wisdom mingled with whatever dross was to be found in their speech.

Their views were extreme enough. Fenton was fond of maintaining
astounding propositions, using the club much as Dr. Oliver Wendell
Holmes once privately said Wendell Phillips does the community, "to try
the strength of extravagant theories;" and none of the Pagans were
restrained by any conventionality from a free expression of opinion.

It was on the afternoon of the day fixed for the Pagan meeting when
Helen Greyson took her way across the Common and through the business
portion of the city to the building down by the wharves where were the
studios of Herman and his pupils. It was feebly raining, the weather
having been decidedly whimsical all that week, and the clouds rolled in
ragged, sullen masses overhead. Helen felt the gloom of the day as a
vague depression which she endeavored in vain to shake off, and
hastened towards her studio, hoping to be able to lose herself in her
work.

Picking her steps among the piles of fire-brick and terra-cotta which
lumbered the yard and the long shed skirting the building, which was a
terra-cotta manufactory, she let herself in at a side door and went
directly to her studio.

Removing the wet cloths from her bas-relief, she stood for a moment
studying it, and then investing herself in a great apron, set busily to
work upon one of the fleeting figures in the composition.

She had scarcely begun when as often before a heavy step was heard upon
the stair without, a tap sounded lightly upon her door, and, in answer
to her invitation, Grant Herman entered.