It was the usual hour for Don Pablo to go through his accounts.

The clerk had left the books ready on the desk, the quill was mended, the great chair with the purple velvet cushions in place.

But today the young merchant did not even look at these things.

Instead he went to the bottom drawer of a black bureau that stood beneath the low window and lifted out a Moorish sword in a scabbard covered with crimson satin.

His mother had given him this. When a young boy he had seen it in her possession and passionately envied the grace and splendor of the thing.

And she had told him that it had belonged to her father and to his before him, and that they had been grandees in Granada in the old days when the Moors had been kings in Spain.

Afterwards, a few months before her death, she had given him the weapon and bidden him cherish it fondly.

He did not think that he had ever looked at it since.

Now he handled it curiously.

It was a short scimitar of engraved steel with a hilt of beaten gold, very finely worked and set with rubies and square lumps of turkis put so close together that the curved hornlike handle glimmered blue as a forget-me-not.

The scabbard was edged and tipped with gold, also set with blue and red stones, and though all was a little tarnished by long disuse it still shone a thing of splendor.

Don Pablo softly handled the heathen weapon which he had so long put by and forgotten; he wondered why it had come into his mind today.

His thoughts traveled to the ancestor who had worn the scimitar when the Moors had ruled in Spain.

Ruled-and now they were despised,

hounded-finally exiled from their

homes.

What a change was here!

He put the little sword back in the deep dark drawer, closed it, and taking his hat from the chair near the desk, went out aimlessly into the white sunny streets.

Adjoining his house were his works; from one of the low doors of them there came an old Morisco who had been long in his employment. The hours of labor were not yet over and the man was dressed for departure.

Don Pablo stopped him.
"You are leaving work?"
"Your employment, Señor."
The master flushed.

"But you are exempt from the Edict, all my people are exempt.”

"But my people are not, Don Pablo"-the old man looked at him with dull eyes-"they are exiled and I am going with them."

"You are going with them?"

The Morisco did not answer; he stood patiently, looking down the sunny street

The master moved away from him, half shamefacedly.

"You have been paid?"

"Yes, Señor."

Don Pablo wanted to say something like thanks, even gratitude, wishes of good luck, expressions of good will, yet was silent.

The old workman turned away without a backward look at the building where he had toiled at his beautiful handicraft for the best years of his life and went slowly up the street, his stooping figure casting a bent shadow on the houses as he passed.

Don Pablo watched him go.

"That is what Doña Estreldis will do," he said to himself; "she will do that"

He knew now that this thought had always been in the back of his

head, and that the words of the old Morisco had merely shaped what he had always known.

Estreldis would follow Juan as the workman followed his people.

The young man was sure of it; she was romantic, high spirited, very much in love; she would leave everything, mount the galley with Juan and with him sail to Barbary and there find a new life-perhaps even a new happiness. So, after all, Juan would triumph.

For surely it was a finer thing to go into exile with a woman like Estreldis for a companion, than to remain at home in smug prosperity and ease.

"If I had been exiled no one would have gone with me," he thought.

The alluring image of the woman rose before his mind.

He thought he would see her once more; he thought that it would please him to offer her some protection and assistance in her heroic act.

Perhaps they would be married before they went: for her sake he would fetch and fee the priest-he was prepared to rise to nobility for the sake of Estreldis.

It would be strange to see Juan. again-yet not altogether displeasing.

He turned in the direction of the house of Doña Estreldis.

Many a shop he passed was closed, many a house shuttered; from many a garden came sounds of hurry, confusion, wailing and cries.

Don Pablo tried not to notice these things; he wished Villajoyosa would be as it had been a week ago-as it had been ever since he had known the town.

These sights and sounds of distress stirred something fierce in his blood. He hastened his steps.

As he reached the low white portico of the Ayamontes he stood at a loss, wondering if she would see him-or any-at this moment.

Her duenna came to the lattice to peer at the new-comer, and seeing Don Pablo hastened to admit him to the outside staircase that led from the courtyard to the apartments of her young mistress.

