n Town station. The coffee-stall had
disappeared; the traffic of the great highway was growing uproarious.
Among all the strugglers for existence who rushed this way and that,
Alfred Yule felt himself a man chosen for fate's heaviest infliction. He
never questioned the accuracy of the stranger's judgment, and he hoped
for no mitigation of the doom it threatened. His life was over--and
wasted.

He might as well go home, and take his place meekly by the fireside.
He was beaten. Soon to be a useless old man, a burden and annoyance to
whosoever had pity on him.

It was a curious effect of the imagination that since coming into the
open air again his eyesight seemed to be far worse than before. He
irritated his nerves of vision by incessant tests, closing first one eye
then the other, comparing his view of nearer objects with the appearance
of others more remote, fancying an occasional pain--which could have had
no connection with his disease. The literary projects which had stirred
so actively in his mind twelve hours ago were become an insubstantial
memory; to the one crushing blow had succeeded a second, which was
fatal. He could hardly recall what special piece of work he had been
engaged upon last night. His thoughts were such as if actual blindness
had really fallen upon him.

At half-past eight he entered the house. Mrs Yule was standing at the
foot of the stairs; she looked at him, then turned away towards the
kitchen. He went upstairs. On coming down again he found breakfast ready
as usual, and seated himself at the table. Two letters waited for him
there; he opened them.

When Mrs Yule came into the room a few moments later she was astonished
by a burst of loud, mocking laughter from her husband, excited, as it
appeared, by something he was reading.

'Is Marian up?' he asked, turning to her.

'Yes.'

'She is not coming to breakfast?'

'No.'

'Then just take that letter to her, and ask her to read it.'

Mrs Yule ascended to her daughter's bedroom. She knocked, was bidden
enter, and found Marian packing clothes in a trunk. The girl looked as
if she had been up all night; her eyes bore the traces of much weeping.

'He has come back, dear,' said Mrs Yule, in the low voice of
apprehension, 'and he says you are to read this letter.'

Marian took the sheet, unfolded it, and read. As soon as she had reached
the end she looked wildly at her mother, seemed to endeavour vainly to
speak, then fell to the floor