ly indifferent to her whether she were tied to him or not.

And now his old fancy came to him again that he could trace a distinct
unity in his life, as though it had been moulded by a guiding Power.
As Helen had said, the inner spring of his life had been its own good
fairy.

And as he looked at Margaret again, the dream that had sometimes come
to him did not now seem so unrealisable as it had in the old days when
he had been cut off from her. The burning of his old manuscripts had
marked his sense that his ambition was utterly dead. But he had never
regretted the burning. And now he even rejoiced at it. For, by toil
and discipline and facing the fulness of the living world, he had
attained to a clear sanity, to a just sense of values; the romantic
blur of his early poetic vision clarifying into the strong
definiteness of the Real. Assuredly he could now no longer write those
nebulous, elusive word-harmonies. Nor for him the mere aesthetic
toying, the dainty piece of colour-work; but poetry that should throb
with vitality and humanness. From dream poetry he had passed to dream
life. Now that he had won his way to true life, was he not, too, to
win his way to true song?

To be a voice whose enchantment should echo down the ages, whose
never-dying melody should accompany the generations on their toilsome
way, ever fresh, ever sweet for human hearts!

So did he dare to aspire again, and in his fancy it was Margaret's
spirit that floated on and on for ever, her fragrance immanent in the
songs he should sing!

The sea was radiant with sunlight. A soft wind breathed in his face.
The dwindling town nestled lazily in its valley, and the line of white
cliffs stretched on either hand. And as Margaret's voice spoke to him
again, something of her sweetness seemed to rise and rest on the
spring world.

THE END.

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