gan again in the keep.

Sir Adrian read a good deal, or at least appeared so to do; but Rene,
who kept him more than ever under his glances of wistful sympathy,
noted that far from being absorbed, as of old, in the pages of his
book, the recluse's eyes wandered much off its edges into space; that
when writing, or at least intent on writing, his pen would linger long
in the bottle and hover listlessly over the paper; that he was more
abstracted, even than his wont, when looking out of the eastern
window; and that on the platform of the beacon it was the landward
view which most drew his gaze.

There was also more music in the keep than was the custom in evener
days. Seated at his organ the light-keeper seemed to find a voice for
such thoughts as were not to be spoken or written, and relief for the
nameless pity of them. But never a word passed between the two men on
the subject that filled both their hearts.

It was Sir Adrian's pleasure that things at Scarthey should seem to be
exactly the same as before, and that was enough for Rene.

"And yet," mused the faithful fellow, within his disturbed mind, "the
ruins now look like a house the day after an interment. If we were
lonely before, my faith, now we are desolate?" and, trying to find
something or somebody to charge with the curse of it, he invariably
fell to upon Mr. Landale's sleek head, why, he could hardly have
explained.

Three new days had thus passed in the regularity, if not the serenity
of the old--they seemed old already, buried far back in the past,
those days that had lapsed so evenly before the brightness of youthful
and beautiful life had entered the keep for one brief moment, and
departing, again left it a ruin indeed--when the retirement of
Scarthey was once more invaded by an unexpected visitor. It was about
sundown of the shortest day. Sir Adrian was at his organ, almost
unconsciously interpreting his own sadness into music. In time the
yearning of his soul had had expression, the echo of the last sighing
chord died away in the tranquil air, yet the musician, with head bent
upon his breast, remained lost in far-away thoughts.

A slight shuffling noise disturbed him; turning round to greet Rene as
he supposed, he was astonished to see a man's figure lolling in his
own arm-chair.

As he peered inquiringly into the twilight, the intruder rose to his
feet, and cried with a voice loud and clear, pleasant withal to the
ear:

"Sir Adrian, I am sor