o the
conclusion that he was nothing, a mere shell, a sound, a leaf which had
no general significance, and for the time being it almost broke his
heart. It tended to smash his egotism, to tear away his intellectual
pride. He wandered about dazed, hurt, moody, like a lost child. But he
was thinking persistently.

Then came Darwin, Huxley, Tyndall, Lubbock--a whole string of British
thinkers who fortified the original conclusions of the others, but
showed him a beauty, a formality, a lavishness of form and idea in
nature's methods which fairly transfixed him. He was still
reading--poets, naturalists, essayists, but he was still gloomy. Life
was nothing save dark forces moving aimlessly.

The manner in which he applied this thinking to his life was
characteristic and individual. To think that beauty should blossom for a
little while and disappear for ever seemed sad. To think that his life
should endure but for seventy years and then be no more was terrible. He
and Angela were chance acquaintances--chemical affinities--never to meet
again in all time. He and Christina, he and Ruby--he and anyone--a few
bright hours were all they could have together, and then would come the
great silence, dissolution, and he would never be anymore. It hurt him
to think of this, but it made him all the more eager to live, to be
loved while he was here. If he could only have a lovely girl's arms to
shut him in safely always!

It was while he was in this mood that he reached Florizel after a long
night's ride, and Christina who was a good deal of a philosopher and
thinker herself at times was quick to notice it. She was waiting at the
depot with a dainty little trap of her own to take him for a drive.

The trap rolled out along the soft, yellow, dusty roads. The mountain
dew was still in the earth though and the dust was heavy with damp and
not flying. Green branches of trees hung low over them, charming vistas
came into view at every turn. Eugene kissed her, for there was no one to
see, twisting her head to kiss her lips at leisure.

"It's a blessed thing this horse is tame or we'd be in for some
accident. What makes you so moody?" she said.

"I'm not moody--or am I? I've been thinking a lot of things of late--of
you principally."

"Do I make you sad?"

"From one point of view, yes."

"And what is that, sir?" she asked with an assumption of severity.

"You are so beautiful, so wonderful, and life is so short."

"You have only fi