LICIA has begun another journal. It is the seventh, I think. There must be at least six others about the house in various conditions of abandonment, some with quite ten pages filled with Alicia's extendedorder handwriting. As yet she has said nothing whatever to me about this new start, which is probably my own fault. I grew sceptical and unfeeling after the fifth. But there was no mistaking the book. I recognized it at once. She brought it home yesterday, quite a volume, two hundred pages or more, bound in crimson leather with gold tooling. When she had it nearly half unwrapped, and wholly betrayed, she became confused, fumbled with the paper and string in a quick effort at concealment, and dropped another book from her lap. As she thrust it, a disordered bundle, into her writing-desk without so much as a word, I knew the season of the journal to be again at hand. It recurs every six or eight months, and lasts several days. And it always demands a new and elaborate equipment. I now expect a gold penholder and a most serious mien.

I watched Alicia's performance with the crimson book, but held my peace, doubtless to her relief, since it saved her the necessity of replying, "Oh, just a book," which had characterized the advent of several of its predecessors. The utter lack of consciousness in the look she turned upon me afterward provoked me to smile, and I was all prepared to say, “Oh, just smiling," but she saw fit to ignore my amusement, and we fell to talking of the events of the day.

There had been none of the old, familiar opening exercises. She did not lay the book rather magnanimously in my hand and ask whether I did not consider it well bound, strongly made, beautifully finished and-and ridiculously cheap. Of course, it had been customary to make me guess at the price, which I did in fear and trembling, lest I might undervalue. Nor did Alicia then receive it from me with certain admir

ing pattings and pressings, and a polishing rub with her handkerchief, especially earnest if I had gone wide of the price.

No, none of these things happened. The book went into the desk with a crackle of paper, a crimson flash-and that was all. I even sought Alicia's face in vain for the bright light of a new resolve. Also, I confessed to a curiosity—that is, confessed to myself-but I did not once glance at the writing-desk. Alicia did so, I thought, several times, and I wondered why, if this was to be the secret undertaking it promised, she had selected bright crimson of all colors. Defiance, may be, or the red rag to my bull. If so, I vowed I would neither snort and paw the dirt nor rush madly about the ring. I would stand quite still and wait.

I waited, and to-night the mysterious volume came forth. It was long after dinner, and I was deep in a book. I heard Alicia rattling the pens about on her desk, and then she came over very quietly to my table and made a place for herself within the circle of lamplight. The crimson book, carefully clad in paper, was in her hand. I did not let my eyes rest upon it for more than an instant, but she evidently marked my inquisitiveness because as she laid it upon the table she screened it with her arm.

"Interested in your book?" she asked with particular cheeriness, drawing the inkstand toward her. It was in the tone one adopts toward a child who has received a quieting cake.

"Yes, very much," I replied; and then I added a malicious "Are you, in yours?" and waited, which was my part.

"I shall be very soon," she answered frankly, scrutinizing her pen, which, I regretted to discover, was not in a gold holder.

To give Alicia time for thought, and I deemed she required it for either my ends or her own, I promptly submerged myself in my reading, but rose now and then to the surface to watch my fellow-swimmer. She had struck out the moment I dived, and her strokes were audible, although she

seemed to be making them with extreme care across the fly-leaf of the journal. I went under again and came up in time to see her with her head on one side in satisfied contemplation of her performance. She clung to her pen, and once delicately corrected a minute fault of execution. Then I swam boldly ashore, waited, and confronted her.

"Have you inscribed that Volume Seven'?" I asked. She glanced up and, screen-wise, raised the cover of her book. "Volume Seven? I don't know what you mean?" she replied. Her surprise was magnificent.

"Then this is not to be a companion to the other six volumes of your-journal?" I never before regretted that this word has only two syllables. With four I could have transfixed her.

"My journal?" I nodded. "Oh, my journal-yes. I thought you had forgotten. Were there six ?"

