resting reality. It represented a hideous and misshapen dwarf,
holding a couple of graceful greyhounds in a leash--an unhappy creature
who had made sport for the household of some Castilian grandee, and
whose gorgeous garments were ingeniously designed to emphasise the
physical degradation of his contorted body. This painting, appearing to
Julius too painful for habitual contemplation, had, at his request,
been removed from his study down-stairs to its present station. Just
now he fancied it looked forth at him queerly insistent. At this
distance he could distinguish little more than a flare of scarlet and
cloth-of-gold, and the white of the hounds' flanks and bellies under
the strong sunlight. But he knew the picture in all its details; and
was oppressed by the remembrance of tragic eyes in a brutal face, eyes
that protested dumbly against cruelty inflicted by nature and by
mankind alike. He, Julius, was not, so he feared, quite guiltless in
this matter. For had there not been a savour of cruelty in his ejection
of the portrait of this unhappy being from his peaceful study?

And thinking of this his discomfort augmented. He was assailed by an
unreasoning nervousness of something malign, something sinister, about
to befall or to become known to him.

"_Araignee du matin, chagrin_," he repeated involuntarily.

He laid the four little chap-books back hastily behind the outstanding
woodwork of the bookshelf, descended the steps, walked the length of
the gallery, and leaning against one of the stone mullions of the
great, eastern bay window looked out of the wide, open casement.

The prospect was, indeed, reassuring enough. The softly green square of
the troco-ground, the brilliant beds and borders of the brick-walled
gardens, the gray flags of the great terrace--its rows of little orange
trees, heavy with flower and fruit, set in blue painted tubs--lay below
him in a blaze of August sunshine. From the direction of the Long Water
in the valley, Richard Calmady rode up, between the thorn trees and the
beds of bracken, across the turf slopes of the park. It was a joy to
see him ride. The rider and horse were one, in vigour and in the repose
which comes of vigour--a something classic in the natural beauty and
sympathy of rider and of horse. Half-way up the slope Richard swerved,
turned towards the house, sat looking up, hat in hand, while Katherine
stood at the edge of the terrace looking down, speaking with him. The
warm b