ing, but even there the fierce heat of the sun and the ordinary dust of the dry soil, are enough to deter all but enthusiasts in exploration.

Still, there are compensations in the lure of the quest, the unexpected being

the rule. For days one may toil in dust and sweat without result, only to chance at last upon objects that tell the whole story, or perchance raise new problems. One such incident was referred to at the outset, a corner of the ruin had not yet been cleared because it seemed to be the rounded heap of completely demolished rooms, and so without special interest, but when finally given attention it. proved to have safely hidden beneath it a rectangular room in perfect condition. The interior is plastered and painted in a brilliant white, with dull-red borders and a running series of triangular designs. No room approaching this in beauty and perfection has ever been discovered in America. Obviously, what we have is a holy sanctum or shrine belonging to these prehistoric people. Nothing of consequence was found in this room, all the sacred objects having been removed from the altar before it was abandoned, but several strands of beautifully made rope hung from the ceiling, while on the floor was a large number of nicely cut stone slabs.

But who were the people that worshiped here and then so carefully sealed up the entrance when they left? The Navajo have weird legends of the people

HANDLES

kept in a painted room, a sacrifice to

the gods, perhaps, in this very room; but however that may be, we know that the builders of Aztec were of the same racial stock as the extinct Cliff dwellers and the Pueblo Indians still living in parts of Arizona and New Mexico, all belonging to the great American Indian race, scattered up and down the continent. Presumably long ago, certainly some thousands of years, a tribe or two settled in this region and began to develop a culture of their own, which progressed through many successive periods to the grandeur of the cliff house and Aztec, and ultimately to the great modern villages of the Hopi, Zuni, and Rio Grande Pueblos.

In closing it should be stated that this ruin was carefully protected by its former owner, Mr. H. D. Abrams, until excavations were undertaken by the

American Museum of Natural History. The expense of the undertaking was borne by Mr. Archer M. Huntington, a trustee of that institution, who has since purchased the ruin property and will donate the same to the United States to be made a national monument and thus be preserved for the enlightenment of all who care to visit it. To this end the Museum party carefully repaired and strengthened all the walls uncovered, and took steps to protect such important rooms as this sanctuary. The work of the American Museum of Natural History herein described is a part of the Archer M. Huntington survey of the Southwest, the object of which is to increase our knowledge of the Southwest wonderland and make the story of the past a joy and an inspiration to the traveler of to-morrow.

VERYBODY knows that a flower

which has lain sentimentally between the pages of a book for a decade or so must continue so to lie in order to retain its value, both practical and sentimental. Even Estelle Gray knew this, and if she had stopped to consider well

She had boarded the Sixth Avenue surface car at Fifty-eighth street, relinquishing with a sigh the charms of the Fifth Avenue bus, for she had a destination to reach before dark. She seated herself side-ways on the carpeted seat in order to glean sidewalk activities and window secrets, her trim ankles crossed, her sleekly gloved hands clasped in her beaver muff. The car ambled aimlessly along with little hopeful spurts between its asthmatic halts at each corner. And so when she caught sight of Dean Tuttle during one of these pauses, she had sufficient time to make sure that it was Dean, to experience a concatenation of emotions ranging from thrilled surprise to unconquerable curiosity before the conductor had reached for the signal cord. The next instant, her original mission forgotten, she was in the street and crossing to the curb from which Dean was stepping, bound apparently for Broadway. She intercepted his advance with outstretched hand.

"Dean!" she exclaimed. "You!" For an instant his face was a blank, and then a deep flush suffused it and he grasped her hand, not quite free of embarrassment.

"Stell!" he cried. "Well, you're the last person!"

"Is it really you?"

Her excitement had reduced her to a faltering triteness.

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"It's like you to pop up like a cheerful spook and scare a fellow to death," he accused her, fondly.

"You do look as if you were seeing ghosts!"

"We're holding up traffic," he interrupted, jocosely, and piloted her to the curb, his hand cuddling her elbow in a way she well knew.

"I saw you from the car," she explained above the roar of the Elevated, and I couldn't resist the temptation of getting off. I'm so glad to see you!"

