ny excuse. But who knows the essential, since
biographists must perforce omit the spade work of life on character, the
gradual attrition or upbuilding of principles under experience, and the
strain and stress, that, sooner or later, bear fruit in action? Even
autobiography, as all other history, needs must be incomplete, since no
man himself exactly appreciated the vital experiences that made him what
he is, or turns him from what he was; while even if the secret belongs
to the protagonist, and intellect and understanding have enabled him to
grasp the reality of his progress, or retrogression, he will be jealous
to guard such truths and, for pride, or modesty, conceal the real
fountains of inspiration that were responsible for progress, or the
temptations to error that found his weakest spots, blocked his advance,
and rendered futile his highest hopes. The man who knows his inner
defeats will not declare them honestly, even if egotism induces an
autobiography; while the biographist, being ignorant of his hero's real,
psychological existence, secret life, and those thousand hidden
influences that have touched him and caused him to react, cannot, with
all the will in the world to be true, relate more than superficial
truths concerning him.

Ten years may only be recorded as lengthening the lives of Raymond
Ironsyde, Sabina Dinnett and their son, together with those interested
in them. Time, the supreme solvent, flows over existence, submerging
here, lifting there, altering the relative attitudes of husband and
wife, parent and child, friend and enemy. For no human relation is
static. The ebb and flow forget not the closest or remotest connection
between members of the human family; not a friendship or interest stands
still, and not a love or a hate. Time operates upon every human emotion
as it operates upon physical life; and ten years left no single
situation at Bridetown or Bridport unchallenged. Death cut few knots;
since accident willed that one alone fell among those with whom we are
concerned. For the rest, years brought their palliatives and corrosives,
soothed here, fretted there; here buried old griefs and healed old
sores; here calloused troubles, so that they only throbbed
intermittently; here built up new enthusiasms, awakened new loves,
barbed new enmities.

Things that looked impossible on the day that Ironsyde heard Sabina
scorn him, happened. Threats evaporated, danger signals disappeared;
but, in other