ut dreamland cannot be a healthy region for a man in
the body to inhabit. Will was going where his visions would be as nought
to the realities. He was still one of the most peaceful, the happiest of
fellows, as he had been all his life. He babbled of the pictures he
would paint in another region, as if he were conscious that he had
painted in a former state. It seemed, too, that the poor fellow's
spiritual life, apart from his artist career, took sounder, cheerier
substance and form, as the other life grew dimmer and wilder. Dulcie was
almost reconciled to let Will go; for he would be more at home in the
spirit-world than here, and she had seen sore trouble, which taught her
to acquiesce, when there were a Father and a Friend seen glimmeringly
but hopefully beyond the gulf. Dulcie moved about, with her child
holding by her skirts, resigned and helpful in her sorrow.

The most clouded faces in the old room in St. Martin's Lane--with its
old litter, so grievous to-day, of brushes, and colours, and graving
tools, and wild pictures which the painter would never touch more--were
those of Sam Winnington and Clary. Will had bidden Sam and Clary be sent
for to his deathbed; and, offended as they had been, and widely severed
as they were now, they rose and came trembling to obey the summons.
Clary gave one look, put her handkerchief quickly to her eyes, and then
turned and softly covered the tools, lifted the boiling pot to the side
of the grate, and took Dulcie's fretful, wondering child in her lap. She
was not a fine lady now, but a woman in distress. Sam stood immoveable
and uncertain, with a man's awkwardness, but a face working with
suppressed emotion.

Will felt no restraint; he sat up in his faded coat with his cravat open
to give him air, and turning his wan face with its dark shadow towards
Sam Winnington in his velvet coat, with a diamond ring sparkling on his
splashed hand, and his colour, which had grown rosy of late years,
heightened with emotion, addressed his old friend.

"I wanted to see you, Sam; I had something on my mind, and I could not
depart with full satisfaction without saying it to you; I have done
you wrong."

Sam raised his head, startled, and stared at the sick man: poor Will
Locke; were his wits utterly gone? they had always been somewhat to
seek: though he had been a wonderful fellow, too, in his own
way--wonderful at flowers, and birds, and beasts, if he had but been
content with them.

"I ca