ted to
detain her, he wandered to the window to watch the stars, which
seemed to him like a golden net; and he asked who had cast that net,
and if he and she were parcel of some great draught which, at some
indefinite date, would be drawn out of the depths, and if, when that
time came, they would remember the joy and sorrow they had endured
upon earth, or if all would be swept into forgetfulness. At some
indefinite date they might meet among the stars, but what stellar
infinities might be drawn together mattered little to him; his sole
interest was in this lag end of their journey--if their lives should
be united henceforth or lived separately.

Nothing repeats itself, so it was well he had not asked her to stay
with him. Of mistress and lover a fitting end had been written long
ago, just as the end of those stars was written long before the stars
came into being; but it might well be that they might take the road,
this lag end of it, together as husband and wife. If he didn't marry
--he could marry nobody but her--what would he do with his life? what
sort of end? He had no heart for further travels, and feared to wear
away the years amid books and pictures, collecting rare porcelain and
French furniture; there is very little else for an old man. With her
the lag end of the journey would be delectable. In the same house
together, leading her in the evenings to the piano! Even if she had
lost part of her voice, sufficient remained to recall the old days
when he used to journey thousands of miles to hear her; and he lay
quite still, listening to the sweet thought of marriage, singing like
a bird in the acacia-tree, trill after trill, and then a run--
delicious crescendos reaching to the stars, diminuendos sinking into
the valley.

The bird suddenly ceased, and with its song in his brain Owen dozed,
awakening at dawn, remembering her, how she had built herself a
cottage, and settled her life here among four or five little crippled
boys. Could she undo her life to follow him? Uprooted, transplanted,
her brain might give way again, and this time without hope of
recovery. Or was he cheating himself, trying to find reasons for not
asking her to marry him--perhaps his manifest duty towards her. Owen
looked into his soul, asking himself if he were acting from a selfish
or an unselfish motive.

Sleep seemed as far away as ever, and, getting out of bed, he drew
the curtains, seeking the landscape, still hidden in the mist, onl