sculptural flowers; the view was undisturbed.

It was hard for Mrs. Manstey to breathe; each moment it grew more
difficult. She tried to make them open the window, but they
would not understand. If she could have tasted the air, sweet
with the penetrating ailanthus savor, it would have eased her;
but the view at least was there--the spire was golden now, the
heavens had warmed from pearl to blue, day was alight from east
to west, even the magnolia had caught the sun.

Mrs. Manstey's head fell back and smiling she died.

That day the building of the extension was resumed.


The End



THE BOLTED DOOR
as first published in
Scribner's Magazine, March 1909



I


Hubert Granice, pacing the length of his pleasant lamp-lit
library, paused to compare his watch with the clock on the