onged for.

Waymark gave himself wholly to the invalid. He had no impulse to resume
literary work; anything was welcome which enabled him to fill up the
day and reach the morrow. Whilst Julian lay on the couch, which was
drawn up to the fireside, Waymark read aloud anything that could lead
them to forget themselves. At other times, Julian either read to
himself or wrote verse, which, however, he did not show to his friend.
Before springtime came he found it difficult even to maintain a sitting
attitude for long. His cough still racked him terribly. Waymark often
lay awake in the night, listening to that fearful sound in the next
room. At such times he tried to fancy himself in the dying man's
position, and then the sweat of horror came upon his brow. Deeply he
sympathised with the misery he could do so little to allay. Yet he was
doing what he might to make the end a quiet one, and the consciousness
of this brought him many a calm moment.

However it might be in those fearful vigils, Julian's days did not seem
unhappy. He was resigning himself to the inevitable, in the strength of
that quiet which sometimes ensues upon despair. Now and then he could
even be, to all appearances, light-hearted.

With the early May he had a revival of inspiration. Strangely losing
sight of his desperate condition, he spoke once more of beginning the
great poem planned long ago. It was living within his mind and heart,
he said. Waymark listened to him whilst he unfolded book after book of
glorious vision; listened, and wondered.

There was a splendid sunset one evening at this time, and the two
watched it together from the room in which they always sat. Seas of
molten gold, strands and promontories of jasper and amethyst,
illimitable mountain-ranges, cities of unimagined splendour, all were
there in that extent of evening sky. They watched it till the vision
wasted before the breath of night.

"What shall I read?" Waymark asked, when the lamp was lit.

"Read that passage in the Georgics which glorifies Italy," Julian
replied. "It will suit my mood to-night."

Waymark took down his Virgil.

"Sed neque Medorum silvae, ditissima terra,
Nec pulcher Ganges atque auro turbibus Hermus
Laudibus Italiae certent, non Bactra, neque Indi,
Totaque turiferis Panchaia pinguis arenis."

Julian's eyes glistened as the melody rolled on, and when it ceased,
both were quiet for a time.

"Waymark," Julian said presently, a gentle tremor in