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You are on the wrong track, Amelia. The author had the real Laura of his childhood inhis mind when he wrote that, though the story itself bears no resemblanceto her life. All right, Aunt Amelia, you win-as always. ough the windows across the wide wastes of greensward clad in cool, powdery mist to where there was an ex

They made their way across at last, and stood the rest of the nightgazing down upon a spectacle of a crater in quivering action, a veritablelake of fire. This was wormwood to Jim. Very nice, Emerson said. ation, I didn't see much else Icould steer for, and I was heading for that white heifer on the bank.