in conjunction with the Soviet, organisation of workers' control, estimation and distribution of labour power, participation in the transference of war industry to peace production, by fighting against sabotage, by the introduction or obligatory labour, etc. The problems submitted by the Congress to the Trade Unions of Russia were—organisation of labour and organisation of production.

The First Congress paid particular and detailed attention to the question of workers' control and the regulation of


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RV 57 (ROADS INTO LONDON) echoes that one never hears during the day, all the vacant blinds, the sinister, the jocular, the lugubriously inquiring, or the lamentable expressions that windows give to houses asleep, all the unsmoking chimneys, the pale skies, and the thought of all these countless thousands lying invisible, with their souls, in sleep, parted from their bodies—all these things give an effect, in its silence, immense, stealthy, and overpowering.

One coffee-stall, gray-hooded and with a pale lamp, does not break the spell, nor twenty; one house of call, nor a hundred. Even the shouts of Covent Garden or the footsteps on the cobbles, and the undertones of the loafers before the tiny black brick houses of the little hay market, seem thin and ghostly without the immense and kindly ground-bass of London awake. And, indeed, all the dawn sounds of London have that quality of thinness—the hoot of locomotives, the thunder peals of shunting trucks, the clatter of cab-horse hoofs, the rhythmical stepping of one's own four great horses. Even the immensely loud awakening of the London birds seems small and circumscribed.

The railways seem to make London commence where the chimney pots begin to be in forests. In comparison with the Thames they are at the other end of the scale. The River is a natural way; roads wind upon hills, descend valleys in zig-zags, make nowadays detours that were once necessary in order to strike fords or to convenience great houses or solitary hamlets. Railroads tunnel through hills, fill up valleys with em- 57

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 make game nets with, and plait baskets, or make pottery with the ladies, cheerily chatting the while.

Fan pottery, although rough and sunbaked, is artistic in form and ornamented, for the Fan ornaments all his work; the articles made in it consist of cooking pots, palm-wine bottles, water bottles and pipes, but not all water bottles, nor all pipes are made of pottery. I wish they were, particularly the former, for they are occasionally made of beautifully plaited fibre coated with a layer of a certain gum with a vile taste, which it imparts to the water in the vessel. They say it does not do this if the vessel is soaked for two days in water, but it does, and I should think contaminates the stream it was soaked in into the bargain. The pipes are sometimes made of iron very neatly. I should imagine they smoked hot, but of this I have no knowledge. One of my Ajumba friends got himself one of these pipes when we were in Efoua, and that pipe was, on and off, a curse to the party. Its owner soon learnt not to hold it by the bowl, but by the wooden stem, when smoking it; the other lessons it had to teach he learnt more slowly. He tucked it, when he had done smoking, into the fold in his cloth, until he had had three serious conflagrations raging round his middle. And to the end of the chapter, after having his last pipe at night with it, he would lay it on the ground, before it was cool. He learnt to lay it out of reach of his own cloth, but his fellow Ajumbas and he himself persisted in always throwing a leg on to it shortly after, and there was another row.

The Fan basket-work is strongly made, but very inferior to the Fjort basket-work. Their nets are, however, the finest I have ever seen. These are made mainly for catching small game, such as the beautiful little gazelles (Ncheri) with dark gray skins on the upper part of the body, white underneath, and satin-like in sleekness all over. Their form is very dainty, the little legs being no thicker than a man's finger, the neck long and the head ornamented with little pointed horns and broad round ears. The nets are tied on to trees in two long lines, which converge to an acute angle, the bottom part of the net lying on the ground. Then a party of men and women accompanied by their trained dogs, which have bells hung round


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530 certainly, distress in them and in her face.

"I can't thank you," she said, earnestly,—"not if you won't let me. I don't know how to do such things in spite of being prevented—as I ought to know. I can only hope you understand what I feel. I think you do." She rose, holding out her hand shyly. "Good afternoon, Mr. Courtney."

