ad seen a little to the larger and
unexplored life beyond.

And so the days went on, and though he was impatient and restless, yet
indoors his work was congenial to him, and out of doors the sun was
bright, and all the while a certain little god lay hidden, speaking no
articulate word, but waiting with a mischievous patience for the final
overthrow of one more poor mortal.

At last the old postmistress, whom he had almost come to regard as
cherishing a personal grudge against him, ceased to repulse him, and,
after his seven years of famine, the years of abundance set in. For the
space of three weeks letters from Venice lay waiting for him almost every
alternate morning, and the heathery slopes between the farm and the
village grew familiar with the spectacle of a tall thin man in a rough
tweed suit struggling, as he walked, with sheets of foreign paper which
the wind was doing its best to filch away from him.

The following extracts from these letters contain such portions of them
as are necessary to our subject:--

* * * * *

'CASA MINGHETTI 2, GRAND CANAL,

'VENICE, _August_ 6.

'MY DEAR EUSTACE--I can only write you a very scrappy letter to-day, for
we are just settling into our apartment, and the rooms are strewn in the
most distracting way with boxes, books, and garments; while my maid,
Felicie, and the old Italian woman, Caterina, who is to cook and manage
for us, seem to be able to do nothing--not even to put a chair straight,
or order some bread to keep us from starving--without consulting me.
Paul, taking advantage of a husband's prerogative, has gone off to
_flaner_ on the Piazza, while his women-folk make life tolerable at home;
which is a very unfair and spiteful version of his proceedings, for he
has really gone as much on my business as on his own. I sent him--feeling
his look of misery, as he sat on a packing-case in the middle of this
chaos, terribly on my mind--to see if he could find the English consul
(whom he knows a little), and discover from him, if possible, where your
friends are. It is strange, as you say, that Miss Bretherton should not
have written to me; but I incline to put it down to our old Jacques at
home, who is getting more and more imbecile with the weight of years and
infirmities, and is quite capable of forwarding to us all the letters
which are not worth posting, and leaving all the important ones piled up
in the hall to await our return. It is