man of whom Elgar's phrases had produced such a hateful image? What
was the state, in very deed, of her mind at present? What awaited her
in the future?

It was curious that Mrs. Baske's face was much more recoverable by his
mind's eye than Cecily's. In fact, to see Miriam cost him no effort at
all; equally at will, he heard the sound of her voice. There were times
when Cecily, her look and utterance, visited him very clearly; but this
was when he did not wish to be reminded of her. If he endeavoured to
make her present, as a rule the picturing faculty was irresponsive.

Welcome reverie! If only he could continue to busy himself with idle
speculation concerning the strange young Puritan, and so find relief
from the anguish that beset him. Suppose now, he set himself to imagine
Miriam in unlikely situations. What if she somehow fell into poverty,
was made absolutely dependent on her own efforts? Suppose she suffered
cruelly what so many women have to suffer--toil, oppression, solitude;
what would she become? Not, he suspected, a meek martyr; anything but
that, Miriam Baske. And how magnificent to see her flash out into
revolt against circumstances! Then indeed she would be interesting.

Nay, suppose she fell in love--desperately, with grim fate against her?
For somehow this came more easily to the fancy than the thought of her
loving obstacle. Presumably she had never loved; her husband was out of
the question. Would she pass her life without that experience? One
thing could be affirmed with certainty; if she lost her heart to a man,
it would not be to a Puritan. He could conceive her being attracted by
a strong and somewhat rude fellow, a despiser of conventionalities,
without religion, a man of brains and blood; one whose look could
overwhelm her with tumultuous scorn, and whose hand, if need be, could
crush her life out at a blow. Why not, however, a highly polished
gentleman, critical, keen of speech, deeply read, brilliant in
conversation, at once man of the world and scholar? Might not that type
have power over her? In a degree, but not so decidedly as the
intellectual brute.

Pshaw! what brain-sickness was this! What was he fallen to! Yet it did
what nothing else would, amused him for a few minutes in his pain. He
recurred to it several times, and always successfully.

Sunday came. This evening would see Elgar back again.

No doubt of his return had yet entered his mind. Whether Reuben would
in reality settl