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By Ezra Hawley. John Moor was writing a new novel and he wanted a quiet country place where he could be entirely alone. Now he had found it. It was an ideal spot, not far from the metropolis and yet in the very heart of the country. It was an old house, with the old fcshioned garden in which bloomed old-fashioned flowers: stocks, holly hocks and canterbury bells, while there was a promise of magnificent I Am Not Sure Which of Our People It Is. roges. These things would stimulate his creative power. "I like this place immensely," he said to the agent. "But tell me frank ly why the rent is so low." "I will," the agent answered. "I'm a frank man, and I believe frankness pays. You see that red brick build ing across the pasture? What do you suppose ft is?" "Some millionaire's house," said John. "No, shy answered the agent. "It's a lunatic asylum." "Well, I don't mind that," said John. "Of course, you ddn't," the agent answered. "It's one of the best-managed private asylums in the country. But you see, they use the new sys tem there; everything's done by kind ness, and there's no wall round it Of course, they shut up the dangerous cases, but as for the rest why, they're free to stroll around where they please. They can't get away by train, and now and then, if one of them takes a fancy to dodge the guards and take a stroll into the vil lage, why, nobody cares. But renters are nervous, especially their wives. So that's why the rent's cheap." "It suits me," answered John, and took the house. His unhappy neighbors interested him greatly. Often he would stand at the foot of the big garden and watch them in the grounds. For the most part, they seemed like ordinary folk, but occasionally some gentle man or lady on the other side of the high privet hedge would greet him with a grimace or invite him to enter and listen to some marvelous story. But John's nerves were proof against all the supposed dangers of his en vironment. At the bottom of the asy lum grounds stood the six trim doc tors' cottages, and whenever sC pa tient roamed in this direction he would see the doctor or guard alert, watching, ready to hail his charge. There was a strip of neutral grounds, a sort of scrub forest, on one side of the grounds. John often wandered there when the creative faculty was at work in him. One day, making his way to his accustomed seat beneath a pine, he discovered that it had been preoccupied by a very charming girl, - who surveyed him thoughtfully as he approached, but without the least sense of em-barrasment.