nable in the fulness of his reverent
honour of his dear lady to comprehend the meaning of her present
bitterness. "Surely the mere adding of year to year can make no so
vital difference?"

"Ah! you dear stupid creature," she cried,--"stupid, because, manlike,
you are so hopelessly sensible--it makes just all the difference in the
world. I shall grow less alert, less pliable of mind, less quick of
sympathy, less capable of adjusting myself to altered conditions, and
to entertaining new views. And, all the while, the demand upon me will
not lessen."

Katherine stopped suddenly in her swift walk. The two stood facing one
another.

"The demand will increase," she declared. "Richard is not happy."

And thereupon--since, even in the most devout and holy, the old Adam
dies extremely hard--Julius March fell a prey to very lively
irritation. While she talked of herself, bestowing unreserved
confidence upon him, he could listen gladly, forever. But if that most
welcome subject of conversation should be dropped, let her give him
that which he craved to-night, so specially--a word for himself. Let
her deal, for a little space, with his own private needs, his own
private joys and sorrows.

"Ah! Richard is not happy!" he exclaimed, his irritation finding voice.
"We reach the root of the matter. Richard is not happy. Alas, then, for
Richard's mother!"

"Are you so much surprised?" Katherine asked hotly. "Do you venture to
blame him? If so, I am afraid religion has made you rather cruel,
Julius. But that is not a new thing under the sun either. Those who
possess high spiritual consolations--unknown to the rank and file of
us--have generally displayed an inclination to take the misfortunes of
others with admirable resignation. Dearest Marie de Mirancourt was an
exception to that rule. You might do worse perhaps than learn to follow
her example."

As she finished speaking Lady Calmady turned from him rather loftily,
and prepared to move away. But even in so doing she received an
impression which tended to modify her resentful humour.

For an instant Julius March stood, a tall, thin, black figure, rigid
and shadowless upon the pallor of the gray pavement, his arms extended
wide, as once crucified, while he looked, not at her, not out into the
repose of the night-swathed landscape, but up at the silent dance of
the eternal stars in the limitless fields of space. As Katherine,
earlier in the evening, had taken up the momentarily