e searching spirit and it will grow and rend you. The
spirit would soar, it would see, but the flesh weighs it down, and
in all flesh there is little light. Yet, at times, brooding on some
unnatural height of Thought, its eyes seem to be opened, and it catches
gleams of terrifying days to come, or perchance, discerns the hopeless
gates of an immeasurable night.

Oh, for that simpler faith which ever recedes farther from the ken of
the cultivated, questioning mind! There alone can peace be found, and
for the foolish who discard it, setting up man's wisdom at a sign, soon
the human lot will be one long fear. Grown scientific and weary with
the weight of knowledge, they will reject their ancient Gods, and no
smug-faced Positivism will bring them consolation. Science, here and
there illumining the gloom of destiny with its poor electric lights,
cries out that they are guiding stars. But they are no stars, and they
will flare away. Let us pray for darkness, more darkness, lest, to our
bewildered sight, they do but serve to show that which shall murder
Hope.

So think Geoffrey and his kin, and in their unexpressed dismay, turn,
seeking refuge from their physical and spiritual loneliness, but for the
most part finding none. Nature, still strong in them, points to the dear
fellowship of woman, and they make the venture to find a mate, not
a companion. But as it chanced in Geoffrey's case he did find such a
companion in Beatrice, after he had, by marriage, built up an impassable
wall between them.

And yet he longed for her society with an intensity that alarmed him.
He had her letters indeed, but what are letters! One touch of a beloved
hand is worth a thousand letters. In the midst of his great success
Geoffrey was wretched at heart, yet it seemed to him that if he once
more could have Beatrice at his side, though only as a friend, he would
find rest and happiness.

When a man's heart is thus set upon an object, his reason is soon
convinced of its innocence, even of its desirability, and a kindly fate
will generally contrive to give him the opportunity of ruin which he so
ardently desires.

CHAPTER XIX

GEOFFREY HAS A VISITOR

And Beatrice--had she fared better during these long months? Alas, not
at all. She had gone away from the Bryngelly Station on that autumn
morning of farewell sick at heart, and sick at heart she had remained.
Through all the long winter months sorrow and bitterness had been her
por