he lay already on the breast of God; even her wifely
love grew timid and awestruck.

Yet he did not talk much of immortality, of reunion. It was like a
scrupulous child that dares not take for granted more than its father
has allowed it to know. At the same time, it was plain to those about
him that the only realities to him in a world of shadows were
God--love--the soul.

One day he suddenly caught Catherine's hands, drew her face to him, and
studied it with his glowing and hollow eyes, as though he would draw it
into his soul.

'He made it,' he said hoarsely, as he let her go--'this love--this
yearning. And in life He only makes us yearn that He may satisfy. He
cannot lead us to the end and disappoint the craving He Himself set in
us. No, no--could you--could I--do it? And He, the source of love, or
justice----'

* * * * *

Flaxman arrived a few days afterwards. Edmondson had started for London
the night before, leaving Elsmere better again, able to drive and even
walk a little, and well looked after by a local doctor of ability. As
Flaxman, tramping up behind his carriage, climbed the long hill to El
Biar, he saw the whole marvellous place in a white light of beauty--the
bay, the city, the mountains, oliveyard and orange-grove, drawn in pale
tints on luminous air. Suddenly, at the entrance of a steep and narrow
lane, he noticed a slight figure standing--a parasol against the sun.

'We thought you would like to be shown the short cut up the hill,' said
Rose's voice, strangely demure and shy. 'The man can drive round.'

A grip of the hand, a word to the driver, and they were alone in the
high-walled lane, which was really the old road up the hill, before the
French brought zigzags and civilisation. She gave him news of
Robert--better than he had expected. Under the influence of one of the
natural reactions that wait on illness, the girl's tone was cheerful,
and Flaxman's spirits rose. They talked of the splendour of the day, the
discomforts of the steamer, the picturesqueness of the landing--of
anything and everything but the hidden something which was responsible
for the dancing brightness in his eyes, the occasional swift veiling of
her own.

Then, at an angle of the lane, where a little spring ran cool and brown
into a moss-grown trough, where the blue broke joyously through the gray
cloud of olive-wood, where not a sight or sound was to be heard of all
the busy life which h