reast. "Your father was a remarkable man,
Daniel," she said after a long silence, "but he never did understand
people; and the person whom he misunderstood most of all was his wife.
He was like a man who is blind, but who does not want to let it be known
that he is blind: he walks around, but where does he go? He stands still
and has not the faintest idea where he is. And by the way, Daniel, it
seems to me that you are a little bit like him. Open your eyes, Daniel,
I beg you, open your eyes!"

The child in her lap had fallen asleep. Daniel looked into Eva's
face--yes, he opened his eyes--and as he saw this delicate, sweet,
charming countenance so close before him, he could no longer control
himself. He turned to the wall, and cried as if his heart would break:
"I am a murderer!"

"No, Daniel," said Marian gently, "or if you are, then everybody who
lives is a murderer, the dead of the past being the victims."

Daniel writhed in agony and gnashed his teeth.

"Father is in the room there," whispered Eva in her dreams.

XI

The hardest of all for Marian was to get along with old Jordan; for he
was only a shadow of his former self. He never entered Daniel's room; if
Marian wanted to see him she went upstairs, and there he sat, quiet,
helpless, extinguished, a picture of utter dereliction.

He never mentioned his sorrows; it made him restless to see that Marian
sympathised with him. When she did, he became quite courteous; he even
tried to act the part of a man of the world. The effect of this assumed
sprightliness, seen from the background of his physical impoverishment
and spiritual decay, was terrifying.

Marian hoped to hear something from him concerning Daniel's present
situation. She knew, in a general way, that he was in profound distress,
that he was living in most straightened circumstances, and this worried
her tremendously. But she wanted to know how he stood in the world;
whether people felt there was anything to him; and whether music was
something from which a man could make a decent living. On this last
point her distrust was as strong as ever; her fear showed no signs of
weakening. It was Eleanore, and she only, that had given her a measure
of confidence: it seemed that Eleanore's disposition, her very presence,
had inspired her with a vague, far-away idea of music. But now Eleanore
was gone, and all her old doubts returned.

Jordan however became painfully secreti