tle we mean to do harm when
we do an injury! An incomprehensible world indeed at the bottom and at
the top. We get on fairly at the centre. Yet it is there that we do the
mischief making such a riddle of the bottom and the top. What is to be
said! Prayer quiets one. Victor peered at Nataly fervently on her knees
and Mrs. Burman bowed over her knotted fingers. The earnestness of both
enforced an effort at a phrased prayer in him. Plungeing through a wave
of the scent of Marechale, that was a tremendous memory to haul him
backward and forward, he beheld his prayer dancing across the furniture;
a diminutive thin black figure, elvish, irreverent, appallingly unlike
his proper emotion; and he brought his hands just to touch, and got to
the edge of his chair, with split knees. At once the figure vanished.
By merely looking at Nataly, he passed into her prayer. A look at Mrs.
Burman made it personal, his own. He heard the cluck of a horrible sob
coming from him. After a repetition of his short form of prayer deeply
stressed, he thanked himself with the word 'sincere,' and a queer
side-thought on our human susceptibility to the influence of posture. We
are such creatures.

Nataly resumed her seat. Mrs. Burman had raised her head. She said: 'We
are at peace.' She presently said, with effort: 'It cannot last with me.
I die in nature's way. I would bear forgiveness with me, that I may have
it above. I give it here, to you, to all. My soul is cleansed, I trust.
Much was to say. My strength will not. Unto God, you both!'

The Rev. Groseman Buttermore was moving on slippered step to the back of
the sofa. Nataly dropped before the unseeing, scarce breathing, lady
for an instant. Victor murmured an adieu, grateful for being spared the
ceremonial shake of hands. He turned away, then turned back, praying for
power to speak, to say that he had found his heart, was grateful, would
hold her in memory. He fell on a knee before her, and forgot he had done
so when he had risen. They were conducted by the Rev. gentleman to the
hall-door: he was not speechless. Jarniman uttered something.

That black door closed behind them.

CHAPTER XLI. THE NIGHT OF THE GREAT UNDELIVERED SPEECH

To a man issuing from a mortuary where a skull had voice, London may
be restorative as air of Summer Alps. It is by contrast blooming life.
Observe the fellowship of the houses shoulder to shoulder; and that
straight ascending smoke of the preparation for din