actory-girl or a coster-woman I would not drag
you down so. Apart from that, I am unfit to marry any decent woman. I
am--what you know I am.... I have--fits. I am not--sound--normal--I
may go m...."

"Don't be a pure priceless Ass, darling. You are my own splendid
hero--and I am going to marry you, if I have to _be_ a factory-girl or
a coster-woman, and I am going to live either with you or near you.
You want looking after, my own boy. I shall have some money, though,
when I am of age. When may I run away from Monksmead, darling?"

"Lucille," groaned the miserable man. "Do you think that the sight of
you in the mire in which I wallow would make me happier? Can't you
realize that I'm ruined and done--disgraced and smashed? Lucille, I am
not sane at times.... The SNAKE ... _Do_ you love me, Lucille? Then if
so, I beg and implore you to forget me, to leave me alone, to wait
awhile and then marry Delorme or some sane, wholesome _man_--who is
neither a coward nor a lunatic nor an epileptic. Lucille, you double
and treble my misery. I _can't_ bear it if I see you. Oh, why didn't
you forget me and do the right and proper thing? I am unfit to touch
you! I am a damned scoundrel to be here now," and leaping up he fled
like a maddened horse, bounded down the slope, sprang into the road,
nor ceased to run till he fell exhausted, miles away from the spot
whereon he had suffered as he believed few men had done before.

And thus and thus we women live!
With none to question, none to give
The Nay or Aye, the Aye or Nay
That might smoothe half our cares away.
O, strange indeed! And sad to know
We pitch too high and doing so,
Intent and eager not to fall,
We miss the low clear note of call.
Why is it so? Are we indeed
So like unto the shaken reed?
Of such poor clay? Such puny strength?
That e'en throughout the breadth and length
Of purer vision's stern domain
We bend to serve and serve in vain?
To some, indeed, strange power is lent
To stand content. Love, heaven-sent,
(For things or high or pure or rare)
Shows likest God, makes Life less bare.
And, ever and anon there stray
In faint far-reaching virelay
The songs of angels, Heav'nward-found,
Of little children, earthward-bound.

A. L. WREN.

CHAPTER X.

MUCH ADO ABOUT ALMOST NOTHING--A TROOPER.

Mr. Ormonde Delorme, Second Lieutenant of the 34th Lancers, sat in his
quarters at Aldershot, reading and re-reading with mingled feelings a
letter from the woman he l