Don Pablo came silently into her presence, using the reverence one would use before a great grief.

The room had dull red walls and black furniture, and still had the straw blinds drawn out over the flowerfilled balcony so that it was cool and full of shade.

Doña Estreldis sat on a dark scarlet couch; behind her the duenna had her place at a spinning-wheel and was carding white yarn from a large rush basket.

Pablo kissed the young woman's finger-tips and stood looking at her.

She was dressed as if ready to go

forth.

Her full skirts of a shining pearlcolored taffeta, edged with bands of black velvet, just lifted to show her scarlet shoes; her black bodice, laced with strings of coral beads, was fastened loosely over an undergarment of lace mingled with silver threads, over which she wore an emerald green silk jacket bordered with red roses, and over that was a white shawl, fringed and fine as gossamer.

A string of gold filigree beads enclosed her round smooth throat, her dusky brown hair was curled up into a high tortoise-shell comb set with corals, and in her ears hung long pearls.

Between her full lips she held a gardenia, and she stared at her completed toilette in a little gold hand-mirror which she held slackly on her lap.

She did not smile at Don Pablo her large lustrous eyes rested on him mournfully.

Nor did he know what to say; she had always been very desirable and beautiful in his eyes; now she had the air of something apart and holy, for

he viewed her through the glory of the heroic sacrifice he believed she was going to make for his brother's sake.

He envied Juan.

She took the flower from her lips and fastened it behind her delicate little ear.

"It is a long time since you have been here," she said.

He had no answer.

"Why do you come now?" she asked gently; she leaned back on the dark rich cushion; her exotic, frail and transient beauty glowed at him with the splendor of a perfect thing.

It was strange to think of her among the exiles in Barbary.

"I thought you might need me," he said earnestly and humbly.

Her moist lips parted in a faint smile

as she replied.

"That was a most gentle thought, Don Pablo," she said.

"Can I help you?"

Her heavy lashes drooped. "Help me?"

"In any way."

He thought that she was shy of asking his assistance for his brother; he wished to clearly show her his generosity.

Doña Estreldis appeared to be considering.

"I was very unkind to you," she murmured softly.

With raised hand he made a gesture of protest.

"And now I am punished," concluded the lady.

"I am here to help you."

She considered him with a full look from her languorous eyes.

"Have you seen Juan?"

She spoke the name with less emotion than he had expected; he admired her courage.

"No."

"Oh"-she pursed her lips. Don Pablo explained himself.

"As there had not been good feeling

She looked at him with meaning, her glance was full of encouragement. "I am free," she repeated. "You are not going with him?" asked Don Pablo stupidly.

"Señor! Do you know what. you say? Go with him-accompany an exile to the coasts of Barbary—if I was so foolish it would not be permitted me!" He saw now indeed the folly of his supposition.

"No, I did not know what I was saying," he answered.

"And he is ruined," continued Doña Estreldis, "quite ruined."

"I know-quite ruined."

The lady spoke again, in her sweet and plaintive tones which echoed strangely in the brain of her listener.

"It has been terrible for me-but it was my own unreasonableness. My father was always against the match. A girl's caprice, Señor.”

She gave him a long look.

"I have suffered, Madonna!" she added with a sigh.

"I am sorry for you, Doña Estreldis." He rose.

She also got up, shaking her silks. "I take your coming graciously. Will you wait and see my father, who is now abroad?”

He made heavy excuses; he was not looking into her tempting face, but down at the floor.

She put out her little perfumed hand at their parting.

He saw that he could have her now, for the asking.

His brother was dead to her-no longer in her world or in her scheme of life.

She was ready to take another cavalier to fill his place.

Thus was Estreldis!

He left her; he heard her rustle out on to the balcony and as he crossed the courtyard the white gardenia from her hair fell at his feet.

Don Pablo looked up. She disappeared with a laugh, her finger to her lips.

He went his way, leaving the white flower to wither in the sun.

Thus was Estreldis!

Well, he had the better cause to rejoice his enemy was stripped indeed and he had no need to exercise generosity, no need to aid or envy Juan.

