se, not this world's salvation!" He laughed again. What
cause was there for long thought here! His object had been to win
new profits continually; to gain ever-increasing wealth; and now,
since he had ceased to desire these, the question was--what for?
But the genius of that Maryan with his questions! He had gone
down so deeply into his father's being that those questions
remained there and continued their inquisitorial labor. A
beautiful and genial fellow! A young prince; almost a sage. But
what does that signify if--he lacks something? What is it that he
lacks, and so lacks that he is as if he had nothing? What is it
that he lacks?

With a slow movement, in which weariness was evident, Darvid
turned his head toward the desk, which was lighted abundantly
with tapers burning on lofty candlesticks. What did those
candlesticks bring to his mind? Ah, yes, he remembers! On a time
he gave one of them, in the inner drawing-room, to Cara, so that
the candle burning in it might light the way to her. He remembers
how her slender arm bent beneath its weight when her small hand
took it, and how beautifully the flame of the candle was
reflected in the dark pupils gazing at him with such--with such
what? With such exaltation! But how wonderful, how intense was
his happiness when that child lived and loved him as she did!
That was his only happiness! Then, holding the light in the heavy
candlestick straight on before her rosy face, she went on into
the darkness.

Again he looked around, not with a wearied movement as before,
but abruptly. He looked around at the door beyond which thick
darkness was hiding, impenetrably, a series of drawing-rooms.
This darkness was like a black wall outside the door. Along
Darvid's shoulders ran a movement of the skin, the same as a man
feels when something heavy from behind is placed upon his
shoulders, or rides onto him. That black wall, in which an
enchanted row of empty drawing-rooms stood silent, seemed to put
itself down on him. But again he looked toward the desk; there,
among a multitude of papers, lay a letter from Maryan, received
many days before. Darvid had not destroyed or put away this
letter, and not knowing himself the reason why, had left it on
the desk there. The letter, in that great study, appeared
definitely with its white color on the green of the malachite
writing utensils. Moreover, it was not a letter. A number of
lines merely. He had written that, wishing to spare his fa