Courtney rose also, taking her offered hand. The extreme delicacy of her touch, the softness of her hands, despite their slenderness, always surprised him afresh whenever his hand touched hers. He stood looking down at her, smiling quizzically, detaining her soft, gentle hand in his.

"I shouldn't have believed this of you," he said. "You came here—didn't you?—on an errand. What was it? The last thing I should wish to do would be to head you off from anything you may have come here to say. Sit down again and don't hesitate to speak plainly."

He was very sure her actual errand had nothing to do with Rose or plans for her. He knew that Miss Ireland had dreaded her self-imposed task, and shrunk from opening it, and yet he knew that nothing would have turned her from a set purpose had she not been reminded of his services to Rose, and had he not made his offer of practical assistance, which, though refused, still placed her under some obligation of gratitude. She had, as he believed, deliberately come to interfere in his affairs. Very well. She should carry out her intention. She did not resist his motion that placed her again in her chair, and once more he sat opposite her, waiting. He would not distress her by looking at her directly. She should have every advantage—save assistance.

There was silence, and then Miss Ireland spoke suddenly, evidently grasping her courage at its flood.

"I did come here to say something to you, Mr. Courtney—something that it is very hard for me to say. I wonder if you will let me tell you just a little about ourselves—before we came here to live?"

"I should be glad. Your story begins—does it not?—'It was not always thus with me.

"Yes," she agreed, as if grateful for the help he gave her. "At least there seemed no lack of means when my aunt and uncle opened their home to me, after my parents died. But after my uncle's death we found that there was almost nothing left for any of us. That has given me the chance to do my part. We have no near relatives to depend on. You see, in a way, I was left as the man of the family. But there are times when—there are times and things that a woman cannot—cannot quite do, perhaps, as men do them. My aunt is not capable of being a father to her daughters. Rose is as yet too little to miss a father's protection; but Delia—it's—it's very different with Delia. I came here to-day to say something to you that—that isn't at all easy for me to say, Mr. Courtney. You tell me to speak plainly. May I then ask you—ask you plainly what—what you have meant—you have meant—"

Courtney sat staring at her, with an astonishment before which he saw her unable to continue to speak, and yet he could not control his utter amazement. He saw the soft, nervous color change to a hot, painful blush, the troubled eyes faltered away from his, her voice broke, but he could only sit speechless, rudely gazing at her. Remonstrance, admonition, he had expected—nay, he was generously preparing to admit he deserved; but unquestionably Miss Ireland was about to ask him what were his serious intentions! His intentions regarding Delia. Delia! It was so preposterous that he had almost laughed in her face before he recovered himself and turned deliberately to her, his manner considerate, his face serious. "I beg your pardon. I should not have met this as I did." His eyes, always his unruly feature, were less quickly grave, but it was evident that he intended to reply with courtesy, with deference, and with as entire candor as the most exacting parent could ask. "I confess you did surprise me, but you have done exactly what you ought. I will answer frankly. But first I would like to tell you in turn a little of my earlier story. I, too, might begin—'It was not always thus with me.' When I was about seventeen years old my father died suddenly, and I found then that I was not the wealthy man we had imagined I should be. The estate was in great


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 (23) industry. In this sphere the Russian proletariat had to cut a new path, for history knows no example of the organisation of national economy being approached from the point of view of society as a whole and not in the interests of individuals or groups of exploiters. The First Congress understood perfectly well that the economic problem could not be solved at a single blow and it definitely indicated the road which the trade unions should follow. The Congress emphasised the fact that "workers' control is inseparably connected with the general system of regulation of national economy, that it is the basis of State regulation, that the unions must carry out the idea of centralised workers' control and the merging of the small controlling units into larger organs which correspond to the modern methods of production as well as to the actual structure of labour organisations." In the resolution on the regulation of industry the Congress advocated the syndication and the trustification of the most important branches of industry like coal, petroleum, iron, chemicals and also transport, as a preparatory stage to the nationalisation of industry. The regulation of national economy in the interests of the whole country can only be carried out under the guidance of a class whom history has chosen for this responsible task, i.e., the proletariat. The part to be played by the trade unions in this great work of the reconstruction of society consists not only in the defence of the interests of the working class but in preparing it for the role of industrial organisers during the transition from private monopoly to State monopoly, from the latter to nationalisation and from that last to socialism.

