yawned. "I feel I could talk better on top of a bus than on
my feet just now," he went on. "How many miles have we
done, should you think?"

"Twenty-three?" Quentin hazarded.

"Thereabouts," the other nodded, and stretched
himself lazily. "Well, if we're going on, let's," and as they
began to stroll slowly along, "Mightn't it be a good thing
if everyone had to draw a map of his own mind--say, once
every five years? With the chief towns marked, and the ar-
terial roads he was constructing from one idea to another,
and all the lovely and abandoned by-lanes that he never
went down, because the farms they led to were all empty?"

"And arrows showing the directions he wanted to
go?" Quentin asked idly.

"They'd be all over the place," Anthony sighed.
"Like that light which I see bobbing about in front of me
now."

"I see several," Quentin broke in. "What are they--
lanterns?"

"They look like them--three--five," Anthony said.
"They're moving about, so it can't be the road up or any-
thing."

"They may be hanging the lanterns on poles,"
Quentin protested.

"But," Anthony answered, as they drew nearer to the
shifting lanterns, "they are not. Mortality, as usual, car-
ries its own star."

He broke off as a man from the group in front beck-
oned to them with something like a shout. "This is very
unusual," he added. "Have I at last found someone who
needs me?"

"They all seem very excited," Quentin said, and had
no time for more. There were some dozen men in the

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