ith every
breath he drew. He walked abroad amid the city crowds companioned by her
always; at rest the essence of her stole through and through him till
the very air around seemed sweetened.

He heard others mention her, and remained silent, aloof, wrapped in his
memories, like one who listens to phantoms in a dream praising
perfection.

Lying back in his chair before his canvas, he thought of her often--of
odd little details concerning their daily life--details almost
trivial--gestures, a glance, a laugh--recollections which surprised him
with the very charm of their insignificance.

He remembered that he had never known her to be ungenerous--had never
detected in her a wilfully selfish motive. In his life he had never
before believed in a character so utterly unshackled by thought of self.

He remembered that he had never known her to fail in sympathy for any
living thing; had never detected in her an indifference to either the
happiness or the sorrow of others. In his life he had never before
believed that the command to love one's neighbour had in it anything
more significant than the beauty of an immortal theory. He believed it
now because, in her, he had seen it in effortless practice. He was even
beginning to understand how it might be possible for him to follow where
she led--as she, unconsciously, was a follower of a precept given to
lead the world through eternities.

Leaning on the closed piano, thinking of her in the still, sunny
afternoons, faintly in his ears her voice seemed to sound; and he
remembered her choice of ballads:--

--"For even the blind distinguisheth
The king with his robe and crown;
But only the humble eye of faith
Beholdeth Jesus of Nazareth
In the beggar's tattered gown.

"I saw Him not in the mendicant
And I heeded not his cry;
Now Christ in His infinite mercy grant
That the prayer I say in my day of want,
Be not in scorn put by."

No; he had never known her to be unkind, uncharitable, unforgiving; he
had never known her to be insincere, untruthful, or envious. But the
decalogue is no stronger than its weakest link. Was it in the heart of
such a woman--this woman he loved--was it in the heart of this young
girl to shatter it?

He went on to Ashuelyn, confident of her and of himself, less confident
of his sister--almost appalled at the prospect of reconciling his father
and mother to this marriage that must surely be. Yet--so fa