ver men. You have that
nameless gift of genius--power--the gift of swaying the minds and hearts
of your fellow men. Once you accepted your destiny. Your feet were firmly
planted upon the great ladder. You could have climbed--where you would."

A curious quietness seemed to have crept over Mannering. When he
answered, his voice seemed to rise scarcely above a whisper.

"My friend," he said, "it was not worth while!"

Borrowdean was almost angry.

"Not worth while," he repeated, contemptuously. "Is it worth while, then,
to play golf, to linger in your flower gardens, to become a dilettante
student, to dream away your days in the idleness of a purely enervating
culture? What is it that I heard you yourself say once--that life apart
from one's fellows must always lack robustness. You have the instincts of
the creator, Mannering. You cannot stifle them. Some day the cry of the
world to its own children will find its echo in your heart, and it may be
too late. For sooner or later, my friend, the place of all men on earth
is filled."

For a moment that somewhat cynical restraint which seemed to divest of
enthusiasm Borrowdean's most earnest words, and which militated somewhat
against his reputation as a public speaker, seemed to have fallen from
him. Mannering, recognizing it, answered him gravely enough, though with
no less decision.

"If you are right, Borrowdean," he said, "the suffering will be mine.
Come, your time is short now. Perhaps you had better make your adieux to
my niece and Mrs. Handsell."

They all came out into the drive to see him start. A curious change had
come over the bright spring day. A grey sea-fog had drifted inland, the
sunlight was obscured, the larks were silent. Borrowdean shivered a
little as he turned up his coat-collar.

"So Nature has her little caprices, even--in paradise!" he remarked.

"It will blow over in an hour," Mannering said. "A breath of wind, and
the whole thing is gone."

Borrowdean's farewells were of the briefest. He made no further allusion
to the object of his visit. He departed as one who had been paying an
afternoon call more or less agreeable. Clara waved her hand until he was
out of sight, then she turned somewhat abruptly round and entered the
house. Mannering and Mrs. Handsell remained for a few moments in the
avenue, looking along the road. The sound of the horse's feet could still
be heard, but the trap itself was long since invisible.

"The passing of you