mountains, the wide plain smiled in its
desolation.

At length he went up into the Temple of Neptune, spread the rug on a
spot where he had been accustomed, each day at noon, to eat his salame
and drink his Calabrian wine, and seated himself against a column. Here
he could enjoy a view from both ends of the ruin. In the one direction
it was only a narrow strip of sea, with the barren coast below, and the
cloudless sky above it; in the other, a purple valley, rising far away
on the flank of the Apennines; both pictures set between Doric pillars.
He lit a cigar, and with a smile of contented thought abandoned himself
to the delicious warmth, the restful silence. Within reach of his hand
was a fern that had shot up between the massive stones; he gently
caressed its fronds, as though it were a sentient creature. Or his eyes
dwelt upon the huge column just in front of him--now scanning its
superb proportions, now enjoying the hue of the sunny-golden
travertine, now observing the myriad crevices of its time-eaten
surface, the petrified forms of vegetable growth, the little pink
snails that housed within its chinks.

It was not an artistic impulse only that had brought Mallard to Italy,
after three years of work under northern skies. He wished to convince
himself that his freedom was proof against memories revived on the very
ground where he had suffered so intensely. He had put aside repeated
invitations from the Spences, because of the doubt whether he could
trust himself within sight of the Mediterranean. Liberty from
oppressive thought he had long recovered; the old zeal for labour was
so strong in him that he found it difficult to imagine the mood in
which he had bidden good-bye to his life's purposes. But there was
always the danger lest that witch of the south should again overcome
his will and lull him into impotence of vain regret. For such a long
time he had believed that Italy was for ever closed against him, that
the old delights were henceforth converted into a pain which memory
must avoid. At length he resolved to answer his friends' summons, and
meet them on their return from Sicily. They had wished to have him with
them in Greece, but always his departure was postponed; habits of
solitude and characteristic diffidence kept him aloof as long as
possible.

Evidently, his health was sound enough. He had loitered about the
familiar places in Naples; he took the road by Pompeii to Sorrento, and
over the hills to