HEART OF THE CITY
Her mouth tightened suddenly, and she lowered her voice with ominous intensity. "But there is n't any heart to, your city no ! there is no .cart at all at the center of things-just a silly, pretty, very much decorated heart-shaped box filled with candy. If you shake it hard enough, it may rattle, but it won't throb. And I hate-hate hate your old city. It's utterly, hopelessly, irremedia- bly jejune, and I m going home to-morrow! "As she leaned toward the Journalist, the gold locket on her prim, high-necked gown swung precipitously forth like a wall picture in a furious little earth- quake.
The Journalist started to laugh, then changed his mind and narrowed his eyes speculatively to- ward something across the room. "heart?" he queried. "No Romance?"
The Woodland Girl followed his exploring gaze. Between the plushy green portieres a dull, cool, rose-colored vista opened forth refreshingly, with a fragment of bookcase, the edge of a stained glass window, the polished gleam of a grand piano, and then lithe, sinuous, willowy, in the shaded lamplight the lone, accentuated figure of a boy violinist. In the amazing mellow glow that smote upon his face, the Woodland Girl noted with a crumple at her heart the tragic droop of the boy's
dark head, the sluggish, velvet passion of his eyes,
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