Alicia slowly lowered her gaze, as if she had sufficiently indulged a triviality, and read what she had written upon the fly-leaf. "What do you intend writing in it this time?" I asked, airily pointing at the crimson secret with my pipe-stem. Alicia had again guarded it with her arm.

'What does one usually write in a journal?"

"That depends upon whom you mean by 'one.' I came upon one of 'one's' journals the other day," I continued pleasantly, "and found that it had a preface of four torn-out pages, several chapters of butcher's and grocer's orders, and an appendix of laundry lists."

"Which renders it not entirely valueless as a record." Alicia was tracing intricate arabesques on the blotter. "Have you as minutely examined the other five?" Her eyebrows lifted slightly.

"No; I had no heart to look further," I replied. "I remembered the dash with which that one was begun-I believe I got it for you-and when I encountered 'chickens,' 'chops,' asparagus,' and 'collars,' and these in crushed levant, I was indeed downcast." I knocked from my pipe the ashes of my hopes and gazed mournfully at Alicia. She was smiling behind a mask.

"Because you had expected to find something about-yourself?" she asked. The eyebrows rose a trifle higher.

"Oh, I found that-in the laundry lists. However, one may write what one pleases in one's journal." Without much effort "one" may be made to sound very distant.

"And yet, a moment ago you demanded to know what I intended writing in this— "Volume Seven,' I believe you designated it."

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'Interest, simply," I replied; "it seemed such a nice book, much nicer than the others."

"Well, suppose I begin with you?" Alicia looked at me as she had at her writing on the fly-leaf, her head aslant and chin slightly advanced. It had the effect of placing me several feet below her. "One may write what one pleases in one's journal,' O lawgiver."

I bowed. "I am not superior to the laws," I said gravely. "I am in your hands, with the chickens, the beef, and the clothes. Now, you will appreciate my gentle interest that of a household commodity."

There was silence for a moment, and I turned strategically to my reading. Alicia sank back in her chair and began looking at her rings. I could see her past the edge of my book. Then she spoke, and I scarcely had time to get my eyes back upon my page.

"Why is it you always ridicule my journals? Do you think me silly?"

The change in Alicia's tone confounded me. There was a sudden note of reproach in her voice, but one so low and fluttering it might have escaped me had I been really reading. I felt boyishly ashamed of myself. Book and bantering were flung aside in an instant. "Why, my dear," I cried, "you

"No, no; you don't understand." She interrupted me with outstretched hand.” "I've never thought of it in that way-and I'm not reproaching you now. I'm not so silly as that." She laughed quickly. "What would you do without poor, amusing me?"

"That is a condition I have never yet contemplated," I replied, much relieved.

"But you seem to have viewed my literary remains very seriously. The merest suggestion of a reincarnation"—she indicated the crimson book-"has served to start a flood of-funny reminiscence."

When Alicia says "funny" as if it had

I as

three "f's" all is over between us. sumed a retrospective expression with one eye closed.

"Alicia Rushton as I Knew Her; Compiled from her Journals!'"

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"By Her Inconsolable Husband.'" She crossed her hands upon her breast and looked at the ceiling like the angel in boarding-house tableaux. "But is it not rather heartless, to say the least, to begin editing them now?”

"Ye-es, perhaps, but the butcher and the grocer will never know if we leave them out." I did not look at Alicia. "The iceman-of course you have remembered him -is somewhat more formidable, and he comes into the house. I'd be careful about him."

From the secure retreat of her chair Alicia was making little giggling noises intended for mirth, but lamentably revealing to me her discomfiture.

"Now, your new book," I went on, "the nice red one

Alicia came forward alertly. "Yes?" she said, beaming with all the eagerness of a small boy who is awaiting permission to bring a strange dog into the house. "Yes, the nice red oneThe small boy extolling its qualities.

