them in the ring of enthusiasm.

"Some day," Elgar went on, exalting himself more and more, "you shall
wonder in looking back on this scene between us--wonder how you could
have been so harsh to me. It is impossible that you and I, sole brother
and sister, should move on constantly diverging paths. Tell me--you are
not really without some kind of faith in my abilities?"

"You know it has always been my grief that you put the in to no use."

"Very well. But it remains for you to learn what my powers really are,
and to bring yourself to sympathize with my direction. You are a
child--there is my hope. You shall be taught--yes, yes! Your obstinacy
shall be overcome; you shall be made to see your own good!"

"And who is to be so kind as to take charge of my education?" Miriam
asked, without looking at him, in an idly contemptuous tone.

"Why not old Mallard?" cried Reuben, breaking suddenly into jest. "The
tutorship of children is in his line."

Miriam showed herself offended.

"Please don't speak of me. I am willing to hear what you purpose for
yourself, but don't mix my name with it."

Elgar resumed the tone of ambition. Whether he had in truth definite
literary schemes could not be gathered from the rhetoric on which he
was borne. His main conviction seemed to be that he embodied the spirit
of his time, and would ere long achieve a work of notable significance,
the fruit of all his experiences. Miriam, though with no sign of strong
interest, gave him her full attention.

"Do you intend to work here?" she asked at length.

"I can't say. At present I am anything but well, and I shall get what
benefit I can from Naples first of all. I suppose the sun will shine
again before long? This sky is depressing."

He stood up, and went to the windows; then came back with uncertain
step.

"You'll tell the Spences I've been?"

"I think I had better. They will know, of course, that I have had a
visitor."

"Should I see them?" he asked, with hesitation.

"Just as you please."

"I shall have to, sooner or later. Why not now?"

Miriam pondered.

"I'll go and see if they are at leisure."

During her absence, Elgar examined the books on the table. He turned
over each one with angry mutterings. The chapel plans were no longer
lying about; only yesterday Miriam had rolled them up and put them
away--temporarily. Before the "St. Cecilia" he stood in thoughtful
observation, and was still there when Miriam returned. She had