The process of adjustment is also the answer to the charge that American standards are in danger of being effeminized. Women have been held back and down for centuries. The men are now simply holding back in turn until the women come up with them. American ideals and methods are in no peril of becoming effeminized, for the men have the reins in their hands, and will drive on as soon as the women have caught up.

But this adjustment and compromise that has been made between the ideal and the external conditions is not in favor of the materialistic side. There is a progressive balance on the side of the fulfillment of the ideal. For the working out of this ideal along the lines on which it has begun tends to bring about both an increasing popular recognition of the value of scientific scholarship, and a greater possibility of its production. In other words, the "preeminent social class" tends to have a broader basis. Already the educational system has resulted in putting the average plane of learning on a higher level in the United States than in any other country. The masses are better educated and have more opportunities within their reach than anywhere else.

And not only is this the case, but the preservation of continuity, and the sacrifice of the few to the many, makes it possible for this average plane to become more and more universal. Moreover, the principle of avoiding caste formation, by giving to all who can use them, opportunities to rise to higher grades of scholarship, makes it increasingly possible for greater numbers to pass freely to higher and higher planes. Thus, the masses must tend to become more and more appreciative of the highest grade of scholarship, and greater numbers must become desirous of securing this scholarship for themselves.

It is thus, too, that the American ideal, which as has been said "is not a selfish and exclusive culture, but scholarship engaged in social service", will fulfill itself and will add the crown of pure scholarship to the other achievements of the American people.

SOPHIE KNOWLTON HISS.

THE TOWer of thE SHADOW

They smote against the wall outside,
The little, wistful waves, and wept.
The bruised hands that were my guide-
The tower where the shadow slept-

Since far above, a shaft of light

Between the circling walls must break,
Where I should see the mountains white
That lay beyond the azure lake.

At last a glowing of bright air—
And as I looked and tried to rise,
Oh, on the stair, most heavenly fair,
My Lady stood with waiting eyes.

My Lady stood and spake no word,
All motionless she waited there,
While through the open casement stirred
The breeze that lifted her sweet hair.

My hands went out to hold the spell,

My blood rushed through my head and beat,

I stumbled o'er my sword and fell

Before her pitying little feet.

The rosy hills were very fair,

The lake below was fair to see,
And all around me swept her hair
As she bent down close over me.

ALICE MORGAN WRIGHT.

SEA-ANEMONES

It was a little after five in summer. There was a crowd of clerks, men and girls, pouring out of the rear door of a large department store, and hurrying along past the five o'clock delivery wagons backed up to the curbing. They turned up toward Washington street, and at the corner, waiting a moment

for a carriage to pass, or a car, they collected like logs at a turn in the river, then poured forth again, and, going their different ways, were lost in the crowd.

Evans, who was a clerk in the men's furnishing department, was out a little late. He had stopped to mate up what was left of some fancy socks that had been pulled over on the bargain counter during the day. He turned into Washington Street quite alone, and at the corner found a small boy and as usual bought a Herald. Then, going to the edge of the sidewalk out of the current of the crowd, he opened the paper before him, leisurely running his eyes along the headlines, glancing up now and then as he watched for his car. He was under thirty, with blue eyes that were steady enough, but with a sensitive, uncertain mouth with corners that twitched a little, with lips that though closed were never still. He had a way of biting the inside of the lower one so that it gave his mouth at times an almost girlish pout.

"Hello, what's the news?" some one called. Evans looked up from his paper.

"Hello," he began unassuredly, "I am afraid—” then smiling suddenly, "You? Henry Havelock?

first. Where'd you drop from ?"

I didn't know you at

"You didn't know I was in town?" Havelock laughed.

"O yes, I read the papers. I know all about your studio and your art and your success. I was only surprised," he stopped. a moment, and one corner of his mouth twitched nervously, "that you should run across one like myself. And moreover," he went on, smiling now, but cynically, "have time to speak."

"Have time? By George, Evans, do you think I've forgotten the days when you used to lend me enough for my laundry bill? Have time? You've been on my mind ever since I've been in town. I was going to look you up."

"Yes, ferret me out. You wouldn't find my name in the papers. You've been to Paris, haven't you?"

