is illustrated by the fact that our expenses so far in maintaining the flag for their trade to follow have been about one million of dollars a day. A discrepancy exists between this frankly brutal form of expansion for money and the highly moral but unbusiness-like type which desires "to see the United States giving protection, inspiration and assistance to communities emancipated from crushing despotism and needing the blessings of freedom, justice,. and self-government." It is humiliating for the citizens of a republic to gravely consider whether they will or will not subjugate any people for the sake of making money out of them. It is not a question of new homes for the masses of our people. The financial advantages of retaining the islands exist in the hopes of commercial syndicates and adventurous financiers, like Cecil Rhodes of South Africa, who desire this nation to keep the peace for them at its own expense while they exploit the colony and control its government.

It is assumed that our control of the colonies will make them vastly profitable to us. That is merely assumed; it is not proved. In this day of world-wide commerce and competition, trade does not follow the flag, but pursues the best article for the cheapest price. Trade is absolutely devoid of patriotism. It will not honor the flag, and the flag can not coerce it. All the armies and flags of the world could not have forced American manufactures into distant markets under our old rudimentary system of production when English manufacturers were so much our superiors. All the armies of the world can not prevent our manufactures from reaching the natural demand for them, whenever we are able to supply what the world wants at the lowest prices. A single illustration of trade ought to expose the fallacy that it is necessary or desirable for the Republic to dominate any people in order to trade with them and to build up commerce. South Africa is dominated by Great Britain, our greatest rival in trade. In June, 1899, our consul at Cape Town. traveled through South Africa and noted the conditions of trade. He reported to his Government that American manufacturers supplied nearly all the wire fencing, most of the mining machinery, the steel rails for one hundred and fifty miles of

railroad, shiploads of redwood and Oregon pine, all the water-pipes about Kimberly, some locomotives on the railroad to the city, many of the agricultural implements in use, and all sorts of small tools, like hammers, hatchets, and chisels. The trade in South Africa does not follow the British flag. Britons themselves buy of the United States whenever they can get what they want at a lower price. There is no more profit to this nation in subjugating the Filipinos than there would be in caging a wilderness of apes. The aggrandizement of individuals might result, but we are not considering individuals. The experience of other countries indicates that except in affording an outlet for overflowing population, no colony was ever profitable to the mother country. They are usually children which she is compelled to bring to maturity at her own expense. We may

owe duties of this kind to our own offspring, but to adopt a young nation of Malays and attempt to bring it to years of discretion is an undertaking characterized by imprudence and a silly benevolence that is not only unwise but harmful.

It is also urged that if we relinquish these islands, some other nation will conquer them. Arguments of that kind need no reply. It is the plea of the thief who excuses his crime by alleging that if he had not stolen the plunder some other rascal would have taken it. The American republic is not responsible for the foolish and greedy imperialism of European nations and it should not imitate their example. It is not so much our international duty to see that other nations do not steal as it is to see that our own nation does not become a thief.

Expansionists strenuously object to being termed imperialists. In this article their own name for their class has been used, but an effort has been made to show that expansion of the kind they advocate leads inevitably to imperialism, because it involves relations with a people who can not become our partners, and who must remain our subjects till we give them independence. Expansionists may not desire imperialism, but they can not avoid it except by giving the Filipinos their liberty. Thus the government already provided for the island of Negros, as described in the President's message, com

prises an advisory council of eight members elected by the people. Over this council is a military governor appointed by the United States, who appoints his executive subordinates and has absolute power to reject by a veto any legislative action the council may attempt. That kind of government is a military despotism. We may call it "teaching the Filipinos liberty and good government," but that assertion is a lie. It is not liberty and it is not good government, at least, it is the same kind of despotism that the Filipinos would establish for themselves if they had the opportunity, and no better, except that it artificially represses the natural and free expression of the ideas of an undeveloped people just as an animal is restrained by a cage. Such government may be, and probably is, the only kind practicable if we retain the islands.

Let us not deceive ourselves with fine words about "bestowing liberty." We can not bestow liberty by governing other people. If we as a people love liberty,not merely liberty for us, but liberty for all, there is only one way in which to confer its blessing. It is to give to others the same right of self-control that we demand for ourselves. It is to let other people seek their own welfare or ill-fare in their own way, free from our clumsy attempts to secure for them the liberty which they can attain only by adopting their own plans. A cat's government for a cat is better than any human contrivance, and cat government can not be well conducted by any other animal. A child learns to walk by failing and trying again. It can not learn by being repressed and by having the walking done by some other person. Our people have learned what civilization they have so far accomplished by failing and trying again. We had no teacher; do we want one now? We are still trying and failing, but out of our selfactivity will come genuine progress, even as it will come to the Filipinos if we let them enjoy Nature's teaching and do not inflict our own poor guidance. If we have failed to provide a government without imperialism for the negro,-and it is impossible to show that the negroes of the South enjoy self-government,-how shall we control and at the same time confer

self-government upon the Malays of the Philippines? The two ideas of sovereignty and self-government are incongruous. We can not whitewash a building with lampblack, and we can not teach the Filipinos true democracy or republicanism by subjugating them and establishing a despotism, no matter how benevolent it may be.

