, and perhaps stronger; but
if he thought that since she was capable of a real treason against her
gods, that she was radically unsound at heart, and a mass of
sophistication, then--Hadria buried her face in the pillow. She went
through so often now, these paroxysms of agony. Do what she would, look
where she might, she saw no relief. She was afraid to trust herself. She
was afraid to accept her own suggestions of comfort, if ever a ray of it
came to her, lest it should be but another form of self-deception,
another proof of moral instability. In her eternal tossing to and fro,
in mental anguish, the despairing idea often assailed her: that after
all, it did not matter what she did or thought. She was but an atom of
the vast whole, a drop in the ocean of human life.

She had no end or motive in anything. She could go on doing what had to
be done to the last, glad if she might bring a little pleasure in so
acting, but beyond that, what was there to consider? The wounds to her
vanity and her pride ached a little, at times, but the infinitely deeper
hurt of disillusion overwhelmed the lesser feeling. She was too
profoundly sad to care for that trivial mortification.

Sometimes, Professor Fortescue used to write to Hadria, and she looked
forward to these letters as to nothing else. She heard from Valeria
also, who had met the Professor at Siena. She said he did not look as
well as she had hoped to find him. She could not see that he had gained
at all, since leaving England. He was cheerful, and enjoying sunny Italy
as much as his strength would allow. Valeria was shocked to notice how
very weak he was. He had a look in his face that she could not bear to
see. If he did not improve soon, she thought of trying to persuade him
to return home to see his doctor again. When one was ill, home was the
best place after all.

"You and Professor Fortescue," she said, in closing her letter, "are the
two people I love in the world. You are all that I have in life to cling
to. Write to me, dearest Hadria, for I am very anxious and wretched."

The affairs of life and death mix themselves incongruously enough, in
this confused world. The next news that stirred the repose of Craddock
Dene, was that of Algitha's engagement to Wilfrid Burton. In spite of
his socialistic views, Mrs. Fullerton was satisfied with the marriage,
because Wilfrid Burton was well-connected and had good expectations. The
mother had feared that Algitha would never m