od night's rest, you know, sir, if you'll
excuse my mentioning it."

"No, no, Mr. Timmins, we must get to work again, we must get to work."

Nature, inspired by the spirit and instinct of life, is wonderfully
recuperative. Whether earthquake or famine, fire or pestilence has
blotted out a thousand lives, those who are left, like ants when their
house is disturbed, waste but little time after the damage has been done
in vain lamentations, but, slaves to the force of life, begin almost
instantly to rebuild and reconstruct. And what is true of the community
is true also of the individual, and thus in three days from this dreadful
morning of the inquest, Mr. Taynton, after attending the funeral of the
murdered man, was very actively employed, since the branch of the firm in
London, deprived of its head, required supervision from him. Others also,
who had been brought near to the tragedy, were occupied again, and of
these Morris in particular was a fair example of the spirit of the
Life-force. His effort, no doubt, was in a way easier than that made by
Mr. Taynton, for to be twenty-two years old and in love should be
occupation sufficient. But he, too, had his bad hours, when the past rose
phantom-like about him, and he recalled that evening when his rage had
driven him nearly mad with passion against his traducer. And by an awful
coincidence, his madness had been contemporaneous with the slanderer's
death. He must, in fact, have been within a few hundred yards of the
place at the time the murder was committed, for he had gone back to
Falmer Park that day, with the message that Mr. Taynton would call on the
morrow, and had left the place not half an hour before the breaking of
the storm. He had driven by the corner of the Park, where the path over
the downs left the main road and within a few hundred yards of him at
that moment, had been, dead or alive, the man who had so vilely slandered
him. Supposing--it might so easily have happened--they had met on the
road. What would he have done? Would he have been able to pass him and
not wreaked his rage on him? He hardly dared to think of that. But, life
and love were his, and that which might have been was soon dreamlike in
comparison of these. Indeed, that dreadful dream which he had had the
night after the murder had been committed was no less real than it. The
past was all of this texture, and mistlike, it was evaporated in the
beams of the day that was his.

Now Brighton is