ught him. She was pressed by an uncomprehending
world to fill her leisure hours with many occupations, useful and
useless, but she resisted steadily. She took life as it came to her,
day by day, wasting no strength, but refusing no task, shirking no
responsibility, drinking in every joy, and holding always faithfully
in her heart his true image as he had held hers, knowing that when
perchance the outward man blurred that image for a moment it was but
the outward casing; the inner soul remained true to the likeness in
which it was created.

As the months slipped by Christopher saw that his work continued to
grow, that the good roads of which he had dreamed stretched far and
wide across the country, and he knew he had won for himself a place in
the history of men. Moreover, he loved his work.

It was a never-ceasing pleasure, and when it ended came the greater,
deeper joy of his undivided love. If the aim of man is happiness, he
had achieved that end as far as any human being might do so.

Yet all the while a black thread wove itself into the warp of his
existence. He tried not to see it, for recognition of it would cancel
that white web of life that grew daily beneath his hand. Still it was
there, and the white web became uneven and knotted. He was restless,
even irritable, the white turned to grey, yet still he resisted the
unknown forces that pressed him onward to the dissolution of this
present beautiful life. And Patricia herself, with her unbroken faith
in his readiness to follow the highest when he saw it, fought with the
silent Powers till at length that silence was broken by a cry so
imperious that even his dogged will could refuse sight and hearing no
longer.

CHAPTER XXXIV

As Christopher was preparing to leave the works one Saturday afternoon
he was told that a man had just arrived from Birmingham who refused to
give his name, but who asked for him. Christopher hung for a moment on
the step of his car and then descending again went straight to the
room where his unknown visitor was waiting. He proved to be a spare,
stooping man, with lips so thin and white as to be almost invisible.
His eyes, which he hardly raised from the floor, were bright with the
fire of fever, and his shaking hands, one of which held a cap,
concealing the other, were narrow, and the knuckles stood out with
cruel prominence.

"What do you want with me?" Christopher demanded shortly.

The man looked at him sideways and did