In defining the role and the functions of the trade unions in the organisation of production it was, necessary to pay very serious attention to the factory committees and their role in the general system of our economic organisation. The factory committees arose in Russia in the first days of the February revolution and were the first organisations created in the struggle of the workers against their employers. These organisations embraced all the workers in a given factory, whether they were members of the union or not, and from their very rise, played a double role. On the one hand they served as a support to the Soviet of Workers' Delegates, carrying out the Soviet's political instructions in the factories and, on the other hand, they settled conflicts and conducted strikes, etc., thus taking the place of the trade union in the first period of the revolution and, later, becoming the nuclei of the Russian Trade Union movement.

The factory committees chiefly performed the functions of political and economic control and, at the time of the October Revolution, had to bear the responsibility for the great organising and administrative work. For that reason in the first period of the October Revolution the question of the factory committees became very acute. Among certain sections of the factory committees the opinion began to grow that the trade unions had outlived their time and that they could be supplanted by the factory committees. In several towns like Petrograd, Odessa, Samara, Kiev, etc., central councils of factory


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 their necks, beat the surrounding bushes, and the frightened small game rush into the nets, and become entangled. The fibre from which these nets are made has a long staple, and is exceedingly strong. I once saw a small bush cow caught in a set of them and unable to break through, and once a leopard; he, however, took his section of the net away with him, and a good deal of vegetation and sticks to boot. In addition to nets, this fibre is made into bags, for carrying things in while in the bush, and into the water bottles already mentioned.

The iron-work of the Fans deserves especial notice for its excellence. The anvil is a big piece of iron which is embedded firmly in the ground. Its upper surface is flat, and pointed at both ends. The hammers are solid cones of iron, the upper part of the cones prolonged so as to give a good grip, and the blows are given directly downwards, like the blows of a pestle. The bellows are of the usual African type, cut out of one piece of solid but soft wood; at the upper end of these bellows there are two chambers hollowed out in the wood and then covered with the skin of some animal, from which the hair has been removed. This is bound firmly round the rim of each chamber with tie-tie, and the bag of it at the top is gathered up, and bound to a small piece of stick, to give a convenient hand hold. The straight cylinder, terminating in the nozzle, has two channels burnt in it which communicate with each of the chambers respectively, and half-way up the cylinder, there are burnt from the outside into the air passages, three series of holes, one series on the upper surface, and a series at each side. This ingenious arrangement gives a constant current of air up from the nozzle when the bellows are worked by a man sitting behind them, and rapidly and alternately pulling up the skin cover over one chamber, while depressing the other. In order to make the affair firm it is lashed to pieces of stick stuck in the ground in a suitable way so as to keep the bellows at an angle with the nozzle directed towards the fire. As wooden bellows like this if stuck into the fire would soon be aflame, the nozzle is put into a cylinder made of clay. This cylinder is made sufficiently large at the end, into which the nozzle of the bellows goes, for the air to


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 Cato was thinking of learning to play the fiddle, when I had deliberately taken it up in my old age, and satisfied myself that I could get much comfort, if not much music, out of it.

Thirdly. I have found that some of those active exercises, which are commonly thought to belong to young folks only, may be enjoyed at a much later period.

