guys in their days, and if that rummy janitor gits in my way he'll know what is meant when the harp singin' folks talk about 'Flash Light' McGee." "Say, you sure can string a wicked hunk o' language." With ominous deliberation these two figures moved uncannily toward the college building on that eventful Sunday night-or shall I say Monday morning, for it was after one o'clock. "Dr. Harmon will surely think to heat his key," thought Sybil as she came to plug the keyhole of the Science rooms, "guess I'll break this tooth pick in small pieces and then stuff gum in too." Heavy had completed her job and stood fearfully waiting for Sybil to come down when she heard muffled footsteps, then a slight fumbling of the front door lock. Should she warn Sybil? How could she without awakening the custodian? Who could it be? If they were caught what on earth would the consequences be? With these thoughts racing through her mind she stood frozen with terror while two silent figures, intent on some purpose and seemingly familiar with a plan of action stole quietly up to the third floor. Sybil had completed her work on the door of the laboratory. As she moved silently toward the next keyhole to be stuffed, a slight noise reached her ears. Unconsciously her hand felt for her automatic. She had given Heavy and Ike strict orders not to come up. Had they dared to come-or-? She stood quietly in the shadow. In a moment two figures had passed through the dim light of the hall window. Sybil felt her strength suddenly leave her. Those two characters did not look as if they were bent on any good work. Poor Heavy. The wait seemed interminable. No sound came from above after the men's ascent. The sounds from the street had ceased. Motor cars roared suddenly into life then departed with a diminuendo of explosions. Still no sound from above. Suddenly it came. A muttered oath. Then silence. Then- "What cha doin'? I never see Flash Light McGee spend more'n a jiffy with any lock and you said y' had a Yale key to fit this'n." "What d'ye suppose I'm doin'? Writin' a letter t' my best girl?" "You're shure losin' a lot of valuable time anyhow, pard," said Deliberate Dan. "The lock's full a gum and sticks, or sumpin that shure won't budge," said he after a flash-light inspection. "Doc. Harmon is a leetle bit smarter'n we thought, aint he? He musta figured on somethin' like this an filled 'er up with gum; guess you'll have to git out yer jimmyin' tools." "Hell, I didn't bring none; thought I could git in with this key." "Wa-all I reckon we don't git no radium tonight." Deliberate Dan wheeled suddenly, his ear cocked as he heard a muffled creak down stairs. "We better git out while beatin' it's good," numbled McGee, tersely; "Somebudy's walkin' in on our neat little jag." Sybil had not moved; she had stood with her automatic leveled at the man working on the door, but Heavy, too nervous to stay so near the main hall, had crept a few steps along the floor to a more shadowy corner. The burglars started down the stairs. Sybil fired into the air; Heavy and Ike screamed; and the burglars ran as though the entire police force was on their trail. The frightened girls also did not stop, but flew rather than ran down the stairs, made a hasty exit, reached their car and solemnly swore that they were off Amazon Jaunts for life. Next morning every one was slightly curious about the gummed locks, but no one ever knew that in that act of vandalism fate had protected $2,000,000 worth of radium, foiled a desperate pair of crooks, and brought three foolish girls to the realization that even an Amazon can be frightened. The Quality of Greatness Flora Eccles Douglas "HE IS NOT a man but a stray angel who has singed his wings a little and tumbled into our sphere." Such was the tribute paid to John Ruskin. We may wonder why so few "stray angels tumble into our sphere." Surely, we say, the world has need of them. The fault is within ourselves-beautiful souls are numerous, but because of our mistaken idea of greatness we do not recognize them, and thus, without a single "ripple of renoun" they pass within our midst unnoticed. We are all too prone to measure greatness by dollars and cents. Yesterday I spent the afternoon at the library browsing among old magazines. I read a little of Mark Twain; became more familiar with George "Singnor" Watts and Burn-Jones, and I made the acquaintance of Francis Fisher Brown, the father of the "Dial." I have been chuckling ever since over bits of Mark Twain's humor. Burn-Jones inspired me when he said "Beauty is very beautiful and softens and comforts and rouses and lifts up and never fails." I read of how Watts, who was called "Singnor," by his friends, because the unpoetical George was so harsh to his ear, once reprimanded Tennyson, who was out of sorts and expressed his thoughts in a like manner, by simply saying, "Why, you wouldn't have had your Arthur speak thus,"--. "You are right," answered Tennyson, and his humor changed immediately. I wish I could tell you as well as John Muir does, the story of how he and Francis Fisher Brown, one night, kept John Burrough from his usually undisturbed, peaceful slumbers. I am inclined to think that perhaps John Burrough stayed awake by preference, in order not to miss anything, for the weapon Muir and Brown used was poetry and song. The three friends had gone to bed, Brown and Muir in one room and Burrough in an adjoining one. Brown had been suffering from a severe headache, but as it wore off his high spirits returned and the fun began. The two men lay in their bed singing and reciting poetry until far into the night, taking no notice, whatever, of a knocking on the wall. There was something about those four sketches, something about each character that made me think of a child. It was their charm, their kindness. and their joy in living. And as I meditated thus, this dawned upon me for the first time-they only achieve true greatness, who keep within their hearts the essence of the child-Christ declared as much when he said, "Unless ye become as little children ye cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven."