llow the clue given by that railway-carriage, his mind
had involuntarily called the warm living thing that came into his arms
from it "Rosey." In the face of that, what was the worth of anything he
should recollect now, that he should not discard it as a mere phantasm,
for her sake? How almost easy to say to himself, "that was Harrisson,"
and then to add, "whoever he was," and dismiss him.

Do you--you who read--find this so very difficult to understand? Can
you recall no like imperfect memory of your own that, multiplied a
hundredfold, would supply an analogy, a standpoint to look into
Fenwick's disordered mind from?

After his delirious collision with his first vigorous revival of the
past, he was beginning to settle down to face it, helped by the
talisman of his love for Rosalind, whom it was his first duty to
shield from whatever it should prove to hold of possible injury to
her. That happy hour of the dying sunset in the shorn cornfields, with
her and Sally and the sky above and the sea beyond, had gone far to
soothe the perturbation of the night. And his talk of the morning with
this young man he had just left had helped him strongly. For he knew
in his heart he could safely go to him again if he could not bear his
own silence, could trust him with whatever he could tell at all to any
one. Could he not, when he was actually ready to trust him with--Sally?

So, though he was far from feeling at rest, a working equilibrium was
in sight. He could acquiesce in what came back to him, as it came;
need never struggle to hasten or retard it. Little things would float
into his mind, like house-flies into the ray from a shutter-crack in
a darkened room, and float away again uncaptured, or whizz and burr
round and against each other as the flies do, and then decide--as the
flies do--that neither concerns the other and each may go his way. But
he was nowise bound to catch these things on the wing, or persuade
them to live in peace with one another. If they came, they came; and
if they went, they went.

Such a one caught his thoughts, and held them for a moment as,
satisfied that astronomy would see to that star, he turned to go
straight home to Lobjoit's. That would just last out the cigar. But
what was it now? What was the fly that flew into his sun-ray this
time, that it should make him remember a line of Horace, to be so
pat with it, and to know what it meant, too?

But this fact, that he could not tell how he came to