A young friend has lately written an admirable article in one of the journals, entitled, "Saints and their Bodies." Approving of his general doctrines, and grateful for his records of personal experience, I cannot refuse to add my own experimental confirmation of his eulogy of one particular form of active exercise and amusement, namely, boating. For the past nine years, I have rowed about, during a good part of the summer, on fresh or salt water. My present fleet on the river Charles consists of three row-boats. 1. A small flat-bottomed skiff of the shape of a flat-iron, kept mainly to lend to boys. 2. A fancy "dory" for two pairs of sculls, in which I sometimes go out with my young folks. 3. My own particular water-sulky, a "skeleton" or "shell" race-boat, twenty-two feet long, with huge outriggers, which boat I pull with ten-foot sculls,—alone, of course, as it holds but one, and tips him out, if he doesn't mind what he is about. In this I glide around the Back Bay, down the stream, up the Charles to Cambridge and Watertown, up the Mys-


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 committees arose which began to act as parallel bodies to the responsible trade union council. New economic organisations were thus formed the growth of which would inevitably lead to a fratricidal war between the trade unions and the factory committees. On the other hand, as the trade unions grew and embraced an ever larger number of factories, the factory committees became elected organs of the organised members of the particular union. This eased the way to the subordination of the factory committees to the unions, as decided at the third conference of Trade Unions in June, 1917, and finally confirmed at the First All-Russian Congress which decided that "the factory committees must become the local organs of the union."

After the first Trade Union Congress the Central Councils of Factory Committees were abolished and the factory committees became units of the union, carrying out the instructions, and resolutions of the centre.

In the period immediately prior to the October Revolution, when the central organs of national economy were just being established, the factory committees, in many cases, undertook the management of the factories. But that only lasted as long as the corresponding central industrial management organ had not yet been established. After this the factory committees had their representatives in the factory management boards which were usually composed of the representatives of the trade unions, the Council of National Economy and the factory committees. In the middle of 1918 the All-Russia Central Council of Trade Unions dratted special "Regulations on Factory Committees." According to these regulations the factory committees:


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 have full play round the latter. On my first meeting with this performance, I must needs think that the clay affair did not fit the bellows, and asked if they had no bigger bellows. When finally the Fan blacksmith found out what error I was suffering from, he jammed his bellows into the clay cylinder and there was no end of a smother; for of course when fixed tight, instead of getting the perpetual current of fresh air, it alternately sucked up and blew out the smoke and hot air from the fire itself. I apologised.

The Fan bellows only differ from those of the other iron-working West Coast tribes in having the channels from the two chambers in one piece of wood all the way; in the other bellows I have seen the two channels unite just above the nozzle. And also the Fan decorates the bellows with spearhead forms, the points whereof are directed towards the fire; he seems to think this helps. His forge is the same as the other forges, a round cavity scooped in the ground; his fuel also is charcoal. His other smith's tool consists of a pointed piece of iron, with which


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As industry became nationalised and chief committees for managing the nationalised factories were established we passed over from workers' control to workers' management and faith this transition, the functions of the factory committees in the sphere of control of production ceased because the union as a whole and not separate sections of it took part in the administration. As a result of 2½ years' development of the trade union movement, the Third Trade Union Congress, summing up the experience of the dual functions of the factory committee resolved that "the factory committee must definitely be fixed as the local nucleus of the trade union with analogous trade union functions in so far as it concerns the responsibility it has to bear towards the higher organs of the union and completely abstain from interfering ,in the work of administering the factory; in order to abolish parallelism in administrative and trade union organs in the, factory all industrial committees, in connection with the factory committees are to be dissolved."

This resolution, establishing the factory management board as the sole authority in the factory, finally subordinated the factory committee to the union and, in this manner, rounded off a complete period of development of the Russian trade union movement which commenced with the factory committees being independent of the unions, went through a process of administration of the factories by the factory committees, participation of the factory committee in the management—and consequently their subordination to the councils of national economy; and finally binding the factory committee to the union and converting it into a purely trade union organ.

