e storm, grief would
still come upon me with almost its old power. This was on awaking in
the early morning. I learnt then that if there is trouble at the
founts of life, there is nothing which stirs that trouble like the
twitter of the birds at dawn. At Florence, I would, after spending
the day in wandering with you through picture galleries or about
those lovely spots near Fiesole, go to bed at night tolerably calm;
I would sink into a sleep, haunted no longer by those dreams of the
tragedy in which my part had been so cruel, and yet the very act of
waking in the morning would bring upon me a whirlwind of anguish; and
then would come the struggling light at the window, and the twitter
of the birds that seemed to say, "Poor child, poor child!" and I
would bury my face in my pillow and moan.'

When I looked in her face, I realised for the first time that not
even such a passion of pity as that which had aged me is so cruel in
its ravages as Remorse. To gaze at her was so painful that I turned
my eyes away.

When I could speak I said,

'I have forgiven you from the bottom of my heart, mother, but, if
that does not give you comfort, is there anything that will?'

'Nothing, Henry, nothing but what is impossible for me ever to
get--the forgiveness of the wronged child herself. _That_ I can never
get in this world. I dare only hope that by prayers and tears I may
get it in the end. Oh, Henry, if I were in heaven I could never rest
until I had sought her out, and found her and thrown myself on her
neck and said, "Forgive your persecutor, my dear, or this is no place
for me."'

II

As soon as I reached London, thinking that Wilderspin was still on
the Continent, I went first to D'Arcy's studio, but was there told
that D'Arcy was away--that he had been in the country for a long
time, busy painting, and would not return for some months. I then
went to Wilderspin's studio, and found, to my surprise and relief,
that he and Cyril had returned from Paris. I learnt from the servant
that Wilderspin had just gone to call on Cyril; accordingly to
Cyril's studio I went.

'He is engaged with the Gypsy-model, sir,' said Cyril's man, pointing
to the studio door, which was ajar. 'He told me that if ever you
should call you were to be admitted at once. Mr. Wilderspin is there
too.'

'You need not announce me,' I said, as I pushed open the door.

Entering the studio, I found myself behind a tall easel where Cyril
was at work. I