his acquired talents than pins and
needles after numbness: how much more may that energetic timidity
possess a man whose inward history has cherished his susceptibilities
instead of dulling them, and has kept all the language of passion fresh
and rooted as the lovely leafage about the hill-side spring!

As for Mirah her dear head lay on its pillow that night with its former
suspicions thrown out of shape but still present, like an ugly story
which had been discredited but not therefore dissipated. All that she
was certain of about Deronda seemed to prove that he had no such
fetters upon him as she had been allowing herself to believe in. His
whole manner as well as his words implied that there were no hidden
bonds remaining to have any effect in determining his future. But
notwithstanding this plainly reasonable inference, uneasiness still
clung about Mirah's heart. Deronda was not to blame, but he had an
importance for Mrs. Grandcourt which must give her some hold on him.
And the thought of any close confidence between them stirred the little
biting snake that had long lain curled and harmless in Mirah's gentle
bosom.

But did she this evening feel as completely as before that her jealousy
was no less remote from any possibility for herself personally than if
her human soul had been lodged in the body of a fawn that Deronda had
saved from the archers? Hardly. Something indefinable had happened and
made a difference. The soft warm rain of blossoms which had fallen just
where she was--did it really come because she was there? What spirit
was there among the boughs?

CHAPTER LXIV.

"Questa montagna e tale,
Che sempre al cominciar di sotto a grave.
E quanto uom piu va su e men fa male."
--DANTE: _Il Purgatorio_.

It was not many days after her mother's arrival that Gwendolen would
consent to remain at Genoa. Her desire to get away from that gem of the
sea, helped to rally her strength and courage. For what place, though
it were the flowery vale of Enna, may not the inward sense turn into a
circle of punishment where the flowers are no better than a crop of
flame-tongues burning the soles of our feet?

"I shall never like to see the Mediterranean again," said Gwendolen, to
her mother, who thought that she quite understood her child's
feeling--even in her tacit prohibition of any express reference to her
late husband.

Mrs. Davilow, indeed, though compelled formally to regard