The First All-Russia Congress of Trade Unions, laying down the general line of revolutionary policy and the necessity for the closest co-operation and inseparable connection with the Soviets of Workers' Delegates, came up against one of the most difficult questions in the theory and practice of the trade union movement, i.e., the role of trade unions in the period of proletarian dictatorship. What Is the dictatorship of the proletariat? It is a definite labour system of government, having for its object to destroy the bourgeois capitalist relations and the state machinery created by them, to crush the resistance of the exploiters and to prepare the conditions and foundations for socialist construction. Between capitalism and socialism there is a distinct historical period during which the oppressed class, taking advantage of the new government machinery which it has created, forcibly establishes new social industrial relations, and, to the extent that these new relations are strengthened, the State power of the transition period gradually dies out; for socialist society is a non-class society and where there are no classes there is no State. Consequently, to the extent that we depart from capitalism and approach to socialism the state as such will disappear and, as Engels wrote, it will be placed in the museum of history. The state will remain a mere apparatus for the registration of distribution and production, serving the economic needs of socialist society.


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75204 and Necessary Government Data Act (title II of Public Law 115–435) to expand public access to Federal data assets in a machine-readable format while also taking into account security considerations, including the risk that information in an individual data asset in isolation does not pose a security risk but, when combined with other available information, may pose such a risk:

(a) within 270 days of the date of this order, the Chief Data Officer Council, in consultation with the Secretary of Defense, the Secretary of Commerce, the Secretary of Energy, the Secretary of Homeland Security, and the Director of National Intelligence, shall develop initial guidelines for performing security reviews, including reviews to identify and manage the potential security risks of releasing Federal data that could aid in the development of CBRN weapons as well as the development of autonomous offensive cyber capabilities, while also providing public access to Federal Government data in line with the goals stated in the Open, Public, Electronic, and Necessary Government Data Act (title II of Public Law 115–435); and

(b) within 180 days of the development of the initial guidelines required by subsection 4.7(a) of this section, agencies shall conduct a security review of all data assets in the comprehensive data inventory required under 44 U.S.C. 3511(a)(1) and (2)(B) and shall take steps, as appropriate and consistent with applicable law, to address the highest-priority potential security risks that releasing that data could raise with respect to CBRN weapons, such as the ways in which that data could be used to train AI systems.

4.8. Directing the Development of a National Security Memorandum. To develop a coordinated executive branch approach to managing AI’s security risks, the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs and the Assistant to the President and Deputy Chief of Staff for Policy shall oversee an interagency process with the purpose of, within 270 days of the date of this order, developing and submitting a proposed National Security Memorandum on AI to the President. The memorandum shall address the governance of AI used as a component of a national security system or for military and intelligence purposes. The memorandum shall take into account current efforts to govern the development and use of AI for national security systems. The memorandum shall outline actions for the Department of Defense, the Department of State, other relevant agencies, and the Intelligence Community to address the national security risks and potential benefits posed by AI. In particular, the memorandum shall:

(a) provide guidance to the Department of Defense, other relevant agencies, and the Intelligence Community on the continued adoption of AI capabilities to advance the United States national security mission, including through directing specific AI assurance and risk-management practices for national security uses of AI that may affect the rights or safety of United States persons and, in appropriate contexts, non-United States persons; and

(b) direct continued actions, as appropriate and consistent with applicable law, to address the potential use of AI systems by adversaries and other foreign actors in ways that threaten the capabilities or objectives of the Department of Defense or the Intelligence Community, or that otherwise pose risks to the security of the United States or its allies and partners.

Sec. 5. Promoting Innovation and Competition.

5.1. Attracting AI Talent to the United States. (a) Within 90 days of the date of this order, to attract and retain talent in AI and other critical and emerging technologies in the United States economy, the Secretary of State and the Secretary of Homeland Security shall take appropriate steps to:
 * (i) streamline processing times of visa petitions and applications, including by ensuring timely availability of visa appointments, for noncitizens who seek to travel to the United States to work on, study, or conduct research in AI or other critical and emerging technologies; and

