e walking on the hard
pavements of New York?"

"I shall think of you, yes," he said, failing to catch her merriment.

"And if you ever want a message from me," she continued, "you must look
for it on your sacred laurel here on the hill by Hermes' grave. It is
just possible, you know, that I shall be inside, and if I am, I shall
speak to you through my leaves, when you wander that way."

Something in the man's face warned her, and her voice became grave.

"Why do you go?" she asked.

"It is the only thing to do," he answered. "Life has thrown me back
into the old position, and I must face the same foes again. I always
rush too eagerly to snatch my good; I always hit my head against some
impassable wall. I thought I had won my battles and was safe, and then
you came."

The life had gone out of his voice, the light from his face. Looking at
him Daphne saw above his temples a touch of gray in the golden brown of
his hair.

"And then?" she asked softly.

"Then my hard-won control vanished, and I felt that I could stake my
hopes of heaven and my fears of hell to win you."

"A Greek god, with thoughts of hell?" murmured Daphne.

"Hell," he answered, "is a feeling, not a place, as has often been
observed. I happen to be in it now, but it does not matter. Yes, I am
going away, Daphne, Daphne. You say that there are claims upon you
that you cannot thrust aside. I shall go, but in some life, some time,
I shall find you again."

Daphne looked at him with soft triumph in her eyes. Secure in the
possession of that letter on the table, she would not tell him yet!
This note of struggle gave deeper melody to the joyous music of the
shepherd on the hills.

"I asked you once about your life and all that had happened to you: do
you remember?" he inquired. "I have never told you of my own. Will
you let me tell you now?"

"If you do not tell too much and explain yourself away," she answered.

"It is a story of tragedy, and of folly, recognized too late. I have
never told it to any human being, but I should like you to understand.
It has been an easy life, so far as outer circumstances go. Until I
was eighteen I was lord and dictator in a household of women, spoiled
by mother and sisters alike. Then came the grief of my life. Oh, I
cannot tell it, even to you!"

The veins stood out on his forehead, and his face was indeed like the
face of a tortured Saint Sebastian. The girl's eyes were sweet with
sympathy, an