"Yes, went there about a month after I left you, five years ago, wasn't it? Poor as ever, of course. I was there three years, and somehow-the Lord knows how-the public seemed to like a little the stuff I painted. That was all I needed. I had struck my vein of luck. The last two years I've been in New York working it. You see all I wanted was a start, and now I'm here for a little. Come round and see my quarters and have dinner with me some time. Will you ?"

There was the spirit of success in every word Havelock spoke, in every gesture, in the assured way he stood, in the careless way he conversed, in his natural unconventionality, in his easy democracy, even in the excellent cut of his perfect clothes. But Evans ignored the invitation.

"I've read about you," he said. "I see the Boston peoplethe aristocracy have quite taken you up. I read about the 'Afternoons' in your studio, and the famous portraits you are painting."

"Oh, they've been rather nice to me. I'm not kicking at my luck." Then breaking off suddenly, "And you?"

"Oh, I!" Evans looked away across the street and his mouth twitched. But as usual he finished laughing. "I have been changed from the silk department to the men's furnishing department," he said dryly.

Havelock passed it over lightly. "Oh, well, anything to keep us from starving. Married?"

"No, Heavens, no. Whom would I marry ?"

"Why, there was Agnes. Remember Agnes who waited on the table? Where is she, anyway? And how's Mrs. Ferry? Do you still put up there? By George! Remember those baked-bean suppers, and the brown-bread? It fairly makes me hungry. Do you still have raised doughnuts? Weren't they called that ?"

"Yes, we still have them. I'm just where you left mebaked beans and all. And you-quail, I suppose, and humming birds' tongues. Well, I believe that's my car coming. Goodbye."

Havelock grasped his hand. "Look here, Evans," he said, "I'm the same old bird. Don't treat me like a peacock. Drop in on me and have a smoke. Here, quick, here's my card. Tell Mrs. Ferry I'm coming around for some raised doughnuts. Don't forget, Evans-any time-you'll find me in."

Evans swung on to the running-board of a moving car and seated himself carefully on the end of the rear seat. For a moment he watched Havelock as he moved along with the crowd, head up and alert. He saw him suddenly smile, raise his hand, and firmly, palm out, lift his hat. He inclined his head just enough, just at the right time, replaced his hat with just the right slow precision. Evans saw a girl passing on the inside, tall and pale and erect, smile ever so slightly, bow

almost imperceptibly. Something about the perfect form of the meeting struck Evans. There was such assurance, such wonderful good taste, such almost art in it. He sat for several moments looking steadily before him, biting the inside of his under lip. Then he drew a long breath, and opened his evening. paper.

Evans was a slave to his paper. He was one of those men who know everything that is going on, but never take any part. Evans knew politics from start to finish, but never did more than vote. He knew all about the social events, the names of the debutantes, the gossip, the bits of scandal. He knew when the big men were away at the beach for pleasure or in New York for business. He knew what was going on in the world, but it was as if he were looking down from another planet, or out from a secluded cave, from which he felt the impossibility of ever crawling. He would have liked wealth, position, culture, but he had never once aspired to them. He hated his position as a clerk in a department store, but he had never tried to change it. He had but few friends, for he couldn't know those he preferred, and he wouldn't know those offered him. His intercourse with women had been only across the counter, when he sold them satins and silks to wear at the big functions he would read about in his paper later. He would watch them from his place behind the counter he was just inside the big swinging plate-glass doors as they left their carriages. He would watch them with the same interest that he watched Havelock lift his hat. He liked to see the ease with which they stepped from their carriages, the perfect curve of the arm that so neatly lifted their skirts behind, the slow grace with which the free hand pushed open the plate-glass doors, and then the dead, muffled rustle of their skirts as they passed. Evans could distinguish the aristocracy even without a word. He had only to lean back against the shelves with folded arms and watch them pass. But he had never tried to approach nearer.

Several weeks later Evans found himself wondering how to spend the last part of a hot afternoon in August. It was Saturday and the store had closed at noon. Generally when he had a little time to himself Evans boarded an open car for some beach near by, possibly hired a bathing suit, and took a dip, or had dinner at some big hotel. To-day it had seemed too warm for even that, and he had stayed at his boarding-house stretched