title: Page:Executive Order 14110.pdf/14


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Rh confusion. I was engaged to be married when my father died; a kind of boy and girl engagement, I suppose, but our parents had liked it and I was—I was very much in love. Her father broke the engagement at once when he found what my prospects were. He was perfectly right. She was accustomed to every luxury, and she was little more than a child. It would not have been fair to her. We were allowed to see each other once more, and she was finally permitted to keep my ring—though she was not allowed to wear it or ever to see me again or write to me. She was to keep my ring until she felt she no longer wished it. She promised me—I made her promise this—that she was to feel herself absolutely free, and if the time should come when she might prefer to free me, she was to send me back my ring and I would understand. It has never come back to me. I may never be able to marry the woman to whom I am engaged, but I am, in this manner, bound to her, and so—I am not what is called a marrying man, Miss Ireland. As to your cousin, while you are right in thinking I should have been more careful, there has been nothing serious of any kind. She cares not a whit for me. It has been merely an amusement. She runs in here, in a childish way—as Rose does; but I appreciate that she is by no means a child, and I should not have allowed it to go on. I have said all this to her a dozen times, and was about to say it again to-night when I thought you were she—not quite so gravely as you would approve, perhaps. But, after all, there is no harm in anything she does; she is just a fascinating, wilful, beautiful little witch. It is hard to be grave with her, and she is—very engaging."

The clear gray eyes were looking up at him steadily, indignantly.

"If Delia is as a child to you, Mr. Courtney, if you are engaged to another woman, then why have you given this to my cousin? Was this—honorable?"

She drew from her bosom the end of her watch-chain, and detaching something from it, held it towards Courtney. As he stretched out his hand mechanically to receive it, she laid on his palm a ring—a superb blood-red ruby, held in a quaint arabesque setting, between two hearts formed of beaten gold and diamonds. Courtney stood for a moment motionless, looking down as if incredulously into his hand; then quickly lifting the ring nearer, he turned it over and over in his palm, handling it as one touches a familiar object. He looked up sharply, his brow knotted.

"When did this come?" he asked, abruptly. "Where did you find it?"

"On my cousin's hand, Mr. Courtney."

"Your cousin's hand!"

He turned to the little table where earlier he had flung down the handful of unassorted mail.

"I did sign for a registered package this afternoon," he said. "It should be here. I hardly looked at it. Rose was waiting—"

He broke off, standing silent by the table, his back to the room. When, finally, the ring still in his hand, he turned and came towards her. Miss Ireland looked up at him anxiously. There was no trace of emotion in his face or manner; both were reserved, grave, and quiet; they betrayed nothing.

"It is the ring I told you of," he said, simply. "It has come back to me. The design was my own. I thought I could not be mistaken. Over there on the table I find the outer wrappings of the registered package, the contents gone. Will you tell me again where you found this ring?"

"I—I found it—indeed, where I told you, on Delia's hand. And she—she told me herself it was a gift from you."

"From me? This ring! And no one has been in this room since I brought in the mail, except—"

He lifted his head as if struck by a sudden thought, and turning back once more to the little table, took up a small box lying back of the letters and papers. Opening the box, he shook out a tangle of miniature toy animals.

"Ah! I understand now," he said. "I think I understand."

And almost as he spoke the clock on the mantel struck the half-hour, and with the stroke, on the door behind Courtney came a familiar knocking.

Courtney moved softly across the room to Miss Ireland's chair.

"Sit here quietly," he whispered. "We must not frighten her. If I turn the back


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Rh :(ii) facilitate continued availability of visa appointments in sufficient volume for applicants with expertise in AI or other critical and emerging technologies. (b) Within 120 days of the date of this order, the Secretary of State shall:
 * (i) consider initiating a rulemaking to establish new criteria to designate countries and skills on the Department of State’s Exchange Visitor Skills List as it relates to the 2-year foreign residence requirement for certain J–1 nonimmigrants, including those skills that are critical to the United States;
 * (ii) consider publishing updates to the 2009 Revised Exchange Visitor Skills List (74 FR 20108); and
 * (iii) consider implementing a domestic visa renewal program under 22 CFR 41.111(b) to facilitate the ability of qualified applicants, including highly skilled talent in AI and critical and emerging technologies, to continue their work in the United States without unnecessary interruption.

