e. That crime for which she had scorned him, was
wiped out now by expiation. For a long time--how long she could not
yet determine--she would wrap herself in garb of mourning and move
about in sorrowing--giving evasive answer to the curious who
questioned her. Now might she live again through those summer months
with Gregoire--those golden afternoons in the pine woods--whose aroma
even now came back to her. She might look again into his loving brown
eyes; feel beneath her touch the softness of his curls. She recalled a
day when he had said, "Neva to see you--my God!" and how he had
trembled. She recalled--strangely enough and for the first time--that
one kiss, and a little tremor brought the hot color to her cheek.

Was she in love with Gregoire now that he was dead? Perhaps. At all
events, for the next month, Melicent would not be bored.

XIV

A Step Too Far.

Who of us has not known the presence of Misery? Perhaps as those
fortunate ones whom he has but touched as he passed them by. It may be
that we see but a promise of him as we look into the prophetic faces
of children; into the eyes of those we love, and the awfulness of
life's possibilities presses into our souls. Do we fly him? hearing
him gain upon us panting close at our heels, till we turn from the
desperation of uncertainty to grapple with him? In close scuffle we
may vanquish him. Fleeing, we may elude him. But what if he creep into
the sanctuary of our lives, with his subtle omnipresence, that we do
not see in all its horror till we are disarmed; thrusting the burden
of his companionship upon us to the end! However we turn he is there.
However we shrink he is there. However we come or go, or sleep or wake
he is before us. Till the keen sense grows dull with apathy at looking
on him, and he becomes like the familiar presence of sin.

Into such callousness had Hosmer fallen. He had ceased to bruise his
soul in restless endeavor of resistance. When the awful presence bore
too closely upon him, he would close his eyes and brave himself to
endurance. Yet Fate might have dealt him worse things.

But a man's misery is after all his own, to make of it what he will or
what he can. And shall we be fools, wanting to lighten it with our
platitudes?

My friend, your trouble I know weighs. That you should be driven by
earthly needs to drag the pinioned spirit of your days through rut and
mire. But think of the millions who are doing the like. Or is it yo