ains of "Loch Lomond" ceased,
a lady appeared on the balcony of a drawing-room, and, leaning over a
little forest of flowers and plants, threw a half-crown to the sorry
street-musician. She watched the grotesque thing trundle away, then
entering the house again, took a 'cello from the corner of the room and
tuned the instrument tenderly. It was Hylda.

Something of the peace of Hamley had followed her to London, but the
poignant pain of it had come also. Like Melisande, she had looked into
the quiet pool of life and had seen her own face, its story and its
foreshadowings. Since then she had been "apart." She had watched life
move on rather than shared in its movement. Things stood still for her.
That apathy of soul was upon her which follows the inward struggle
that exhausts the throb and fret of inward emotions, leaving the mind
dominant, the will in abeyance.

She had become conscious that her fate and future were suspended over
a chasm, as, on the trapeze of a balloon, an adventurous aeronaut hangs
uncertain over the hungry sea, waiting for the coming wind which will
either blow the hazardous vessel to its doom or to safe refuge on the
land.

She had not seen David after he left Hamley. Their last words had been
spoken at the Meeting-house, when he gave Faith to her care. That scene
came back to her now, and a flush crept slowly over her face and faded
away again. She was recalling, too, the afternoon of that day when she
and David had parted in the drawing-room of the Cloistered House, and
Eglington had asked her to sing. She thought of the hours with Eglington
that followed, first at the piano and afterwards in the laboratory,
where in his long blue smock he made experiments. Had she not been
conscious of something enigmatical in his gaiety that afternoon, in his
cheerful yet cheerless words, she would have been deeply impressed by
his appreciation of her playing, and his keen reflections on the merits
of the composers; by his still keener attention to his subsequent
experiments, and his amusing comments upon them. But, somehow, that very
cheerless cheerfulness seemed to proclaim him superficial. Though she
had no knowledge of science, she instinctively doubted his earnestness
even in this work, which certainly was not pursued for effect. She
had put the feeling from her, but it kept returning. She felt that
in nothing did he touch the depths. Nothing could possess him wholly;
nothing inherent could make him sel