British expansionists, whom we are imitating, do not pretend that the policy of controlling weaker nations is not imperialism. The characteristic Briton is proud of imperialism, and maintains that it is the very best government for inferior races. He entertains no "nonsensical ideas about equal rights," and proceeds to absolutely dictate whatever policy he may consider to his advantage. "Volume of Trade" is the Marseillais which John Bull sings in his colonies. He makes no labored attempt to show that he is teaching liberty and self-government. He is in the torrid zone to buy and sell, and he preserves order, like a policeman with his club, in order that barter may be conducted. He is not particularly interested in the beneficent undertaking of inculcating liberty, but he contends that he governs all his subjugated races better than they could govern themselves if they were free.

John Bull's doctrine is the same which our American slave-owners maintained for a quarter of a century preceding the Civil War. Slavery was better for the negro than freedom, because he was ignorant and childlike, and because he enjoyed a sure maintenance under bondage better than self-effort and the penalties of failure. This doctrine was so thoroughly understood and believed that the slaves often pitied a "free nigger" who "had no massa." Yet the inevitable penalties of wrong were paid. If we judge conditions by immediate material prosperity, the British policy of caging the monkey without either pampering or unnecessarily restricting him is fairly successful. But there is always the aftermath. British imperialism applied to whites, though not the modern British colonial policy, led to the American Revolution. Imperialism in South Africa has caused the Boer war. Some day when they have gathered strength, Kipling's "sullen people" out

of their servile condition may develop catastrophes such as negro slavery produced, thus proving once more that no nation can mingle divergent races without paying the penalty in the end. Greed for money and for political domination may for a time be successful. But the injustice of any crime against nature perpetuates itself, and some day, in one way or another, there comes a reckoning. No nation on the face of the earth is wise

enough or good enough to rule another people, and no people are so ignorant or so vicious that they can not govern themselves better than others can govern for them. The greatest evils of slavery were inflicted upon the masters, and so the greatest evils of imperialism will afflict the dominant nations which are to-day adopting the ancient creeds of despotism under the euphonious name of "beneficent expansion."

N THE northern part of California there is a strange volcanic land, cracked and blanched and dry—a land of death. In this land there are many unmarked graves, and one, a new one, that is marked with a wooden slab. On the slab is a name and a date, and the verse: "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend."

"A skull? An Indian skull? On Jump-off Joe? Then I must have it."

Pete Morris stared. When he was astonished he looked more than ever like an unbaked pie.

"You must get it for me. No; take me, and I will get it."

"What do you want it for?" "To say my prayers to."

Pete's face changed. He had heard it whispered that this young woman was an infidel. The pride of virtue was strong in these "tule-twisters," who felt themselves to be the elect of Deity. Luria's laugh rang out in derision.

"You can get your own skull," he muttered doggedly.

Luria did not hear him, and he shifted. uneasily. After all, he remembered that he was a man. He reached for his hat.

"Do you want to go now?" he said awkwardly.

"Yes; this minute. If the skull's gone you'll have to kill an Indian. I must have one."

They presented a strange picture the young woman with her picture-hat and gypsy hair, small, nervously strung, graceful as a cat, fastidious yet indifferent, with scornful lips and dreamy eyes, repellent, almost beautiful; the man, big, blonde, shambling, work-hardened, yet so young, with a halt in his gait and a pulsing scar on his forehead where a horse had kicked him, broad, powerful, irresolute; behind them, the gray of the tules and alkali, before them the grim bluffs of Jump-off Joe.

They walked in silence, and the dead sage-brush crackled beneath their feet. The man's face was stoical and emotionless. The girl looked around her, and her breath came in little gasps. It had never seemed so terrible before, this leprous, white earth, naked and unashamed. Suddenly she knelt beside a stunted juniper and spread her handkerchief out tenderly on the ground. Her face was white and drawn.

Luria gave her shoulders a slignt shrug. "Well, you see, I've been here seven weeks already, and I mean to stay three more.' "What's that got to do with it? You surely don't imagine I'd fall in love with. you?"

Luria laughed. "Quien sabe? I don't mean that you shall."

"By heavens!" he broke out, his face purple with rage. "I'm not a fool, Miss Starr, if I was born on the desert. There are young women, right here, a good deal better than you are, if they are n't so hand

some."

"True," she said, still smiling. "But look!—there comes His Holiness."

She pointed to a man in blue overalls who was riding slowly toward them. His face, when he lifted it, was hard, bearded, and unsmiling.

"Ah! that's Sammie," said Pete.

All are known by their given names on the desert. Sammie was the middle-aged postmaster, and a pillar in the church.

"Do you know," Luria remarked, "he asked me last night if I was n't an infidel, and then what in the name of conscience my religion was.”

"I suppose you told him?" said Pete, acrimoniously.

"Yes; I told him."

Luria shrugged her shoulders again and laughed. There was a quality in her tonelike the tinkling of ice against a goblet.

