rejected burden of
her motherhood, so Julius now, with a movement of supreme
self-surrender, took up the momentarily rejected burden of the
isolation of the religious life. Self-wounded by self-love, he had
sought comfort in the creature rather than the creator. And the
creature turned and rebuked him. It was just. Now Julius gave himself
back, bowed himself again under the dominion of his fixed idea; and, so
doing, gained, unconsciously, precisely that which he had gone forth to
seek. For Katherine, struck alike by the strange vigour, and strange
resignation, of his attitude, suffered quick fear, not only for, but of
him. His aloofness alarmed her.

"Julius! dear Julius!" she cried. "Come, let us walk. It grows cold. I
enjoy that, but it is not very safe for you. And, pardon me, dear
friend, I spoke harshly just now. I told you I was getting old. Put my
words down to the peevishness of old age then."

Katherine smiled at him with a sweet, half-playful humility. Her face
was very wan. And speech not coming immediately to him, she spoke
again.

"You have always been very patient with me. You must go on being so."

"I ask nothing better," Julius said.

Lady Calmady stopped, drew herself up, shook back her head.

"Ah! what sorry creatures we all are," she cried, rather bitterly.
"Discontented, unstable, forever kicking against the pricks, and
fighting against the inevitable. Always crying to one another, 'See how
hard this is, know how it hurts, feel the weight!' My poor darling
cries to me--that is natural enough"--Katherine paused--"and as it
should be. But I must needs run out and cry to you. In this we are like
links of an endless chain. What is the next link, Julius? To whom will
you cry in your turn?"

"The chain is not endless" he replied. "The last link of it is riveted
to the steps of the throne of God. I will make my cry there--my
threefold cry--for you, for Richard, and for myself, Katherine."

Lady Calmady had reached the arched side-door leading from the terrace
into the house. She paused, with her hand on the latch.

"Your God and I quarreled nearly four-and-twenty years ago--not when
Richard, my joy, died, but when Richard, my sorrow, was born," she
said. "I own I see no way, short of miracle, of that quarrel being made
up."

"Then a miracle will be worked," he answered.

"Ah! You forget I grow old," Katherine retorted, smiling; "so that for
miracles the time is at once too long and too short."