"If you can give me an idea"-I was all paternal kindness and caution-“even a slight idea of what you intend—that is, whom you intend immortalizing in your in Volume Seven-I might be able to help you with it by writing four or five pages now and then, say, when you were out shopping or visiting. You could read them over afterward, and, perhaps, add a line or two if you were not too tired. In that way we could finish it quickly and begin on another."

This was as far as I dared go without pausing, and as soon as I had clapped on the period I vanished. I got almost under the table in a search for the paper-cutter in my hand. I stayed down until my face was purple, and then rose slowly and warily.

Alicia waited until I was right side up, and then ingenuously asked, "What have you been doing?"

"I? Why, I've been looking for my pi-the paper-cutter. Now, that book of yours

"Of ours, yes. You were saying, dear

"I was simply suggesting a means of helping you," I continued. "You have never undertaken this journal keeping in the proper way, Alicia. You began one volume, I remember, with a description of a sunset which faded into a recipe for ris de veau Voisin. In the twilight of the succeeding pages I found several sums in addition, such as two dollars and three dollars make five dollars, and a series of agonized attempts to determine how much fifteen pounds of ice cost if it is thirty cents a hundredweight."

Alicia smiled curiously at the lamp. "I don't believe I ever did find out," she remarked despairingly, and, I thought, irrelevantly. "But you are not helping me. I have submitted sunsets, grocers, and arithmetic, and you laugh at them. Now, Solomon, tell me what I shall write."

"Well," I said, wrinkling my forehead sagely, "a journal should, naturally, be personal in character, and I have thought it a pretty idea for you to-to keep a record of our sweetly peaceful little evenings here at home. You might call them 'Hearthstone Harmonies' or 'The Doves' Diary'something tender like that.”

Alicia was regarding me with the vigilant indifference of a cat watching her kitten play. The crimson book was blushing under a newspaper. I went friskily on. "Treasure all I have told you and we'll conquer that butcher motif yet," I said, giving my head a flourish of determination.

"You are very good," Alicia responded, studying the clock, "to have given so much time to my first lesson. 'The Helping Hand' will sound so well for my opening entry, although I fear it is rather too late to begin on it to-night." She uncovered the book with an assumption of languor and opened it. 'But I have already written something," she continued guiltily, "only a dedication, just two lines. Perhaps I should show them to you-by way of gratitude."

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"Umhm," I replied through my nose, as I was coaxing a waning spark in my pipe. Her temerity astonished me. I extended my hand and, quite affectionately, she delivered the volume into the scoffer's grasp. And on a square of paper lying across the fly-leaf I read

For My Dear Husband,
November 21, 1904.

"My birthday! To-day?" I exclaimed, and, beyond that, was speechless.

"Yes," softly replied a voice above me, "and I was so afraid you would remember. I was in a panic yesterday when I un

wrapped the book by mistake. But-but are you not ashamed of yourself?"

I sprang to my feet and the curtain fell on the coming of the crimson Kelmscott, which we call "Volume VII."

American Aspirations.

dices of their several purposes. We ought to be able to deduce from consideration of some of them some idea of the direction in which we are travelling. How nearly, then, do our national intentions reflect the spirit of peace and goodwill which ought to regulate the behavior of nations?

We need not deal altogether with platforms, for they may be complicated by political strategies. What were the ideas that counted in the campaign? No single thing was taken more for granted than that our people wanted peace. The charge most constantly reiterated against the Republican candidate was that he admired war for its own sake, and might be overready to undertake it. He was accused of militarism and militancy, and his opponents never ceased to press the charge home. Far from admitting the charge and justifying the condition of mind it imputed, his supporters steadily and emphatically denied it. They declared that their leader loved peace above all things except the honor and safety of the nation; that he was not too strenuous; and that far from having an ear attuned to the clash of arms, he was of a nature earnestly and conclusively pacific. Secretary Hay

testified before the Peace Congress to his "tireless energy in pursuit of concord." Nobody sought to improve his chances of election by insisting that he was an eager fighter, that his ideals were military, or that the kind of glory he coveted most was that which comes from success in war. On the contrary, the exculpation of the Republican candidate from charges of that nature was a conspicuous feature of the campaign.

