things and suffered strange things that cannot be accounted for.  But, in the story, inconsistencies must be removed, and the conduct of the characters must be logical.  Life seems inconsistent to all of us at times, but it is probably less so than it seems.  People puzzle us by their apparent inconsistencies, when to themselves their actions seem perfectly logical.  But, as Mr. Grabo points out, “In life we expect inconsistencies; in a story we depend upon their elimination.”  The law of cause and effect, which we found so indispensable in the story of plot, we find of equal importance in the story of character.  There must be no sudden and unaccountable changes in the behavior or sentiments of the people in the story.  On the contrary, there must be reason in all they say and do.

Another demand of the character story is that the characters be lifelike.  In the plot story, or in the impressionistic story, we may accept the flat figures on the canvas; our interest is elsewhere.  But in the character story we must have real people whose motives and conduct we discuss pro and con with as much interest as if we knew them in the flesh.  A character of this convincing type is Hamlet.  About him controversy has always raged.  It is impossible to think of him as other than a real man.  Whenever the writer finds that the characters in his story have caused the reader to wax eloquent over their conduct, he may rest easy:  he has made his people lifelike.

Setting in the character story is important, for it is in this that the chief actor moves and has his being.  His environment is continually causing him to speak and act.  The incidents selected, even though some of them may seem trivial in themselves, must reveal depth after depth in his soul.  Whatever the means by which the author reveals the character—­whether by setting, conduct, analysis, dialogue, or soliloquy—­his task is a hard one.  In Markheim we have practically all of these used, with the result that the character is unmistakable and convincing.

Stories of scenes are neither so numerous nor so easy to produce successfully as those of plot and character.  But sometimes a place so profoundly impresses a writer that its demands may not be disregarded.  Robert Louis Stevenson strongly felt the influence of certain places.  “Certain dank gardens cry aloud for murder; certain old houses demand to be haunted; certain coasts are set apart for shipwreck.  Other spots seem to abide their destiny, suggestive and impenetrable.”  Perhaps all of us have seen some place of which we have exclaimed:  “It is like a story!” When, then, scene is to furnish the dominant interest, plot and character become relatively insignificant and shadowy.  “The pressure of the atmosphere,” says Brander Matthews, holds our attention.  The Fall of the House of Usher, by Edgar Allan Poe, is a story of this kind.  It is the scene that affects us with dread and horror; we have no peace until we see the house swallowed up by the tarn, and have fled out of sight of the tarn itself.  The plot is extremely slight, and the Lady Madeline and her unhappy brother hardly more than shadows.