Today's Stichomancy for Alan Moore

sort of a Skeme, he said afterwards, and he wrinkled a coat under his mattress last night. He said it was to look as if he had slept in it. I know nothing further of your daughter's Skeme. But I know he went out to meet her. He has not been seen since. His manager has hunted for to hours."

"Just a moment," said mother, in a fridgid tone. "Am I to understand that this--this Mr. Egleston is----"

"He is my Husband."

Ah, dear Dairy, that I might then and there have passed away. But I did not. I stood there, with my heart crushed, until I felt strong enough to escape. Then I fled, like a Gilty Soul. It was gastly.

mand of the advance guard approached and when Tarzan and the girl spoke to him in English, explaining their disguises, he accepted their word, since they were evidently not of the same race as the creatures which lay dead about them. Ten minutes later the main body of the expedition came into view. Smith-Oldwick's wounds were dressed, as well as were those of the ape-man, and in half an hour they were on their way to the camp of their rescuers.

That night it was arranged that the following day Smith- Oldwick and Bertha Kircher should be transported to British headquarters near the coast by aeroplane, the two planes

Tarzan the Untamed

sofas when she wanted to cut out the backs. And it was helping her I met my lady...

...Not so very, madam. I was thirteen, turned. And I don't remember ever feeling--well--a child, as you might say. You see there was my uniform, and one thing and another. My lady put me into collars and cuffs from the first. Oh yes--once I did! That was--funny! It was like this. My lady had her two little nieces staying with her--we were at Sheldon at the time- -and there was a fair on the common.

"Now, Ellen," she said, "I want you to take the two young ladies for a ride on the donkeys." Off we went; solemn little loves they were; each had a hand. But when we came to the donkeys they were too shy to go on. So we

men. But if so, how many thousands of heroines there must have been, how many thousands there may be now, of whom we shall never know. But still they are there. They sow in secret the seed of which we pluck the flower and eat the fruit, and know not that we pass the sower daily in the street; perhaps some humble, ill- dressed woman, earning painfully her own small sustenance. She who nurses a bedridden mother, instead of sending her to the workhouse. She who spends her heart and her money on a drunken father, a reckless brother, on the orphans of a kinsman or a friend. She who--But why go on with the long list of great little heroisms, with which a clergyman at least comes in contact daily--