ght I might. Mr.
Creed told me about him being in prison."

Hilary made way for her, and, following her into Mr. Stone's presence,
shut the door.

"The truant has returned," he said.

Hearing herself called so unjustly by that name, the little model gushed
deeply, and tried to speak. She stopped at the smile on Hilary's face,
and gazed from him to Mr. Stone and back again, the victim of mingled
feelings.

Mr. Stone was seen to have risen to his feet, and to be very slowly
moving towards his desk. He leaned both arms on his papers for support,
and, seeming to gather strength, began sorting out his manuscript.

Through the open window the distant music of a barrel-organ came drifting
in. Faint, and much too slow, was the sound of the waltz it played, but
there was invitation, allurement, in that tune. The little model turned
towards it, and Hilary looked hard at her. The girl and that sound
together-there, quite plain, was the music he had heard for many days,
like a man lying with the touch of fever on him.

"Are you ready?" said Mr. Stone.

The little model dipped her pen in ink. Her eyes crept towards the door,
where Hilary was still standing with the same expression on his face. He
avoided her eyes, and went up to Mr. Stone.

"Must you read to-day, sir?"

Mr. Stone looked at him with anger.

"Why not?" he said.

"You are hardly strong enough."

Mr. Stone raised his manuscript.

"We are three days behind;" and very slowly he began dictating:
"'Bar-ba-rous ha-bits in those days, such as the custom known as War
---'" His voice died away; it was apparent that his elbows, leaning on
the desk, alone prevented his collapse.

Hilary moved the chair, and, taking him beneath the arms, lowered him
gently into it.

Noticing that he was seated, Mr. Stone raised his manuscript and read on:
"'---were pursued regardless of fraternity. It was as though a herd of
horn-ed cattle driven through green pastures to that Gate, where they
must meet with certain dissolution, had set about to prematurely gore and
disembowel each other, out of a passionate devotion to those individual
shapes which they were so soon to lose. So men--tribe against tribe, and
country against country--glared across the valleys with their ensanguined
eyes; they could not see the moonlit wings, or feel the embalming airs of
brotherhood.'"

Slower and slower came his sentences, and as the last word died away he
was heard to be asleep,