ty
of expression, such as is seen on the faces of the dead, or on the faces
of those who are carried beyond themselves by some generous enthusiasm.

They watched, in silence, the changes creeping over the heavens, the
subtle transmutations of tint; the fairylands of cloud, growing like
dreams, and melting in golden annihilation; the more delicate and
exquisite, the sooner the end.

The first pale hints of splendour had spread, till the whole West was
throbbing with the radiance. But it was short-lived. The soul of the
light, with its vital vibrating quality, seemed to die, and then slowly
the glow faded, till every sparkle was gone, and the amphitheatre of the
sky lay cold, and dusk, and empty. It was not till the last gleam had
melted away that a word was spoken.

"It is like a prophecy," said Hadria.

"To-morrow the dawn, remember."

Hadria's thoughts ran on in the silence.

The dawn? Yes; but all that lost splendour, those winged islands, those
wild ranges of mountain where the dreams dwell; to-morrow's dawn brings
no resurrection for them. Other pageants there will be, other
cloud-castles, but never again just those.

Had the Professor been following her thoughts?

"Life," he said, "offers her gifts as the Sibyl her books; they grow
fewer as we refuse them."

"Ah! that is the truth that clamours in my brain, warning and pointing
to an empty temple, like the deserted sky, a little while ahead."

"Be warned then."

"Ah! but what to do? I am out of myself now with the spring; there are
so many benign influences. I too have winged islands, and wild ranges
where the dreams dwell; life is a fairy-tale; but there is always that
terror of the departure of the sun."

"_Carpe diem._"

Hadria turned a startled and eager face towards the Professor, who was
leaning back in his chair, thoughtfully smoking. The smoke curled away
serenely through the calm air of the evening.

"You have a great gift," he said.

"One is afraid of taking a thing too seriously because it is one's own."

The Professor turned almost angrily.

"Good heavens, what does it matter whose it is? There may be a sort of
inverted vanity in refusing fair play to a power, on that ground. Alas!
here is one of the first morbid signs of the evil at work upon you. If
you had been wholesomely moving and striving in the right direction, do
you think you would have been guilty of that piece of egotism?"

"Vanity pursues one into hidden corners of th