It was only under the trees in the long grasses wet with the creek that little pockets of coolness were to be found. So, having run down the hill and across the meadow that lay stretched, still and beaten, in the burning gold of the summer afternoon, she flung herself on the bank in a final rush. Gulping and panting, she raised her small body cautiously and listened. But not a sound of pursuit murmured from the far hill.

Taking courage, she began, with the sober relish of childhood, to empty her raised skirt of rich, crumbling cake. Then she paused, frowning uneasily. Should she have stolen it. . .?

A hawk's shadow rippled across the tops of the trees and blotted the bars of the sun on the brook. It flickered for a second on the little girl's bare feet and was gone. And again it swerved over and disappeared. Back in the meadow, something swooped down and the thin, quivering squeal of a field mouse hung in the hot, stagnant air and was stifled.

The child lay back, munching the cake philosophically.

In this way, heard the Vagabond, in the reflection on our impulses, did our sense of morality arise. Tomorrow at ten in Emerson A Professor Perry will discuss this theory and other aspects of Butler's ethics.