troubled him, sitting there--the melancholy
craving in his heart--because the sun was like enchantment on his face
and on the clouds and on the golden birch leaves, and the wind's rustle
was so gentle, and the yewtree green so dark, and the sickle of a moon
pale in the sky.

He might wish and wish and never get it--the beauty and the loving in the
world!

THE END

THE DARK FLOWER

by John Galsworthy

"Take the flower from my breast, I pray thee,
Take the flower too from out my tresses;
And then go hence, for see, the night is fair,
The stars rejoice to watch thee on thy way."
--From "The Bard of the Dimbovitza."

THE DARK FLOWER

Part I

Spring

I

He walked along Holywell that afternoon of early June with his short gown
drooping down his arms, and no cap on his thick dark hair. A youth of
middle height, and built as if he had come of two very different strains,
one sturdy, the other wiry and light. His face, too, was a curious
blend, for, though it was strongly formed, its expression was rather soft
and moody. His eyes--dark grey, with a good deal of light in them, and
very black lashes--had a way of looking beyond what they saw, so that he
did not seem always to be quite present; but his smile was exceedingly
swift, uncovering teeth as white as a negro's, and giving his face a
peculiar eagerness. People stared at him a little as he passed--since in
eighteen hundred and eighty he was before his time in not wearing a cap.
Women especially were interested; they perceived that he took no notice
of them, seeming rather to be looking into distance, and making
combinations in his soul.

Did he know of what he was thinking--did he ever know quite definitely at
that time of his life, when things, especially those beyond the immediate
horizon, were so curious and interesting?--the things he was going to see
and do when he had got through Oxford, where everybody was 'awfully
decent' to him and 'all right' of course, but not so very interesting.

He was on his way to his tutor's to read an essay on Oliver Cromwell; and
under the old wall, which had once hedged in the town, he took out of his
pocket a beast. It was a small tortoise, and, with an extreme
absorption, he watched it move its little inquiring head, feeling it all
the time with his short, broad fingers, as though to discover exactly how
it was made. It was mighty hard in the back! No wo