Since, then, the imputation of warlike impulses to a candidate for the presidency is held by common consent to be injurious, it is fair to reason that as a people we are believed to have an ardent national aspiration after peace.

The

The Philippines cut no very vital figure in the campaign, but nearly all the argument about them was concerned with what was most conducive to their welfare. most eager expansionist rarely ventured to argue that the islands could be made profitable to us, and that therefore we ought to keep them. The prevailing claim of the retentionists was that the Filipinos would get into awful trouble if we turned them loose, while the party that called-not without misgiving for a pledge of independence, argued that it was best for the Filipinos to have that assurance, and best, by far, for us that we should give it. This last suggestion covered almost the only point in which even intelligent self-interest was allowed to figure. All the old arguments about rich forests, and hemp, and the possibilities of valuable trade were hushed in the presence of a moral people.

In the Panama matter the contention was not that the immediate results of putting the canal strip into American hands were not

highly desirable.

The critics objected to the methods of acquisition, as being not such as a powerful, just, and generous nation should use with a very weak one. The appeal was to a people that aspired to be just. The arguments against the tariff and against the trusts girded at those institutions as contrivances which impaired equality of opportunity, and which taxed all the people for the rich and strong. The defence was that the tariff protected labor, and that the trusts sometimes cheapened to the consumer the commodities they dealt in. Whether the assault was justified or not, whether the defence was valid or not, the appeal was to a people who wanted equal justice to all

comers.

That the race issue entered so little into the active canvass was because neither side dared raise it. The Democrats dared not go before the American people with a race policy which involved limitation of the negroes' just rights; the Republicans dared not subscribe to a policy which would make them appear unsympathetic with the perplexities of the Southern whites. The absence of a definite appeal from either party on a subject which constantly engages public attention was evidence of strong reluctance to impair goodwill between the different sections of the country. The great parties dared not meddle with the race issue, because it was not clear that any specific interference by the Federal Government could help matters, and because neither party dared advocate a course that the people might not consider helpful.

good or bad, that will reach them. With the soundness of the arguments we have considered this present discourse has no concern. Its purpose is no more than to point out that the appeal was almost invariably to lofty sentiments. The voter was instinctively credited with loving peace and righteousness, and with being stirred by sentiments of good-will to men. No effort to array class against class cut any figure in the campaign. There was hardly a visible attempt to array labor against capital, except as the trusts and the tariff are held to be capitalistic. The Haves and the Have-nots were not distinctly on different sides. Each party tried to demonstrate that it was more peaceable, more équitable, more sincerely devoted to lawful and righteous behavior than the other.

Let us hope the best party won. Let us hope we are good people, as people go, and that the politicians' estimate of our dispositions and aspirations is justified by our qualities. It is a far more vital matter what sort of folk we are and what we want, than what particular set of public servants are at any time deputized to ascertain and carry out our wishes. It is not buncombe to say that. That is what, in the long run, our officers of government do. of the majority.

They carry out the wishes If they don't, we turn them out. Of course, on many public questions the people are slow in reaching conclusions. Of course the intricate machinery by which their convictions are translated into governmental policies is often very sluggish in its operations. But when they know what they want eventually they get it by putting into office the men who will do their will.

It is by electing Presidents that the voters learn what national policies they approve, and they learn their will in State or local matters by electing governors or mayors. A great political campaign is the greatest school of all the schools our country maintains, and none of us who is attentive comes out of it exactly as he went in. It educates the voters, the speakers, the writers; makes them consider and weigh and decide. And what an education it must be to the candidates! To run for President is like facing the last judgment. The great book is opened, all the candidate's misdeeds are revealed-besides many that he never did— and his chief consolation must be that his opponent, too, is mortal man like himself,