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"You're a sight for weary eyes, yourself," he said, looking down at her. "Are you Have you- Which way are you going?"

"Why, your way, of course! Do you think I'll let you go when I've just found you?"

It was the manner she had always assumed with him-that pertly aggressive, spoiled-child manner of the woman who is quite sure of her man and of herself.

There was the faintest flash of hesitation in his response; then he took her elbow again.

"Where to?" he asked. "I don't know your town as well as my own.”

"Suppose we go somewhere for tea, and have coffee and talk," she suggested, gaily. "The Claridge is right here on the corner. That 'll do!"

They turned into Forty-fourth Street, he looking down at the chic cloth turban she was wearing, little points of excitement in his brown eyes.

"The same old Stell, aren't you?" he said, and there was a hint of awe in his voice as there had always been when he spoke to Estelle.

"The same, only a little emphasized,"

she laughed. She was feeling like a débutante with her first beau. Both were tinglingly aware that the occasion was epic-a real event! Both were grateful for the clamor and jostle of sidewalk turbulence which reduced their repartee to monosyllables.

At the Claridge Estelle led the way to a remote corner table, settled herself on the velours-covered settle that clung in the French style to the walls of the grill, and motioned Dean to a seat beside her. A suave and elegant waiter shoved the table against their knees, took their order for muffins and coffee, and left them.

And now, in the comparative seclusion of the partly filled dining-room, bereft of the comforting din of the street, they regarded each other with fluttering, furtive glances. Woman-like, Estelle endeavored to fill the gap of years between this and their last meeting with conversational trivialities, and, manlike, Dean sat stolidly, vacuously, ill at ease, every least thing about him a vivid reminder of things it were more comfortable to forget.

"Just think," said Estelle, brightly, "here we are sitting together after how many years-perfect eons!"

"Six," said Dean methodically. "It was six years ago that—”

"Six! Gracious!" interrupted Estelle, quickly. "Yes, it must be that long. I've been married over five."

"I saw Jack Dunn after you came back from Europe. He was on the steamer with you, wasn't he? He told me the news about you."

"About my baby?"

"Well," he hesitated, fumbling a fork uncertainly, “it hadn't exactly materialized, but-"

She laughed. "Betty is a material enough little person now. Over a year

old. Think of that!"

He was thinking of it, and for a moment struggled vainly to speak, but Estelle broke in.

"A nice, well-mannered, properly directed little animal," said Estelle, "but

don't let's talk about babies. I want to hear about you."

"Oh, I'm just the same," he said. "Plodding along in the old rut. You know you once called me that—a plodder."

"No!" mocked Estelle, gaily. "Well, and so you are! We need plodders. What should we do without them?"

"You managed!" said Dean, dryly, his eyes boring through her.

"I was using the editorial 'we,'” said Estelle, pertly.

He puffed at his cigarette and looked gravely at her. Estelle made one valiant effort after another, but Dean's monosyllabic responses were becoming more and more inadequate, when from an obscure, discreet corner the plaintive sigh of an intriguing violin floated out to them, dissolving the superficial mask of their affectation.

It was an innocent enough instrument, manipulated by a bald man with watery eyes and plenty of avoirdupois if they had but known, and he was playing the third selection on his afternoon program, which happened to be "Mandalay."

For a long moment they sat there tongue-tied while their hearts undulated to the insistent urge of long-stagnant memories. Then Estelle turned to Dean, her eyelids a little uncertain:

"Tell me, have you the Juanita yet?" He shook his head, his eyes fastened on his fidgeting fingers. "She began to leak badly. I sold her a couple of years ago and bought a sloop. But Minnehaha is still doing duty."

"Minnehaha!" murmured Estelle, the name at once conjuring up a picture of the graceful slenderness of that crimson canoe; of its noiseless pilgrimage between the foliage-shrouded banks of the winding Pawtucket River. She saw

again the muscles beneath the golden tan of Dean's arms, as she watched him languidly from her cuddling cushions. His sleeveless sweater had borne a glaring red "C" on its breast, the insignia of his college crew. There were waterlilies lying indolently on the sun-warmed