e muttered and grumbled, but in the end proposed that he should go
over by one of the Harwich boats, and take what course happened to
attract him. Cecily assented, and in a few hours he was ready to bid
her good-bye. She had said that it wasn't worth while going with him to
the station, and when he gave her the kiss at starting she kept
perfectly tranquil.

"You're not sorry to get rid of me," he said, with a forced laugh.

"I don't wish you to stay at the expense of your health."

"I hope Clarence mayn't damage yours. These sleepless nights are
telling on you."

"Go. You'll miss the train."

He looked back from the door, but Cecily had turned away.

He was absent for more than six weeks, during which he wrote frequently
from various out-of-the-way places on the Rhine. On returning, he found
Cecily in London, very anxious about the child, and herself looking
very ill. He, on the other hand, was robust and in excellent spirits;
in a day or two he began to go regularly to the British Museum--to say,
at all events, that he went there. And so time passed to the year's end.

One night in January Reuben went to the theatre. He left Cecily sitting
in the bedroom, by the fireside, with Clarence on her lap. For several
weeks the child had been so ill that Cecily seldom quitted it.

Three hours later she was sitting in the same position, still bent
forward, the child still on her lap. But no movement, no cry ever
claimed her attention. Tears had stained her face, but they no longer
fell. Holding a waxen little hand that would never again caress her,
she gazed at the dying fire as though striving to read her destiny.

CHAPTER VI

AT PAESTUM

The English artist had finished his work, and the dirty little inn at
Paestum would to-day lose its solitary guest.

This morning he rose much later than usual, and strolled out idly into
the spring sunshine, a rug thrown over his shoulder. Often plucking a
flower or a leaf, and seeming to examine it with close thoughtfulness,
he made a long circuit by the old walls; now and then he paused to take
a view of the temples, always with eye of grave meditation. At one
elevated point, he stood for several minutes looking along the road to
Salerno.

March rains had brought the vegetation into luxurious life; fern,
acanthus, brambles, and all the densely intermingled growths that cover
the ground about the ruins, spread forth their innumerable tints of
green. Between shore and