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 ing a less definite and less diversified company. Some suspicion of the futility of their existence characterized and related them, and at the end of the procession trudged a weary old man, shabby, hungry, disdainful.

Paul looked "before and after," but without pining. The emotions which stirred within him seemed as impersonal as the delicate rustling of leaves overhead. His very life he shared with the tree, for he drew it from the same infinite source. The universe was a mint. He was a coin; the tree another. When the right time came each would be withdrawn from currency, to be remelted, restamped and reissued. It little mattered how one were invested, provided one kept in circulation. Even if one stepped out of circulation voluntarily, the resources of life would be none the poorer.

He lay at full length on the sand, and slept. When he awoke, the shadow of the tree extended far beyond his feet. He sat up and shuddered, for in his dreams he had been present at his own funeral. Miss Todd had sung "Abide with Me" and flatted. And the chimes of Fremantle tolled his knell.

The sounds he had heard in his sleep were the siren and bells of a passing ship. He watched her for a few moments, then turned his gaze far down the canal, in the direction of the last warehouses outside the town. There a big black, top-heavy steamer was approaching. His heart beat faster, and he sat back against the trunk of the tree, instinctively straightening his coat and necktie as if in anticipation of an encounter.

Slowly, slowly, the Cranmore advanced. He could hear, across acres of sand, the pulse of her engines, the breathing of her funnel. She was alive; he was fond of her; and she was carrying with her all his old life, carrying it away beyond recall.

On the decks he made out figures and identified them by their positions. Behind the house were the rows of