important, the issue of the
smallest of unrecorded causes, or of the travelling of the great worlds.
The destiny of a single human soul shaped or directed by the one, for
aught we know, may be of more weight and value than that of a multitude
of hoary universes naked of life and spirit. Or perhaps to the Eye that
sees and judges the difference is nothing.

Thus even these semi-secret interviews when two men met to talk over
the details of a lost life with which, however profoundly it may have
influenced them in the past, they appeared, so far as this world is
concerned, to have nothing more to do, were destined to affect the
future of one of them in a fashion that could scarcely have been
foreseen. This became apparent, or put itself in the way of becoming
apparent, when on a certain evening Morris found Mr. Fregelius seated
in the rectory dining-room, and by his side a little pile of manuscript
volumes bound in shabby cloth.

"What are those?" asked Morris. "Her translation of the Saga of the Cave
Outlaws?"

"No, Morris," answered Mr. Fregelius--he called him Morris when they
were alone--"of course not. Don't you remember that they were bound in
red?" he added reproachfully, "and that we did them up to send to the
publisher last week?"

"Yes, yes, of course; he wrote to me yesterday to say that he would be
glad to bring out the book"--Morris did not add, "at my risk."--"But
what are they?"

"They are," replied Mr. Fregelius, "her journals, which she appears to
have kept ever since she was fourteen years of age. You remember she
was going to London on the day that she was drowned--that Christmas Day?
Well, before she went out to the old church she packed her belongings
into two boxes, and there those boxes have lain for three years and
more, because I could never find the heart to meddle with them. But, a
few nights ago I wasn't able to sleep--I rest very badly now--so I
went and undid them, lifting out all the things which her hands had put
there. At the bottom of one of the boxes I found these volumes, except
the last of them, in which she was writing till the day of her death.
That was at the top. I was aware that she kept a diary, for I have seen
her making the entries; but of its contents I knew nothing. In fact,
until last night I had forgotten its existence."

"Have you read it now?" asked Morris.

"I have looked into it; it seems to be a history of her thoughts and
theories. Facts are very briefly note