and the words beat him backward to the demons as they arose.

He caught a glimpse of the singer, a young man clad in a brown habit
of penance with the cord of purity girt about him. His eyes looked
once into the eyes of the man with the dead soul. They were the eyes
of the one to whom he had left his legacy of hate and wealth and
evil--his own and his only son.

Shuddering, the man with the dead soul awoke from his dream, and
behold, he was lying in the desert where the gold tempted him from out
of the great rocks and the diamonds shone in the sunlight. He looked
at them not at all, but straightway he went to where good men sang the
"Miserere" and were clad in brown robes. And as he went it came to
pass that his dead soul leaped in the joy of a new resurrection.




THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A DOLLAR


I was born in a beautiful city on the banks of a charming river, the
capital of a great nation. Unlike humans, I can remember no childhood,
though it is said that I had a formative period in the care of artists
whose brains conceived the beauty of my face and whose hands realized
the glory of their dreams. But to them I was only a pretty thing of
paper with line and color upon it. They gave me nothing else, and I
really began to live only when some one representing the Great Nation
stamped a seal upon me. Though a bloodless thing, yet I felt a throb
of being. I lived, and the joy of it went rioting through me.