from:--"Groweth seed and
bloweth meed and springeth wood anew." And his heart was saying to him
all the while that he might never again see the springing of the young
corn, and the daisies in the grass, and the new buds waiting for the
bidding of the sun.

Irene, quite alive to her brother's intrepidity, but abstaining
resolutely from spoken acknowledgment--for would not that have been an
admission of the need for courage?--had gone through a dramatic effort
on her own behalf, a kind of rehearsal of the part she had to play. She
had arranged writing materials for action, and affected the attitude of
a patient scribe, longing for dictation. She had assumed a hardened
tone, to say:--"When you're ready!" Then Adrian had deserted the piano,
and addressed himself to dictation. "Where were we?" said he. For the
letter was half written, having been interrupted by visitors the day
before.

"When the Parysfort women came in?" said Irene. "We had got to the old
woman. After the old woman--what next?"

Adrian repeated, "After the old woman--after the old woman." Then he
said suddenly:--"Bother the old woman. I tell you what, 'Re, we must
tear this letter up, and start fair. Those people coming in spoiled it."
His tone was vexed and restless. The weariness of his blindness galled
him. This fearful inability to write was one of his worst trials. He
fought hard against his longing to cry out--to lighten his heart, ever
so little, by expression of his misery; but then, the only one thing he
could do in requital of the unflagging patience of this dear amanuensis,
was to lighten the weight of her sorrow for him. And this he could only
do by showing unflinching resolution to bear his own burden. One worst
unkindest cut of all was that any word of exasperation against the
cruelty of a cancelled pen might seem an imputation on her of
ineffective service, almost a reproach. It was perhaps because the
visitors of yesterday were so evidently to blame for the miscarriage of
this letter, that Adrian felt, in a certain sense, free to grieve aloud.
It was a relief to him to say:--"The Devil fly away with the Honourable
Misses Parysforts!"

"Suppose we have a clean slate, darling, and I'll tear the letter up,
old woman and all. Or shall I read back a little, to start you?"

"Oh no--please! On no account read anything again.... Suppose I confess
up! Make some stars, and go on like this:--'These are not Astronomy, but
to convey the idea that