His was the entire triumph now; he might, if he would, win the disputed woman now-or, if he would, disdain her.

And Juan would go alone.

No word or look from his beloved would soften his departure; he would go knowing her indifferent to his fate. So crudely Don Pablo put his thought, so crudely it remained with him, the

thought and the sting thereof-he wondered why there should be any sting in the consideration of the lightness of this woman.

Was not the man his rival and his enemy?

Had he not, to until an hour ago, desired Estreldis and now she could be his?

She was still beautiful-he could remember every detail of her beauty as he remembered the shape and color of the stones in the scimitar he had handled that morning.

Why then was she valueless?

He could not answer this-it was beyond him to interpret the moods of his own soul.

Without purpose or aim he returned to his house; everything was as usual, but it did not seem so to Don Pablo.

That night there was a thunderstorm over Villajoyosa; Pablo lay awake all night listening to the sound of it.

He arose before his household was astir, and putting on his plainest cloak went down to the counting-house and took the turkis stone scimitar from the drawer.

Then he set out, as the old Morisco had gone, without a backward look at his home and his prosperity.

He made his way to the quays where the wretched exiles were being driven on board the galleys by the insolent Spanish officials.

After the rain of last night the sun shone with a liquid brightness, the roofs of Villajoyosa gleamed between the fig and palm, the blue and violet sea was rough with waves capped by pearl-colored foam.

Along the dusty white road from the town came Juan.

Pablo de Tassio went to meet him. The elder brother drew his mantle closer about his face and hurried on.

Don Pablo walked beside him, hurrying to keep pace.

"I am going too, I also have Morisco blood-see, do you remember this?" He held out the flashing scimitar from the shade of his cloak.

"It belonged to our Mother's people -I am coming with you."

Juan paused in his walk.
"Why?"

"I do not know-I had to."

Juan looked at him keenly out of the keen dark eyes so like his own. "We used to love each other," he' said.

"I remembered that."

"I was very lonely," added Juan. "And I-when I heard that you were going."

"It is strange," said Juan.

The half-brothers stepped together onto the galley that was to take them into perpetual exile.

That night, as they lay together on the hard bench and in the foul darkness, Pablo lying awake with many thoughts, felt his brother gently kiss his brow.

And somehow he was repaid for all he had left behind-and for Estreldis. Marjorie Bowen.

The time has come for a very large increase in the number of school gardens, and for a considerable change in the method of using them. It is not merely that a much larger number of people should be taught the principles and practice of horticulture, though that is important. There is no one who does not agree that this country must be more self-dependent in the matter of its food supply, and that a much larger number of people must be induced to work on the land. The multiplication of school gardens will help in that direction; but it is not of the teaching of horticulture that we are chiefly thinking. The fact is that a garden may be so used in the work of a school as to have the highest educational value. It may be made to give life and reality to almost every part of the curriculum, and to assist most effectively in the physical, moral, æsthetic, scientific, industrial, and social education of young people. Indeed it would not be an exaggeration to say that almost the whole of the activities of a school might be made to center upon, and take place in, a garden, and that a great increase of efficiency would follow any such development.

It seems strange that it is only quite recently that it has been thought necessary or desirable that a garden should be run in connection with the teaching of Cookery. There is, surely, a natural alliance between the kitchen and the garden. The vegetables that are cooked in the one are grown in the other. One would have thought that, wherever it was possible, girls would have been taught to cultivate the cabbages they cooked. It is curious to notice that it is only the schools that are attended by the children of the wealthy that have their garden mistresses, and that teach girls the practical management of the ground. The gardens attached to the Council schools are used exclusively for boys. Yet all girls who are old enough to learn Cookery are old enough to learn Gardening, and our own experience shows that they very much like to do it. We have seen, during 1916, a kitchen garden worked by girls of an ordinary Council school, and no work was more enjoyed by the girls, or better done. Of course there are things which girls should not and could not do; but these are very few. It must be worth while to give to girls a knowledge of the pleasure and profit to be derived