I am a traveler in the great World-path; my garmentsare dirty and my feet are bleeding with thorns. Whereshould I achieve flower-beauty, the unsullied loveliness ofa moment's life? The gift that I proudly bring you isthe heart of a woman. Here have all pains and joysgathered, the hopes and fears and shames of a daughterof the dust; here love springs up struggling towardimmortal life. Herein lies an imperfection which yet isnoble and grand. If the flower service is finished, mymaster, accept this as your servant for the days to come.

—Rabindranath Tagore.

THE HONEY-POT

I

In her petticoat, barefooted, because themorning was sultry, Miss Maggy Delamere plieda well-worn hare's foot to her cheeks withthe sure touch of an artist. Professionallyspeaking and adding a final "e" to the term, thatis what she was—chorus-lady by courtesy,showgirl in the vernacular of the stage. On her smalldressing-table were ranged a number of pots andbottles, unguents and creams. A batteredmake-up box cont

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