Jean Jacques, who used to lie dreaming in a tiny skiff, lulled by the lap of the waves and comforted by the steady, reliable warmth of the sun, is the patron saint of an agnostic Vagabond. For the Vagabond, too, would pass many a quiet hour soothed by the opiate of day dreams, as did romantic Rousseau, but he is condemned to live in a climate too harsh, and an age to unkind. Therefore, he consoles himself by patient procrastination, by doing the things he ought not do, and by leaving undone the things he ought to do, and in spite of himself he remains in tolerable health.

It is for this reason that the Vagabond only yesterday tasked himself with unpacking the casteroed hair-trunk which arrived a week ago from the sequestered loneliness of his cabin on the heights of Monadnock. Among the tobacco tins and books he found one small red box. It bore the legend "Salome: Gold Tipped," and in the tinfoil lining there was a stale, forgotten cigarette, still slightly fragrant with rose.

It had been a warm July day, and the red moon was full as it sank lower in the western sky. The light gleamed almost too perfectly over the sinking tide, showing dimly the outlines of the hills on the mainland; far across the bay lights gleamed on a yacht, and there was a lightly-heard music from the deck where guests of a very rich sinner were dancing. There were only two figures on the great rocks by the beach, watching the silent panorama of moon and stars, listening to the waltzes from the distant craft. They were completely alone in the darkness, distinguishable only by the tips of fire which their cigarettes left against the dark background of spruce. "Won't you keep the box?" she asked him sweetly. "I have no pockets in may cost." Or at least, that is how the Vagabond would remember it.