"How things work you up!" she said. "I don't like to be serious myself-no one can be serious and quite sane, you know. But listen: It is n't that you 're necessarily a fool-that's a mere detail. It's the law. Put two together in a wilderness like this, let them break bread at the same table and breathe the same air, and if there's no one else very near, he 'll fall in love with her, every time. Of course, if she is n't too old or too ugly, it's just as well. But man is an amorous animal, and if his love is n't active it's potential. Who the woman is that brings it out is a mere matter of chance. Do you see? Now, I should n't like having you in love with me," she added fastidiously. "I should n't enjoy it. So you will please let me go on being disagreeable if I think it expedient." Expedient!" he snarled, his face growing purple. "You can save yourself the trouble. I thought-" he gulped twice"I thought women had hearts and were good. I can despise you now, Miss Starr, and I will. Why did n't you let me go on thinking women were good? What made you ever come?"

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Luria's lip curled. "A reason," she said coldly.

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"A reason? Yes. Ha, ha! A reason!" He laughed brutally. He laughed brutally. "It must have taken a reason to bring you here. They say it took a reason-ha, ha!"

Luria looked up at him, absolutely without resentment, and smiled. He blushed for shame. The passions of this young barbarian were complex.

"Are you mad?" he said clumsily. It was his apology.

"Mad? O, no," she said indifferently; only bored. Must we climb? Give me your hand, then."

He helped her over the loose blocks of lava, discolored with dead moss and sprouting with huge bunches of wild rye, till they came to the crevasse where the skull was lodged. He pointed it out mutely and stepped back. Luria gave a little cry of delight and loosened it fearlessly with her bare hands. He watched her with a half-sick curiosity as she turned it about, peered into its empty orbits, adjusted its detached and broken jaw, smiled, laughed,

chattered. The skull was small and mildewed, and the teeth were worn nearly to the sockets. He noted the contrast between her glowing, youthful beauty and that ghastly relic, and his heart turned sick within him. The relations of life and death were stern and fearful to him, and levity seemed the ferment of the devil. He wondered vaguely and miserably if in the infinity of God's mercy there was any salvation that could reach a young woman who could gather human bones from their resting-place and laugh.

"Heavens!" cried Luria. "What makes you look so glum? Do you think it's a Modoc?"

Luria gave him a startled look, then, quick as thought she replaced the skull where she had found it, and turned away. Don't you want it?" he asked.

She shook her head and started down the bluffs. The head of a squaw!" she murmured. I could n't take it if my life depended on it. It's a kind of chivalry, I guess. If I were a man," she smiled fantastically, "I should be tender of all women, living and dead. I should wear a lady on my shield and kill giants."

"Yes?" said Pete, interrogatively. "Yes. I should feel toward them as I do toward this great skeleton land of yours I should love and pity them." Pete did not answer. He was brooding

on fancies of his own.

The moon shone over the desert. Luria lay in her bed with sleepless eyes. At last she arose, threw a white shawl about her, drew on her feet her tiny worsted slippers, and lit her candle. On the table were some sheets of linen paper, closely covered with beautiful script. One of them was only partly filled. She took it and began to write. Her eyes were heavy with shadow

and her lips were parted in an ethereal smile.

"You are so near to me to-night, beloved," she wrote. "I walked out into the darkness and you were by me. I felt your presence and heard your voice. We looked up together to the stars, and my unrest forsook me. I reached my hands up toward them, and could almost have plucked those bright worlds from their courses-so near they seemed! But you caught my hands in yours and held them fast. You are like the stars, beloved, quiet and constant and cold, though your heart is a living flame. You drew me to your bosom, and I lay there like a babe at rest. And then the moon rose and I saw you. Your brow was pale, but your eyes burned into mine. I lifted my lips, and you kissed me. Ah, love, that kiss! Only death can merge our souls more nearly into one. There was in the whole communion the perfectness of death itself. It is like death to be here where you have been, to see the things you saw, to sit in the very room that was your room, and feel my soul unfettered in its love for you. The joy of it makes me want to die. And every day I go to the little church where you used to preach, and throw myself on my knees and pray—yes, pray, beloved!-that my love may be so pure that God will keep it immortal when I die for your sake, dearest. But sometimes when I want you most, when my arms are wide and desolate for you, you will not come, and I know that my heart is not pure. And then I laugh and do strange things, and it seems that I must go mad. But in the night you come to me, and I feel the touch of your priestly hands put out to bless me. I feel them on my

forehead now."

There was a sound on the porch outside She sighed, dropped her pen, and leaned back with closed eyes. A step shuffled along the walk, and the gate clicked. She did not hear. Somewhere in the house a clock struck one. Out in the moonlight Pete's stooping figure was silhouetted. against the sky. He had not slept, and his step was restless and uncertain. moved toward the black bluffs of Jump-off Joe. Beside a stunted juniper a patch of white gleamed in the moonlight. He stopped, gazed at it musingly, and picked it up. It was a woman's handkerchief.

He