(c) Within 180 days of the date of this order, the Secretary of State shall:
 * (i) consider initiating a rulemaking to expand the categories of nonimmigrants who qualify for the domestic visa renewal program covered under 22 CFR 41.111(b) to include academic J–1 research scholars and F–1 students in science, technology, engineering, and mathematics (STEM); and
 * (ii) establish, to the extent permitted by law and available appropriations, a program to identify and attract top talent in AI and other critical and emerging technologies at universities, research institutions, and the private sector overseas, and to establish and increase connections with that talent to educate them on opportunities and resources for research and employment in the United States, including overseas educational components to inform top STEM talent of nonimmigrant and immigrant visa options and potential expedited adjudication of their visa petitions and applications.

(d) Within 180 days of the date of this order, the Secretary of Homeland Security shall:
 * (i) review and initiate any policy changes the Secretary determines necessary and appropriate to clarify and modernize immigration pathways for experts in AI and other critical and emerging technologies, including O–1A and EB–1 noncitizens of extraordinary ability; EB–2 advanced-degree holders and noncitizens of exceptional ability; and startup founders in AI and other critical and emerging technologies using the International Entrepreneur Rule; and
 * (ii) continue its rulemaking process to modernize the H–1B program and enhance its integrity and usage, including by experts in AI and other critical and emerging technologies, and consider initiating a rulemaking to enhance the process for noncitizens, including experts in AI and other critical and emerging technologies and their spouses, dependents, and children, to adjust their status to lawful permanent resident.

(e) Within 45 days of the date of this order, for purposes of considering updates to the “Schedule A” list of occupations, 20 CFR 656.5, the Secretary of Labor shall publish a request for information (RFI) to solicit public input, including from industry and worker-advocate communities, identifying AI and other STEM-related occupations, as well as additional occupations across the economy, for which there is an insufficient number of ready, willing, able, and qualified United States workers.

(f) The Secretary of State and the Secretary of Homeland Security shall, consistent with applicable law and implementing regulations, use their discretionary authorities to support and attract foreign nationals with special skills in AI and other critical and emerging technologies seeking to work, study, or conduct research in the United States.

title: Page:Executive Order 14110.pdf/15


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 he works out the patterns he puts at the handle-end of his swords, &c.

I must now speak briefly on the most important article with which the Fan deals, namely ivory. His methods of collecting this are several, and many a wild story the handles of your table knives could tell you, if their ivory has passed through Fan hands. For ivory is everywhere an evil thing before which the quest for gold sinks into a parlour game; and when its charms seize such a tribe as the Fans, "conclusions pass their careers." A very common way of collecting a tooth is to kill the person who owns one. Therefore in order to prevent this catastrophe happening to you yourself, when you have one, it is held advisable, unless you are a powerful person in your own village, to bury or sink the said tooth and say nothing about it until the trader comes into your district or you get a chance of smuggling it quietly down to him. Some of these private ivories are kept for years and years before they reach the trader's hands. And quite a third of the ivory you see coming on board a vessel to go to Europe is dark from this keeping: some teeth a lovely brown like a well-coloured meerschaum, others quite black, and gnawed by that strange little creature—much heard of, and abused, yet little known in ivory ports—the ivory rat. This squirrel-like creature was first brought to Europe by Paul du Chaillu, and as far as I know no further specimen has been secured. I got two, but I am ashamed to say I lost them. Du Chaillu called it Sciurus eborivorus. Its main point, as may be imagined, is its teeth. The incisors in the upper jaw are long, and closely set together; those in the lower arc still longer, and as they seem always to go in under the upper teeth, I wonder how the creature gets its mouth shut. The feet are hairless, and somewhat like those of a squirrel. The tail is long, and marked with transverse bars, and it is not carried over the back. Over the eyes, and on either side of the mouth, are very long stiff bristles. The mischief these little creatures play with buried ivory is immense, because, for some inscrutable reason, they seem to prefer the flavour of the points of the teeth, the most valuable part.

Ivory, however, that is obtained by murder is private ivory. The public ivory trade among the Fans is carried on in a way