ctedly, but I must do
something, or I shall go off my head.'

The hurried walk recommenced, Dick stopping every now and again to drag
forth long-neglected canvases and old note-books; for he turned to his
work by instinct, as a thing that could not fail. 'You won't do, and you
won't do,' he said, at each inspection. 'No more soldiers. I couldn't
paint 'em. Sudden death comes home too nearly, and this is battle and
murder for me.'

The day was failing, and Dick thought for a moment that the twilight
of the blind had come upon him unaware. 'Allah Almighty!' he cried
despairingly, 'help me through the time of waiting, and I won't whine
when my punishment comes. What can I do now, before the light goes?'

There was no answer. Dick waited till he could regain some sort of
control over himself. His hands were shaking, and he prided himself on
their steadiness; he could feel that his lips were quivering, and the
sweat was running down his face. He was lashed by fear, driven forward
by the desire to get to work at once and accomplish something, and
maddened by the refusal of his brain to do more than repeat the news
that he was about to go blind. 'It's a humiliating exhibition,' he
thought, 'and I'm glad Torp isn't here to see. The doctor said I was to
avoid mental worry.

Come here and let me pet you, Binkie.'

The little dog yelped because Dick nearly squeezed the bark out of him.

Then he heard the man speaking in the twilight, and, doglike, understood
that his trouble stood off from him--'Allah is good, Binkie. Not quite
so gentle as we could wish, but we'll discuss that later. I think I see
my way to it now. All those studies of Bessie's head were nonsense, and
they nearly brought your master into a scrape. I hold the notion now as
clear as crystal,--"the Melancolia that transcends all wit." There shall
be Maisie in that head, because I shall never get Maisie; and Bess, of
course, because she knows all about Melancolia, though she doesn't know
she knows; and there shall be some drawing in it, and it shall all end
up with a laugh. That's for myself. Shall she giggle or grin? No, she
shall laugh right out of the canvas, and every man and woman that ever
had a sorrow of their own shall--what is it the poem says?--

'Understand the speech and feel a stir
Of fellowship in all disastrous fight.

"In all disastrous fight"? That's better than painting the thing merely
to pique Maisie. I can do it now because I h