to ruin himself by these tempers! And yet, of
course, he had been abominably treated!--any one could see that. From
her anger and concern sprang new growths of feeling in a softened
heart. If she had only been there!

Well!--what did it matter? The great lady who advised and patronised
him no doubt had been there. If she had not been able to smooth out
the tangle, what chance would his despised wife have had with him?

Then--last fall--there had come to the farm in the green Ontario
country, a young artist, sent out on a commission from an English
publishing firm who were producing a great illustrated book on Canada.
The son of the house, who was at college in Montreal, had met him, and
made friends with him; had brought him home to draw the farm, and the
apple-orchards, heavy with fruit. And there, night after night, he had
sat talking in the rich violet dusk; talking to this sad-faced Mrs.
Wilson, this Englishwoman, who understood his phrases and his ways,
and had been in contact with artists in her youth.

John Fenwick! Why, of course, he knew all about John Fenwick!
Quarrelsome, clever chap! Had gone up like a rocket, and was now
nowhere. What call had he to quarrel with the Academy? The Academy had
treated him handsomely enough--much better than it had treated a lot
of other fellows. The public wouldn't stand his airs and his violence.
He wasn't big enough. A Whistler might be insolent, and gain by it;
but the smaller men must keep civil tongues in their heads. Oh, yes,
talent of course--enormous talent!--but a poor early training, and
a man wants all his time to get the better of _that_--instead of
spouting and scribbling all over the place. No--John Fenwick would
do nothing more of importance. Mrs. Wilson might take his word for
that--sorry if he had said anything unpleasant of a friend of hers.
General report, besides, made him an unhappy, moody kind of fellow,
living alone, with very few friends, taking nobody's advice--and as
obstinate as a pig about his work.

So said this young Daniel-come-to-judgement, between the whiffs of his
pipe, in the Canadian farm-garden, while the darkness came down and
hid the face of the silent woman beside him.

And so Remorse, and anguished Pity, sprang up beside her--grey and
stern comrades--and she walked between them night and day. John, a
lonely failure in England--poor and despised. And she, an exile here,
with her child. And this dumb, irrevocable Time, on which she h